February 22, 2016 - 13:22
Why the Chicken Dance Terrifies Me
A true account by Amanda Dennis
Table of Contents
I. A Lesson on How to Play Nice in the Pop-up Tent (Pages 1-37)
II. Ten Reasons Why the Chicken Dance is Even Scarier than Monster’s Inc. (Pages 38-62)
III. How Chelsea Bana’s Trainer Bra Made Her Cooler than Everyone (Pages 63-104)
IV. The Intentionally Forgotten Dark Days of Acne and Sparkly Blue Eyeshadow (Pages 105-138)
V. Building a Transcript That Will Get You College Acceptance and Insomnia (Pages 139-169)
VI. What Makes College Students Equivalent to Preschoolers: A Summary (Pages 170-191)
Chapter I. A Lesson on How to Play Nice in the Pop-up Tent
I knew how to play nice. I could say “Please” and “Thank you”, wait my turn and not hit kids. It was easy. If you cooperated, all went well. We could have a good time, and get along. What I did NOT understand, was how somebody could not find this easy. Why would somebody take your toy, when you are obviously playing with and showed no signs of being finished? What could possess somebody to hit you because you didn’t do what they wanted you to do? It should be more sensible and efficient to just have a logical conversation. Then you wouldn’t have turned all red and angry, the teacher wouldn’t have had to come over and yell at us, I wouldn’t have had to explain that I literally did nothing wrong and it was your fault, you wouldn’t have had to argue with that and we wouldn’t have both gotten in trouble. Instead we could have sorted it out, skipped the middle man, and had a good time, but no. Apparently that is not how Preschoolers work.
I guess this is a natural time to introduce Jessy Babsy. When I would say that Jessie and I were best friends, I didn’t mean it in the casual “Yea, we sometimes have playdates on the weekends” way, I meant it in the “We do anything and everything together, and we’re pretty much sisters so if you think you have a shot at earning the prestigious ‘best friend’ title for either of us you are really confused” way. We were great together. We had dance, gymnastics, and swim lessons together. We took on the mean girls of the playground. She had a pool and I had an Easy Bake oven so together we basically had it all.
A pretty frequent game of ours was “Tents”. Tents was an aptly named game that required two things: imagination and several rainbow pop-up mini tents connected via Velcro tabs. We created stories better than those of Hans Christian Andersen. To make the stories this great, you would make roles, and act out your own fairy tales, stopping intermittently to confirm that you were both on the same page and that the story was going to proceed as planned. The only problems that arose were those that resulted from dissonance regarding the trajectory of the story. What would typically happen then, was that we would argue, and then Jessy would win because frankly, I didn’t like to fight because I didn’t know how.
I was an only child at that point. I was a tiny bit spoiled, but I had respect for my parents, so I typically got what I wanted, but if I didn’t, I knew it was non-negotiable. Anything that I debated with my parents never escalated into anything past a calm logical conversation. Neither voices nor hands were ever raised. Which is why, when Jessy started to yell, I froze and complied.
There was one day, when we did have an exceptionally bad fight. It stemmed from the usual causes: she wanted the game to go in one direction, but I disagreed. Perhaps I felt more strongly about this character, or maybe I was just finally tired of being complacent. Whatever the reason, I was not giving in this time. I held my ground as she yelled. Rather than giving in, she resorted to pushing me. It wasn’t hard, but she wouldn’t let up. She pushed and pushed and pushed as I walked around inside the tents, until finally I could take no more.
I should note that the majority of my memory of this incident has been outlined by my mother’s storytelling. She loves to reminisce about Jessy and I’s antics. So oddly, I visualize my breaking point Jessy from my mother’s perspective. After being pushed and pushed, I turned around and in one swift motion, sent her backwards out of the tent, air bound.
We made up of course. This came to be a metaphor for our relationship. We get along great, but she gradually drives me crazier and crazier until I lose it, things blow up, and then we make up and come full circle. I am glad that I finally learned to stand up for myself. I don’t know what it was about the situation that caused that change in me, but I am perplexed that it took so long. When is it that we learn conflict resolution? I remember being told to tell the teacher if somebody hits you or tells a lie, but when and how does that end? The social pressures to not be a “tattle-tale” most definitely arises before teachers stop instructing children to come to them. How do we learn to stand up for ourselves?
This is not to be confused with learning how to avoid fighting. We are taught in school, and typically at home, from early on that it is not okay to hit. We shouldn’t say mean things, or do things unless we would want somebody else to do them to us, but what happens when (not if) somebody inevitably doesn’t follow that? We rely on modeling other children’s behavior as well as trial and error. It is not something that is often formally taught until bullying curriculum comes about. Even then, it is a skill that we often fail to master. Many older students and adults do not have this skill, and continue to shy away when faced with confrontation. Maybe we all need a friend like Jessy to push us to our limits so we can learn to stand up for ourselves, and ensure that our voices are heard even if they are not the loudest.