Music Class and Harsh Words

That better not be Greek...

I take my kids to a music program on Wednesdays. As I spin around singing and dancing with a bunch of grown ass adults, I think to myself, “I can’t believe how much I pay to do this hippie shit.” I do the class because I want my kids to have an interest in music, laying the foundation for future music lessons and recitals. The kids love the class. Maybe it’s amusement from watching adults acting so unusual, but if it gets them excited about jamming out, then it’s worth it.

I’d say a majority of the classroom are hard working serious people, in hipsters clothing. What’s with this need to hide the fact that we are all wolves ravaging the forest to stockpile a big ol’ pile of cash so our kids can participate in these kinds of classes, which lead to even more expensive classes?  These hipsters are trying way too hard. They show up with their kids wearing all kinds of crazy shit because letting your kid dress themself seems like an innocent enough way to let them express themselves. However, these kids are a hot mess; they will be wearing striped leggings with a tutu and a sombrero. It’s like the parents are letting their love for their child cloud their judgment; they think their kid looks cute but in reality they look like a moron.

Another way the group is obnoxiously hipster is the names of the kids. One lady’s kids are named Finn and Sawyer. I think both names on their own are perfectly adorable, but together is fucking asinine. It’s so ridiculous, I’d assume their dog is named Twain and the cat is called Riverboat. Needless to say, this lady is the one who birthed them, so she can name them whatever the fuck she wants.

Last night I watched the movie, Get On Up, about James Brown. I thought it was very well done, and a good watch. James is a music powerhouse yet he had one of the most awful upbringings a person could imagine. That shitty upbringing made him ox strong, and gave him so much fire to be great. I think this is the thing I am toying with in my mind, I want my kids to be successful, but I don’t want them to think life is about throwing a sombrero on your head and being told how cute it looks, because one day someone will lay it out for you: that hat looks stupid because you aren’t in a Mariachi or in Mexico or at a Mexico themed party.

Growing up in a big family, I am used to people saying really mean things to me; things that made me cry, a lot. Maybe this type of violence is not constructive for building a leader, but it is very good at building a loyal soldier. I once tried to explain this at a job interview; I would not consider myself a leader, but the best follower you could imagine, I will do whatever you ask of me. I did not get the job. Maybe they thought I was a potential sexual harassment case.

I have certain admiration for France, it reminds me of my family. I hold it at distance because, like one of my brothers or sisters, if I say something too heartfelt they might lash out at me with a snide and demeaning remark. For a time there was this influx of self help books by French women or Ex Pats living in France writing about how French people “do it better.” Basically, they don’t get fat, and their children are not entitled mouthy little shits. What I gather from these books, is French people are not embarrassed to scream at their kids in public if their kid deserves it, and they easily tell a friend that they have gained weight when they start to pile on the pounds.

I think this is great. Most people don’t understand how a kid is a bit like a dog, and if they are given free reign of the place, they will shit all over it. A year after I had my daughter, a woman told me, “Alicia, you have lost weight every where on your body, except your stomach.” I swallowed my enormous bite of food, and pushed my plate back looking longingly at my fries.

In all my travels, bopping around like a bubbly little idiot, it was in France where someone made me cry. I was at H&M and the girl who cashed me out was, simply put, a grade A fucking bitch asshole. In retrospect, I get it. It was a reaction I would get from a family member who saw me acting self-absorbed, relishing in my elation. However, if it were a sibling who decided to bring me to tears for being too damn happy, I could at least take my hand and wrap it around their forearm, with my fingernails digging into their skin, and drag my hand down to the wrist. All I could do at H&M was throw the pen at the shop girl as I walked out of the store. Of course I never let her see me cry, I saved that for the trip back to the hotel. After a nap and some wine, I moved on, because that’s what you do.

The woman who raised a couple leaders and a couple followers

One of the offspring, showing what her mama gave her