http://youtu.be/nsUSfk8EDfg [The Friendly Beasts]
This time of year is filled with pageantry and programs as the various stories and aspects of the holiday season come into play: The Nutcracker, A Christmas Carol, The Christmas Story, Altoona Christmas, and concerts galore. When I was a little girl, the show to see in our house was the Christmas Story that the children’s choir of Englewood Christian Church put on for our congregation. It was a BIG deal.
My sister and I were in the choir; she is two years older than I am. Anxiously, we waited for Mrs. Forbes to pick the roles for the production of The Friendly Beasts coupled with other Christmas songs that we were doing that year. The coveted roles for the mini-play were the roles of Mary and Joseph. I don’t remember who got the roles of Joseph, the donkey, the cow, the sheep, or the camel. I only remember who got the role of Mary and the dove. For a moment in time, it wasn’t a pretty sight around our house.
My sister, Pam, got the role of Mary. I was called upon to play the dove. I wailed. And, in case I’d not wailed loudly enough the first time, I wailed some more the longer I thought about it. I had wanted to be Mary, and I didn’t see why, just because my hair was blonde and my eyes were blue that I couldn’t be. [In my previous entry, I spoke about my father’s realization and understanding of "unfairness" at an early age. This was such a moment for me.]
My mother tried to console me. "Honey," she said gently. "You don’t look like Mary."
My brows came together, not convinced. "Who says?"
My mother knew me well enough to know that at times, I needed "showing" and not merely telling. She got her Bible and turned to the chapter of Luke. She found the page that had the artwork depiction of the holy birth. Sure enough, Mary’s hair was brown. She looked more like my sister than she did me.
I pursed my lips together, trying, even at a tender age to circumvent the standards of a given. In other words, just because someone says something is so, doesn’t always, necessarily, mean it is such. [Yes. I’ve always questioned things....call it being a Leo and the curious nature that comes along with being a "cat" or call it being trained in journalism and my curious nature in general. Curious natures question things.... I have one, and I do.]
"Why can’t we pull my hair back and put your chignon on top of it?"
For those of you who didn’t grow up in the 60's and early 70's, a chignon is a fancy french term used to describe a bun of hair that is the color of one’s regular hair and bobby pinned to the woman’s hair at the nape of her neck or a little higher. It was a fashion statement back when I was a child. My mother and her best friend had one. My mother’s hair was dark brown just like Mary’s and her chignon was that same color. Now, I don’t know if my mother laughed at that. I don’t recall her laughing, and I tend to think she didn’t because I was dead serious, and she didn’t laugh at me in situations like that, even if I had said something that was ludicrously funny. She probably bit her lip to keep herself from laughing in my presence. [I swear, I don’t know how parents do that – keep from laughing straight out – especially after having heard some of the things my friends’ kids say.]
Anyway, she gently, but firmly told me that Mrs. Forbes had made her decision, and she, meaning Mrs. Forbes, thought that Pam would be a better Mary.
Still, I didn’t understand how that could be so? "Why?" I demanded SOME reason beyond just that explanation. "Nobody gave me a chance to see if I could be a good Mary."
My mother didn’t have an answer nor argument for that. So, she did what I now know she did in situations like that, she steered me away from what situation had caused my pouty*ness and directed me to something I’d not thought of before.
"You know," she pointed out. "Mary doesn’t have a speaking part in this, but you, YOU, have a singing part. You have a solo."
The momentary spotlight of solo hadn’t dawned on me at that point.
"I don’t want to play a stupid dove!" I said, digging my feet in.
She pulled me into her lap, un-digging my feet. The conversation began with "Martha Jhill". It only began that way when she was upset-angry about something that I’d done, or surprised by something I’d said that she knew wasn’t true or she thought was riotously funny.
"Martha Jhill," she began to explain MY significance in the church play. "The dove is NOT stupid!" she said with conviction. "Do you know what the dove represents?"
