When Performing Meets Parenting

June 8, 2006 at 6:36 PM

I’ll preface this by admitting it has nothing to do with playing the violin. But it has to do with performing, so hopefully that covers me here.

Wednesday evening my husband and seven-year-old son drove with me to San Francisco. I’m a contributor to a 2005 anthology on Italy, and I was joining my editor, Camille, there for a book reading and discussion. As the evening was focused more on her 2006 anthology, I was aware that I probably wouldn’t read, but would be part of the panel discussion. This changed at the last minute when Camille looked at her watch and invited me to read a few pages of my work. I leapt up, warning my son, sitting up front with me, to behave.

I’m a performer at heart. I know how to read dramatically, to project my voice and create a mood that envelops the listener in the world I’m describing. But I ran into a problem that invariable confronts all performers. What do you do when there is a distraction in the room? As we all know, you rise above it. You pour all your concentration into the work you are performing. You narrow the scope of your vision to encompass only the words and the instrument you’re using to transport it -- in this case, my voice.

Now, what do you do when that distraction is your child? Your son, who doesn’t like sharing his mother’s attention. He edged up alongside me, respectful at first, but in no time he was fidgeting, nudging, reaching, pressing -- anything that might get Mom’s attention.

As I was reading, several thoughts still managed to race through my head: the knowledge that the audience was engrossed in spite of the distraction and it was my job to sustain the mood; the painful awareness of every annoying movement my son was making. I remembered in a flash the dilemma a fellow contributor had had at a similar book reading three years earlier. Same scenario -- reading Mommy, unruly kid nearby, high on the euphoria of “Boy, I’m getting away with a LOT.” My colleague, however, chose to pause during her reading, turn toward her daughter and say in a firm voice, “I need you to sit back down and be quiet.” The pause extended into an excruciating twenty seconds while mother and daughter battled wills. It was awful. Broken mood? Try shattered. The mother finally won, and promptly began reading again, but she’d destroyed that delicate link between audience and artist so crucial for a performance to succeed. She’d made a choice. She’d chosen parenting. I made my choice. I chose performing.

My reading was brief and the mood in the room relaxed. No harm done. I shuttled my son away from the mic with a clawing “that wasn’t behaving” grip on his arm, as Camille began the panel discussion. After the event had ended, a few people approached me to compliment my story, my reading of it. That part of an event is always great fun for the ego. Clearly, in spite of my squirming child, I’d performed well.

Nothing is without a price, however. And mine came at the end of the evening when I noticed a woman hovering nearby as I was finishing up a conversation with another audience member. She swooped down on me once I was free. “May I speak with you, please?” she asked, almost anxiously. She was a nervous-looking woman dressed in sagging slacks and an ancient cardigan, hair slipping out of an untidy braid. Judging by her appearance (I confess, I confess -- I do this), she was most likely not an agent leaping to offer me representation. Another admirer, then? Or perhaps an editor asking if I’d be willing to contribute a piece to her anthology? Oh, the ridiculous places a stroked ego will take you…

She led me to a spot away from the others. “It’s your son,” she blurted out.

“My son?” This baffled me. My son didn’t even write.

“He has some serious issues.” She saw the confusion on my face and continued in a rush. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but that is a disturbed child. He has some serious border issues.”

I gaped. I asked her to explain herself further. She was a therapist, she told me. She knew problems when she saw them -- the squirming; the jockeying for my attention. I found myself trying to explain how I’d based my decision to ignore him on my colleague’s experience. She waved away my words.

“No. This is about him,” she insisted. “This is a child with serious problems. No one has ever told you that before?” Her eyebrows, misaligned with eyebrow pencil, shot up in disbelief.

My child is willful and spirited on the best of days. On the worst, he can be a terror. I know this. My husband and I are constantly challenged by this. We know all about borders (although “border issues” was a quaint term I’d yet to use, sounding too much like something to do with immigration). And because we watch him closely, we know what he is not. He is not a disturbed child. This woman was insulting both me and my child. And if she was a therapist, well, then I’m a violinist.

The woman was still speaking, her eyes a bit wild now. “I say this with love,” she said, extending her two hands out to me. “And that child,” she stabbed a finger in the air in the direction where my son was sitting quite calmly with my husband on the couch, “that child is suffering.”

I’d had it. What kind of therapist approaches a guest speaker and within minutes has managed to alienate, insult and repel that speaker? This woman’s comments, so reminiscent of the Symphony Snob of my May blog, were like a fist to my gut. But this time I had ammunition. My husband, my greatest champion, sat less than ten feet away.

“Well, you’ve certainly given me something to think about!” I told her.

“Don’t just think about this,” she warned.

“In fact,” I said, ignoring her comment, “I think you should tell my husband right here what you just told me.” My voice rang out, the words and body language clear and incisive. The performer had returned. “Tell him exactly what you just told me.”

She took a step back. “Oh, no. No, that’s not necessary. I’ve said too much already.”

