Also, a Coat
The coat is brown, puffy, and goes to my ankles. Add a messy bun and I look like the poo emoji.
I needed the coat a few weeks ago because it was freezing and my daughter had a regional middle school choir concert at a high school gym.
Middle school choir concerts are my favorite form of civic optimism. Kids collaborate to make something beautiful despite puberty actively sabotaging their vocal cords, all so an audience can briefly believe we belong to one another. This is where hope lives, even if the venue smells like feet.
Parental love has historically forced humanity into far worse circumstances than this, even on a cold Thursday evening.
So into the coat I went, looking and feeling like a baked potato.
My husband, daughter, and I arrived at the high school to find the gym entrance guarded by a teenage usher who held back the restless audience with all the authority of a traffic cone. The kids went to warm up while families packed the lobby. Everyone talked about how busy and tired they were. The tiredest people who have ever busied. As if to illustrate the point, an exhausted toddler lay starfished on the floor, wailing in the Hall of Interminable Waiting.
Five minutes before the show, the poor usher stepped aside and the crowd surged. Someone behind me decided I was an obstacle to their getting exactly as bad a seat as everyone else, and they shoved me. Mercifully my enormous coat absorbed the blow.
Anyway, we easily found seats, as did literally everyone else. My coat’s protective puffiness had been deployed for naught.
A few parents from our kid’s school came over to chat (“Hi! How are you?” “Tired and busy.” “Same.”) and then disappeared into bleachers on one of the three designated walls.
I folded my coat behind me, exhaled, and assumed that for the rest of the evening, the worst thing that could happen was that 50-100% of my butt cheeks might fall asleep.
Along the fourth wall were the rows of choir kids in school shirts and venue-appropriate shoes, clutching folders and ready to be taken seriously while delighting us.
The program started. The choirs took us on a world tour: “Tottoyo” from the Caribbean. The Russian folk song “Kalinka.” An arrangement of “Dies Irae” to liven up the joint.
When not singing, the kids sat attentive and appreciative of the other groups.
And for three glorious minutes, I thought maybe humanity has a chance.
However, another performance unfolded behind us, where a delegation of moms and dads sat. No idea who they were, but they clearly knew each other well enough to narrate the entire concert. Before, after, and during the songs. They declared “winners,” opined on which song “lost them,” and critiqued soloists. They laughed out of delight, but sometimes they laughed in that other way, too. One mom casually sang along to the songs she knew, and she knew quite a few of them. Then she complained about the audience’s bad etiquette when they clapped for soloists in the middle of a piece.
(Reminder: the universe will always choose to deploy irony in a high school gym.)
The singers were too far away to hear the chatter. My husband and I were too close not to.
But no one else seemed bothered – except possibly the person on the other side of my husband, who sat up straighter and straighter as the evening wore on, like her sense of decency was trying to escape through the top of her head before she did something regrettable.
Maybe the talking was the kind of thing you’re supposed to let slide. I reminded myself that no one had crowned me Queen of the Gym Bleachers, Sovereign of Decorum.
My shoulders crept toward my ears with familiar fury. Oh, hello, lifelong training to quell my irritation rather than risk being socially punished for noticing poor behavior.
I tried to listen to the kids, but the conversations behind me kept pulling my focus.
And then, my notably easygoing and also deaf in one ear husband shushed them.
He shushed them. Again and again.
I mean, they ignored him, BUT STILL.
After the final song, my husband and I performed a traditional Midwestern Passive Aggressive Two-Step.
1. Stare down Sing-Along Mom and her friends and say, “These kids deserved a better audience.”
2. Flee.
We found our daughter near the doors, eager to tell us all the behind-the-scenes details.
I nodded along, overheating in my coat, listening to her version of the night where everyone made space for one another.
We told her we were glad we were there.
Jackie Pick 