Two Songs Rewritten for the Tunes Sake

When I was about eight, my parents signed me up for Cotillion. We had been living in the South for several years by then (two to be exact) and I suppose they were either A. enamored with the gentility points that you get from sending your daughters to a school for manners or B. trying to fit in. Probably a little bit of both.

My siblings and I were christened in the Midwest, in the Reformed Latter Day Saints church surrounded by our stolid relatives, but we were baptized in a white clapboard Episcopal church, dripping with Spanish moss. I only have memories of that church being damp as most things were in the South; damp sidewalks, dewy moss clinging to saturated grave stones, cold holy water on my forehead. Our baptism did more than open the doors to the social hall at St. Pauls, it also bonded us forever in holy-siblinghood to our former family friends-made-God Family.

What is a God-Family to a bunch of RLDS Midwesterners displaced to the deep(ly religious) South, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Your Godmother and father are responsible for assisting in your spiritual growth. They will watch you when your parents are out of town and you will have countless Easters, Christmases and Thanksgivings together. Your God-Siblings will have warmed their body next to yours in a crib or a bathtub. You will have snickered through a multitude of church services only to run screaming into the church yard afterwards, ignoring the priest on your way out. Your Godbrothers will be your Cotillion dance partner and on some level people will probably assume they are your betrothed.

Yes, that's where Cotillion came in. At the age of eight my Godbrother and I were pulled out of the creek in the backyard where we were most likely building a fort out of mud and narrowly escaping death by Cotton-mouth. We were stuffed into church clothes (on a Tuesday night!!) and packed off to ballroom dancing where likely our parents beamed from behind a crack in the door.
Mrs. Whipple was our teacher, devoted to enlightening us with the ageless joys of the waltz, the fox-trot and the tango. Godbrother and I were deeply mortified at the prospect of touching not only each other in what seemed like such an intimate fashion, but of touching other boys and girls. You can only imagine the consequences this had on our dance skills as we shuffled around the room, as far apart as two eight year olds can possibly be without attracting the attention of Mrs. Whipple, who was probably eight around the year 1800 and had since forgotten completely what it was like.

In addition I learned to keep my knees together when I sit and cross my legs at the ankle, tucking them politely behind me and folding my hands on my knees (a habit I still keep to this day). I learned to balance books on my head so as to avoid rudely "walking" and adopt the habit of "gliding" across the room instead. This was particularly hard for a girl who was overweight, grossly unfashionable, a huge dork and accustomed to ducking through hallways and around corners instead of "gliding". I learned to curtsy, how to kneel in a skirt and how to accept an invitation to dance from a gentleman caller. Godbrother learned how to issue an invitation to dance (I'm fairly certain neither of us has ever used these two particular skills).

We learned together what a Victrola was when unexpectedly the CD player broke. Of course Mrs. Whipple had purchased a Victrola (probably around the time they were invented) for just such an occasion, and that week we danced to scratchy renditions of dance music from the 1910's, gliding around the room in the strained silence that always accompanies a group of 50 eight year olds being forced to waltz.

My sister and I were never given away as Debutantes, so in theory our Cotillion training was a waste. I'm fairly certain C considers me an eligible young woman for marriage despite my lack of a formal introduction to society. I'm fairly certain Godbrother has never asked his longtime girlfriend to dance in the proper way.

Occasionally though, in the way that many things about the South still do, a piece of Cotillion sneaks up on me. I will sink all the way to the floor instead bending to pick something up. I will hold C's hand in the style of a waltz if our favorite song comes on the playlist while we are alone in our room. I will sit at my desk and ignore the ergonomic qualities of my desk chair, sitting straight with my ankles crossed until the end of the day when I will crumple at home, legs akimbo and stockings pulled down. This much I am sure I have in common with Mrs. Whipple, may she rest in peace.