She certainly had. A poor time to figure it out, however. “No, really. It’s clear this is an issue he should know about.” My eyes wouldn’t let her go.

She ducked, mumbled a few inaudible words, then scurried away like a rat to the far side of the room. I was shaking with rage, but managed to incorporate a sweet voice as I collected my family and bade goodbye to my editor. When I told my husband -- the wisest, smartest man I know -- about what the woman had said, he laughed and shook his head. Which told me all I needed to know.

A day later, I’m able to analyze the situation with better perspective. I wonder, should I have taken the route of my colleague and put parenting first? Anyone else confronted with a similar situation? Or a story about overcoming any distraction? Please share. After last night’s unsolicited psychotherapeutic advice, I could use a good laugh.

From Jim W. Miller
Posted on June 8, 2006 at 10:21 PM

I guess that's a little like The Symphony Snob but it reminds me more of The Insane Music Teacher.

From Terez Mertes
Posted on June 8, 2006 at 11:31 PM

Does that mean you've forgiven me for my guitarist comments, Jim? Pleeeease?

From Jim W. Miller
Posted on June 8, 2006 at 11:45 PM

Hmmm. I don't know if you can be forgiven for those comments or not. I don't remember them.

From Jasmine Lewis
Posted on June 9, 2006 at 12:55 AM

When I was about 5 yrs old or so, I guess I was acting a little crazy because I had to get some shots or something. What small child likes getting stabbed with needles? Anyway, a nurse gave my mom some pamphlets on what to do with mentally unstable children!!!!!!!! I WAS NOT CRAZY! I'm still not! That made my mother MAD! I didn't know about that incident until recently!

From Stephen Brivati
Posted on June 9, 2006 at 1:39 AM

another day, another looney.

From Terez Mertes
Posted on June 9, 2006 at 3:03 AM

Jim - oh, never mind. I was referring to an earlier blog where there was this guitar teacher.... um, never mind.

Jasmine - oh, I can just see it! I found your story oddly comforting. Tell your mom about mine and I'm sure she'll get a laugh. Funny how it's easy to laugh years later.

Buri - the scary thing is the loonies that come off so normal, well-educated and collected. Until they start talking about their theories... For a panicked moment, tho, you're not sure whether they are the unstable one or you.

From Pauline Lerner
Posted on June 9, 2006 at 8:45 AM

Years ago, I did some research in biological psychiatry, and I had some strange encounters with psychiatrists. Your story reminded me of one event in particular. I was waiting in line to get lunch in the cafeteria, and one of the psychiatrists got into line behind me and started a conversation with me. When I got my sandwich, I found a seat and hoped the psychiatrist wouldn't follow me. She did. She sat down and said to me, in a tone of voice reminiscent of an attack, "I watched you order that sandwich, and I can tell that you're passive-aggressive." I'm still LOLing about it.

From Terez Mertes
Posted on June 9, 2006 at 5:43 PM

Oh, Pauline, thanks for the laugh! I'm getting wonderful comments from people about this situation and I am heartened to learn that some people are just like that - they think they can accurately judge another person based on a 5 minute observation. And they're rude/idiot/psycho enough to share it. It's getting easier and easier to brush off the woman's comments. Next time, as well, I'll see it coming. That will help.

BTW, Pauline - what kind of sandwich did you order?!

From Terez Mertes
Posted on June 9, 2006 at 5:48 PM

Oh, and this just in.... I sent an email to my editor thanking her for giving me the chance to read at the event and apologizing for my son's disruptive behavior. I mentioned, in a short sentence, about the woman's comments. My editor replied with the following message just now:

"Great to see you and Jonathan and Peter. I wonder who made that comment to you---did you point out that she/he had boundary issues in not minding his/her business? Next time, say that I invited Jonathan and it was a staged disruption to weed out such officious people."

Isn't that the greatest? So nice to have nice people on my side here.

From Wanda Jenkins
Posted on June 10, 2006 at 12:23 AM

HaHa, great zinger! you have a wonderful editor!

That woman was probably just let out of some institute and was practicing what she'd been counseled.

With Daddy there watching your son couldn't have been very disruptive otherwise it seems dad would have quietly reined him in.

A story:
Years ago one Sunday the preacher's six year old son was very antsy during the sermon. Suddenly the pulpit voice became a booming father voice, "Wesley! Behave yourself!" That jolted all of us kids into self control. Very effective, probably because the quiet mannered pastor had never done anything like that before.

From Terez Mertes
Posted on June 10, 2006 at 6:47 PM

>With Daddy there watching your son couldn't have been very disruptive otherwise it seems dad would have quietly reined him in.

Wanda, thanks so much for mentioning that! When I posted my story at another forum, someone's comment was to judge my husband for not intervening. I didn't know what to say - he's usually the type to stay on top of his son's behavior (more so than I). I think I allowed the intensity of the psycho-therapist's reply to color my own perception on how badly my son was misbehaving. Your comment here helped put that all into perspective.

And hilarious preacher story. : )

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When Performing Meets Parenting

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