Dance, Little Monkey, Dance!

When I was a child, I was a monkey marionette.

Ahh yes, the monkey marionette, brought out to perform in front of company whenever my parents pulled my strings.

As a child, I was introverted; the golden rule in our household was “children should be seen and not heard”, so I didn’t take to talking much. I was rarely asked for my input or opinion, and that was fine with me. I was happy to have my nose in a book.

But when company came to visit, I magically became a badge of pride for my parents to wear.

Especially my mother, who taught me how to recite “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” before most toddlers my age were speaking in full sentences.

For those who weren’t around in 1964, “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” is a song from the now-classic Walt Disney musical, Mary Poppins. The movie won several Academy Awards, and it was a popular and critical juggernaut.

Friends, neighbors, relatives—anyone who stepped across our threshold or were within earshot would be obliged to hear me, the wunderkind, the immensely ‘teachable’ monkey marionette, repeat the word ad nauseum. I felt like a doll with a string in her back—pull it again, I’ll repeat what I said just one moment before.

“Oh, how adorable!” they’d exclaim, “What a clever little girl!”

I’d demonstrate my baby-tooth smile. Good me, I thought. I was a good little parrot.

Then my mom would clap and demand I say it again, just to prove the last time wasn’t a fluke—I really was that smart!

“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!” I’d shout, getting more riled up with each repetition.

And who taught me? My mom!! Oh, how clever she was!!

That was my one tiny spotlight…my 15 minutes of fame, and by the time I was four, I was already a ‘former child star’.

Except my mom had other plans for me.

When I was about six, we were gifted a beautiful old player piano. My, it was grand. A mammoth oak structure, eclipsing almost everything in our tiny living room. My mom played a bit, but no one else in the family had any talent or interest in playing whatsoever.

I, however, exhibited an early love and affinity for music. Certainly, singing ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’ at age three had set me up for an off-Broadway career. I sang to myself when I played or as I was going to sleep; by the time I was in Grade 1 I could sing most of the pop chart hits verbatim. I simply loved singing songs.

And so, it was inevitable. Guess who was voted most likely to get piano lessons? The monkey marionette!

My mom signed me up. Each week, I would travel to Mrs. Little’s old farmhouse, and she would patiently run me through scales and simple tunes—first with one hand, then with both. Sometimes, I’d employ all my fingers, including my thumbs!

After each lesson I was instructed to practice throughout the week. Mrs. Little would determine my somewhat-meager progress each Monday afternoon.

What happened between my lessons was often painful for those around me. We had a small house, and the behemoth piano could be heard in every corner. I practiced and practiced, but what flowed from my fingertips was far from the lyrical beauty my heart imagined.

I knew how it should sound. I also knew how it did sound. And there was a vast chasm between the two.

Oh sure, I learned the classics: Moonlight Sonata, Ave Maria, dozens more. I wasn’t horrible, but I couldn’t quite match the passion even these rudimentary pieces deserved.

That didn’t stop my dear old mom. Once again, I (and my negligible talent) was trotted out in front of unsuspecting visitors.

“Play something!” my mom would demand.

I would reluctantly slink over to the piano bench, shuffle the sheet music…and then, just sit there. I was horrified, frozen with embarrassment and humiliation.

This was cruel. I knew our guests stopped by for a cuppa and a conversation, not to hear a clanky-clunky recital from me.

But I was obliged to play, and they were obliged to listen. For three or four excruciating minutes we were all subjected to the mediocrity of one tune or another, something that might have approximated Beethoven’s Ode to Joy or Yankee Doodle Dandy. Sometimes it was difficult to determine which one of those it might have been.

I was mortified. So, in all likelihood, was my audience.

Unperturbed, my mom would beam with pride. “She’s really coming along…she practices every day!” she’d say.

“Someday, you’ll be able to play duets with your mom,” was a polite reply. “Someday…” they’d turn to me and wink, reflecting our mutual pain.

Dear friends, neighbors, and relatives, I am so sorry you had to sit through that.

To add to my humiliation, I come from a family of esteemed musicians. Within my clan there are accomplished music teachers, studio musicians, and sought-out performers. So, any relatives from that part of the family understood that my clinkety-clank talent must have been inherited from my dad’s side.

When my mom finally gave up on my becoming the next Oscar Peterson (she said that!) I was allowed to stop taking lessons.

Years later, out from under my mom’s watchful wings, I found a love and affinity for percussion…I still love to bang around on sticks and drums and gourds and anything that makes a noise. That’s my jam, as it’s said. I’m not bad—but there’s no pressure, either.

Now, during those years of being a monkey marionette, I was dreaming of being a writer. By the time I could print, I would copy down phrases or words I liked, and when I was seven or eight, I was writing short stories and poetry. I read everything I could find—cereal boxes, labels on prescription medicine, street signs and retail store names. Writing and reading came naturally to me.

As I have recounted previously, there was no illusion of privacy in our home, so my mom would eventually find the snippets of ideas I’d scribed on scrap paper. I wouldn’t necessarily know she’d found them, until…

She’d wait until she had an audience, then she’d read them out loud. My most private thoughts, my imaginings, in someone else’s hands!

But then, after reading them, she’d laugh. “Where does she get this stuff from? She makes up all these silly little things…I find them all over!”

The monkey marionette in me was crushed. I was once again, humiliated. And I knew I’d never see my silly little private stories again.

So went the cat-and-mouse game. Before word processors and personal computers, there was no place to keep my material truly for my eyes only.

I’d get creative—hiding pages at the back of my closet, in coat pockets, inside other books on my shelf. But she’d always find them. And they often disappeared once she did. To this day, I wonder what she did with them. I also wonder what she really thought of them—whether I was being ridiculed or praised by her words and laughter.

Years later, when I was hired as a reporter after the first year of my journalism program, she started to realize those silly little words might finally amount to something. I worked for the local newspaper for a while, covering community events, local music, and provincial politics. I’d sometimes garner a front-page story, and when the paper arrived, she couldn’t help but see my not-so-silly work.

Whether for corporate communications, alumni magazines, marketing campaigns—I made a career out of writing for others, and it paid me well for more than 30 years.

Now that I’m semi-retired, I’m writing for me. To educate and to inspire, in my own words, sharing my own experiences. I write about tough subjects, hopefully with compassion and insight. I write silly little things on the back of receipts, kernels of stories I might write someday.

I must admit I learned a great deal about life as a monkey marionette…how to pull strings, how to make things work, and how to rise above others’ expectations and criticisms. Today, I dance for no one unless I’m free to dance for me. I might still be a bit of a monkey, but I'm nobody's marionette.