Ok, so I took another leave of absence. In all fairness, I had a very busy week (or two). My dad and sister came to visit, I became a full-time translator, I aged a year, did some traveling, and (as you're about to find out) made my dancing debut in Coelemu. Funny thing about Chileans, they don't seem to have a very firm grasp on my knowledge of their culture. They try to teach me words like "horse" (elementary Spanish...even my Dad knows it), and explain to me the concept of the exotic fruit known as pineapple. Yet, they assume that I know the lyrics of the national hymn and that I have memorized the names of the entire Chilean Fútbol team's roster. Among these fallacious assumptions is that the American also knows that "El día de los estudiantes" involves teachers (all of them) performing for the students. How naive I was to think that they would just get an extra long recess and some popsicles...
On Friday,"El día de los estudiantes," I walked to school with my madre, somehow oblivious to the overstuffed duffle bag she was carrying. When we got to school, all of the teachers were moseying about in capes, and pig masks, and gypsy costumes. Even the school dog (and by that I mean the stray that the lunch ladies regularly throw scraps to) was wearing a sombrero. I turned to ask my madre for an explanation and was instead handed a gypsy skirt, a blouse that clashed horribly with the skirt, a pair of nasty old shoes, and some gaudy costume jewelry. At this point, I was still unaware that I would have to take the stage and lose all respect and dignity that I had to my name.
I told my madre that I couldn't dance. She laughed and shoved me into a room full of my half-naked colleagues all putting on similarly hideous outfits. I sighed and followed suit (pun, anyone?). My skirt was a little too transparent for my liking so I slipped on a pair of leggings underneath. In hindsight, I don't think I've ever made a wiser decision in all my (now) 23 years.
After I was dressed, I tried to ask again what I was supposed to do but instead got bright red lipstick smothered on my lips by the heavy-handed gym teacher. I was then scooted out the door and escorted to the stage by the mayor (who I might add, quickly became my most avid fan). The music that was apparently our designated song (to which I had still not been clued in on) had started. No one heard my protests...they were drowned out by hundreds of little Chilean students chanting "Meeess Kelsey, Meeeess Kelsey!!" As I was hustled up onto the stage, I cleared the first three steps no problemo. Mid-fourth step, I caught the front of my stupid Gypsy skirt with my foot. I fell forward, tripping onto the stage with my skirt around my knees. Bless those leggings. The sea of chants faltered and all of those cheeky little estudiantes erupted in laughter. I tried to remain composed.
I attempted to pull up my skirt and retie the band, simultaneously mimicking the obnoxious hip-swinging of the other gypsy-imposters. The dance was extensively choreographed and as every Chilean had grown up listening and dancing to the song, it never crossed anyone's mind that someone (ME) might NOT have every move thoroughly rehearsed and engrained in muscle memory.
After the torture concluded, I made my way back to change into not-gypsy clothes, feeling pretty good about myself. I made it through the number without any other noticeable mess-ups. It was then that I was intercepted by a third grader (Note: I don't teach third grade and had no idea who this kid was.).
The following is our translated exchange:
Kid: "Hey Miss Kelsey, do you like to dance?"
Me: "No. I can't dance."
Kid: "I know. I saw. You have no rhythm."
I'm glad he cleared that up for me because I was seriously considering taking up a professional dancing career. All I can say is, that little twirp is lucky that Meesss Kelsey isn't grading his tests. Also, in case you were wondering, the answer is yes. Yes, of course the gringa's entire performance was taped and televised. Whoever said that no publicity is bad publicity has never seen my dance moves.
On Friday,"El día de los estudiantes," I walked to school with my madre, somehow oblivious to the overstuffed duffle bag she was carrying. When we got to school, all of the teachers were moseying about in capes, and pig masks, and gypsy costumes. Even the school dog (and by that I mean the stray that the lunch ladies regularly throw scraps to) was wearing a sombrero. I turned to ask my madre for an explanation and was instead handed a gypsy skirt, a blouse that clashed horribly with the skirt, a pair of nasty old shoes, and some gaudy costume jewelry. At this point, I was still unaware that I would have to take the stage and lose all respect and dignity that I had to my name.
I told my madre that I couldn't dance. She laughed and shoved me into a room full of my half-naked colleagues all putting on similarly hideous outfits. I sighed and followed suit (pun, anyone?). My skirt was a little too transparent for my liking so I slipped on a pair of leggings underneath. In hindsight, I don't think I've ever made a wiser decision in all my (now) 23 years.
The whole gang...my host mother is the man to the left of the actual man:
After I was dressed, I tried to ask again what I was supposed to do but instead got bright red lipstick smothered on my lips by the heavy-handed gym teacher. I was then scooted out the door and escorted to the stage by the mayor (who I might add, quickly became my most avid fan). The music that was apparently our designated song (to which I had still not been clued in on) had started. No one heard my protests...they were drowned out by hundreds of little Chilean students chanting "Meeess Kelsey, Meeeess Kelsey!!" As I was hustled up onto the stage, I cleared the first three steps no problemo. Mid-fourth step, I caught the front of my stupid Gypsy skirt with my foot. I fell forward, tripping onto the stage with my skirt around my knees. Bless those leggings. The sea of chants faltered and all of those cheeky little estudiantes erupted in laughter. I tried to remain composed.
I attempted to pull up my skirt and retie the band, simultaneously mimicking the obnoxious hip-swinging of the other gypsy-imposters. The dance was extensively choreographed and as every Chilean had grown up listening and dancing to the song, it never crossed anyone's mind that someone (ME) might NOT have every move thoroughly rehearsed and engrained in muscle memory.
Note how I am desperately emulating my colleagues (to no avail):
After the torture concluded, I made my way back to change into not-gypsy clothes, feeling pretty good about myself. I made it through the number without any other noticeable mess-ups. It was then that I was intercepted by a third grader (Note: I don't teach third grade and had no idea who this kid was.).
The following is our translated exchange:
Kid: "Hey Miss Kelsey, do you like to dance?"
Me: "No. I can't dance."
Kid: "I know. I saw. You have no rhythm."
I'm glad he cleared that up for me because I was seriously considering taking up a professional dancing career. All I can say is, that little twirp is lucky that Meesss Kelsey isn't grading his tests. Also, in case you were wondering, the answer is yes. Yes, of course the gringa's entire performance was taped and televised. Whoever said that no publicity is bad publicity has never seen my dance moves.
You're like a God down there. And it's good to know that seeing someone trip on stairs/clothing is universally funny.
ReplyDeleteI agree, Kels, DIOS!
ReplyDeletePS Fallacious was a great word for someone who forgot the word "soon" yesterday on Skype.
This sounds like one of those repetitive dreams I have had throughout my life...... I'm up on stage only I haven't rehearsed and I don't know what my lines are.......
ReplyDeleteThe pictures were very helpful and I'm glad you had the good sense to wear the leggings! I'm always telling the girls, "You can't go out in that! Wear some leggings! :-)