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ast Friday night,
after a drawn out day in front of an IBM, I figured it would be relaxing to
catch a school play. I’d seen fliers for the coming performance, Fool for Love,
around campus, so as usual, I packed up my eight-month-old son and proceeded to
the Gershman Y’s Black Box. One of my professors often tells the story of an
artist who would take his wife out t o
plays two hours before they began, and just as the curtains opened they’d leave.
He’d point out that art is often intertwined with anticipation. The minutes
seemed visible as I tried to occupy the time that we had before the show. We went
out to eat, played a couple of games of peek-a-boo, laughed at passersby, etc.
But promptly at 7:45 we headed to the Black
Box—aware of the limited seating.
The short balding guard greeted us at
the door to let us know about the special accommodations for people on wheels.
“Go around the building baby, you are just the cutest little thing, oh and so is
your son.”
“Thanks, I didn’t even know that you guys had a ramp here.”
“Oh, we have more than just a ramp, go on around so I can let you in.”
As we strolled around the corner, a spirit of anticipation rose in me. I thought
this school is really trying to find ways to help everyone. I was even more
surprised when I saw the mini-elevator that carried us directly to the door of
the theater.
“You all set miss?” said the guard, in his welcoming, cheery voice. “My name is
Jerry, just call me if you need anything.”
As I began to thank Jerry for his kindness, the play’s director ---who I’ll call
Professor Chuck, fumed out of theater doorway, clammy and red, like an  overanxious
child.
“You people can’t just come in
here...”
“Excuse me?” I replied, slightly shocked at his dramatic arrival.
“Yeah, this is a performance and babies aren’t allowed…”
Before he could finish this lie, I cut in, “Oh really, it appears you’ve been
mistaken, I take my son to almost all of these productions, there has never been
a problem and there won’t be tonight.”
What I had previously considered an overanxious professor, turned into a
high-strung, sweat-bullet dropping, finger-waving, head-shaking man in a frenzy.
If I hadn’t been in this conversation, I would have thought that someone had
sabotaged his entire performance.
“You think that you can just come in here and ruin our show?” Professor Chuck
began in a tone and pitch that attracted witnesses---mostly future audience
members.
“No, I came to see the play-- so calm down.”
“Well what if he starts to cry?”
“He won’t.”
“How will you get out?”
“Through the door.”
“Well, you’ll have to sit on the back row.”
The words back row resonated in my thoughts.
Where had I heard that before? Buses came to mind. I continued to control my
composure, as a flabbergasted Professor Chuck went on about having to clear the
back row, and how this school needs policy and so on. Seeing how quickly
Professor Chuck lost his cool, I wanted to childishly poke at his buttons, but
like Ms. Parks I remained cool.
Professor Chuck stormed back into the theatre, arms still waving, head still
shaking, and murmuring under his breath. I looked down at my son and wondered if
he would ever have temper tantrums like Professor Chuck---not if I could have
anything to do with it. The ticket-taker woman, still quite shocked by the whole
fiasco, looked at me with a tinge of embarrassment.
“Uhm, can I have your name to check you off on our reservation list?”
“Reservation list?”
“Yeah, reservations, don’t you have one?”
“No, I thought..”
“Professor Chuck,” she shouted into the theater, “don’t worry about it, she
doesn’t  have
a reservation anyway.”
“GOOD,” he shouted back from the crowd.
“Good, what does he mean good?” I asked the ticket-taker woman.
“I’m sorry, Miss.” she said in a telemarketer tone, “Without a reservation you
won’t be able to see this show.”
“What’s his name? What’s your name?” I said.
“Professor Chuck,” she replied, clutching her reservation book a little closer
to her chest.
“And you?”
“Well I’m just here to collect the tick…Taryn,” she replied, realizing from the
look in my face how much I cared about her excuses.
“I’ll be speaking to someone about the way he acted.”
“It’s just a really intense show,” she tried to justify.
Jerry must have sensed the animosity or overheard the conversation, whatever the
case, he came from around the corner just as cheerful as he had left.
“Is there a problem miss?”
“No, they just won’t let me in to see this show.”
“Don’t sweat it,” somehow his tone was soothing.
“I’m not mad that I couldn’t go to the show, I just can’t believe the way he
spoke to me, and in front of my son at that.”
“Come with me, it’ll be okay sweetie,” he said directing me back towards the
mini-elevator.
After I left the show that night, I went through a series of emotions. I was
angry at the way my son and I were treated; I was disappointed that I hadn’t
physically caused professor Chuck harm; I was ashamed at the way he represented
the school; and I was glad that I was a journalism major--- with power of the
pen. There are a series of lessons that I learned from this event: one being
don’t get angry, get even.
Professor Chuck had no right to discriminate against my baby and me, or to
assume we would disrupt the show or distract the actors. What gives him the
right to group my son into a category with other little miserable children no
matter what his experiences with them may be? It’s true most little people can
be loud and obnoxious, but my son has been to plenty of performances. Why?
Because art is universal. It’s not written that art is only universal for people
over 3 feet. I take him to these functions so that he can learn to appreciate
various types of art, not just little people, Sesame Street-style art. And,
maybe if more parents stood up for their right to bring their children along,
even when it’s culturally taboo, more of us, and our children, would know how to
behave in public. We (parents) shouldn’t have to be ashamed to have our children
go out with us wherever we go, lets teach them the true meaning of self-respect,
by making them practice it--- no matter where they are.
The truth of the matter is the next day I went back to the same show with my
son. Not only was he able to experience the intensity of the play, but he also
sat through the entire performance quiet and content---even when some of the
“so-called” adults lost their cool. Overall I’m glad I’ve learned to listen to
Dr. Spock when he said, “The more people have studied different methods of
bringing up children, the more they have come to the conclusion that what good
mothers […] instinctively like doing for their babies is the best after all.”
Jeannine Cook is a senior at the
University of the Arts and currently serves as managing editor for a student
publication, The Schwa.
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