I didn’t. But, I had a feeling it was important because of the way she’d asked it. I shook my head.
"The dove is the symbol of peace, the whole world over," she said. "When people see a dove, that’s what they think of: peace. It’s a very important thing."
It sounded good, but I wasn’t convinced. "But, I want to sit by the baby Jesus, and I want to be the pretty one who gets to be Mary."
My sister was a pretty child. She was breathtakingly pretty. People always referred to me as a "cute little girl". When you’re a "cute little girl", ALL you ever want to be, just for one moment, is that breathtakingly pretty one.
"Doves are pretty little birds," my mother replied. "They’re pure white," she noted. "Why, I bet Mrs. Forbes picked you to play the dove because of how pretty your hair is." [I was platinum blonde as a child. A natural. LOL]
My hair was pretty. I gave her that point in the discussion.
"You know what else?"
"No," I grumbled, then remembered myself. "Ma’am."
"You have a sweet singing voice," she told me. "And, out of ALL the animals in the play, the dove is the one who sang the baby Jesus to sleep. That’s a VERY important job! Mother’s normally sing their babies to sleep, but in this case, the dove is the one to do that."
My young brain processed this new and significant piece of information. "So, the dove is kinda like Mary."
"Yes," my mother agreed, after thinking about it for a minute. "I think she is."
"Can my dove’s name be Mary?"
Again, I don’t know if she laughed. I don’t recall hearing it, but I think I remember her biting her lip considering this point. I don’t think she thought it would hurt anything, and it would put an end to my unrest, displeasure and unjust feeling of treatment over the role selection. "I don’t see why you can’t be a dove named Mary."
I wish I’d been a fly on the wall when she’d explained that little development to both Pam and Mrs. Forbes. Neither one ever said a word to me about it. It wasn’t a significant battle to wage - that my dove would be called, Mary, if only by me and my mother.
So, I dutifully accepted the role of "Mary the dove". After all, I was the fair-haired child needed by my youth choir to play the role of a fair-feathered bird who sang the baby Jesus to sleep. Who was I to deny such a request?
Here’s the thing, once things got underway, I wouldn’t have traded roles with my sister if they had given me a week’s allowance. Pam, in the role of Mary, had to kneel beside the manger for a good 15-20 minutes. She had to practice that – kneeling with her arms and hands folded in a gesture of prayer [think Charlie’s Angels hand-pose from the 70's] It wasn’t easy. She had to stay perfectly still for the entire play. Have you ever knelt for that long – tried to stay still? It’s not an easy or comfortable thing to do.
I, on the other hand, got to walk up the small staircase and platform that had been constructed and attached to the back of the plyboard-made manger. I got to go up four stairs and stand in the center of things at the point of my solo until the end of the play. Me, in the center of things – singularly in the center of them. No one else got to do that! It was special, and I'm all over special! There was also a railing for me to hold onto as I stood there, looking like I was perched atop the manger. I had the best seat in the house, and, unlike my sister, I got to move my head about, side to side, like a bird would do, looking out over the audience. I played it to the hilt too. When the time came for my solo, and the spotlight shown solely on me, I smiled brightly and sang clearly:
"I said the dove, from the rafters high. I cooed him to sleep so he would not cry. We cooed him to sleep, my mate and I. I said the dove, from the rafters high."
I learned from that experience that ALL parts of something are important to make it work, for it to be a success. Being a supporting player is every bit as important as being the main one. Sometimes, being a supporting player is the best role of all. It was a good Christmas play. I remember the thunderous ovation we got from the audience.
I remember Mrs. Forbes calling each one of us out from the choir, who had been the main players of the play, onto the center of the stage for a special recognition. As the lights went up, I looked for my mother to see if I had done a good job. I saw her smile from ear to ear as she stood beaming with pride over the wonderful job that each of her daughters had done in the play of The Friendly Beasts. Her smile; her pride; her ovation was for both of us: Mary the mother and Mary the dove...
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