Dancing Queen
A song I love from long ago would play on the radio as I'm heading off in my car somewhere taking me back to the days ~
When I had a huge crush on Andy Gibb and Leif Garrett...
When the Sunday Times was like 75cents...
When life was out of my hands...
When David Soul (the original Hutch of Starsky and Hutch) had the hit song "Don't Give Up On Us" ( I looove that song!)
and when ham and cheese with mayo on a hero was THE sandwich...to be had from our favorite deli on the southeast corner of 77th street and Amsterdam Avenue in New York City, where we children used to frequent after school.
At 3:00pm the bells would ring signifying the end of the school day. In no orderly fashion that I could remember, we would exit the school. My sister and brother would be nearby or approaching the door soon enough. Chu Dieu, a gentle Vietnamese man who worked for my parents at the time, would be positioned somewhere on the curb in front of PS 81 waiting to escort us two and a half blocks home (my parents were too busy)~ Looking back throughout our entire school life from elementary to high school, I can't recall a single time when my parents showed up at school. Were there Back to school nights?; or teachers' conferences?...or anything back in the 70s and 80s that required parents? Certainly not ours! Yet, we have made it. We did our homework every night, got ourselves bathed and clothed, and we managed to eat very, very well.
It was a well conditioned routine. On the way home from school the three of us would shuffle in there like tiny wooden toy soldiers. The deli was just large enough to maintain a couple of narrow aisles where one was able to find anything ranging from Brillo pads to cereal, all happily coexisting next to each other on dusty beige shelves. At the front of each aisle, facing the register, shiny bags of fried plaintain chips, corn chips, and pork rinds dangled from nondescript poles awaiting to be plucked. In the back, refrigerated cases with sliding glass doors and mounds of frost held drinks, milk and packaged ice and eggs; basic necessities for any urbanite who might not have been willing to walk a few blocks further to a supermarket.
We always made a right turn upon entering and headed straight to the deli counter. Standing on my tip-toes with my chin raised slightly upward, I would tell the man behind the curved glass that we wanted "ham and cheese on a hero with lettuce, tomato and mayo." The tomatoes were always needed to complete the taste and definitely worth the extra 25 cents we had to pay. We always chose yellow American cheese - processed with added water, milk enzymes, unimaginable sodium, and annatto (which makes the inviting and tantalizing yellow-orange color.) That was what we wanted and it was to be cut into three pieces- my brother and me would eat the end snips, while my sister, the self-ordained princess of the family, took the soft middle. There was nothing better and we did this for about a year and a half until we left PS 81.
It also takes me back to the days when all I wanted was a pair of jeans; Sasson, Jordache; Couldn't even fathom Gloria Vanderbilt's. My parents didn't think too much of jeans - the working man's pants- so, no, I coudn't get any. In our house, clothes would just materialize in the morning and we would put them on and run out the door.
We had no say. I am still very traumatized by this. As an adult, I am very particular about clothes and how I look in them since I still look in the mirror and see a little girl, wearing a two piece purple rayon outfit with giant blue hibiscus flowers, looking back at me. UGH!!!! and DOUBLE UGH!!!! I am cringing as I write this.
It wasn't that my mother had bad taste, because she was considered one of the best dressed women in Saigon. But it was probably because she wasn't used to the rhythm of this new country yet. She was lost; we were lost; AND we had bad clothes.
Eventually my mother did cave in and she took me to Macy's in Herald Square and allowed me to purchase a pair of Sasson jeans. I was so happy that day. At home, with Abba playing on the little radio in my bedroom, I tried on the jeans. I ripped the tags off (to make sure that they couldn't be returned) and slipped the jeans on. It was such a comfortable fit that it made me just wanted to dance around my room;
You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
See that girl,
Watch that scene.
Dig in the dancing queen.....
With those Sasson jeans, I felt as if I was suddenly transformed. I now belonged with all the other girls in my class; in my new country. I was metamorphasized. I still love jeans and wear it like six days a week. Nothing is as versatile. AND I am always devoted to one specific pair. The one I'm wearing now is in dark denim and sits low at the waist. The brand is Giordano Blues and my sister brought it back for me two years ago from Hong Kong. Still, I am on the constant hunt for a replacement pair because there is only so much wear and tear a pair of jeans can go through. Somewhere out there, the next pair in line awaits.
When it comes to my own three children, I must admit that I dress them in my image, or rather, how I'd like to see them. I love putting the boys in button-downs, or a sweater over their white polo tops with the collar in place. My eight year-old is at that stage where he whines and complains that the clothes are "too itchy!" or "too hot!" I would furrow my eyebrows and tell him not to exaggerate. As I walk away feeling sympathetic to his grievances, yet adamant to keep him as he is, I realize that it is not easy to be a kid. As a matter of fact, it is rather scary to be without control and to not have a say in so many situations. BUT soon enough the day will come. I know this because I was once the dancing queen.
When I had a huge crush on Andy Gibb and Leif Garrett...
When the Sunday Times was like 75cents...
When life was out of my hands...
When David Soul (the original Hutch of Starsky and Hutch) had the hit song "Don't Give Up On Us" ( I looove that song!)
and when ham and cheese with mayo on a hero was THE sandwich...to be had from our favorite deli on the southeast corner of 77th street and Amsterdam Avenue in New York City, where we children used to frequent after school.
At 3:00pm the bells would ring signifying the end of the school day. In no orderly fashion that I could remember, we would exit the school. My sister and brother would be nearby or approaching the door soon enough. Chu Dieu, a gentle Vietnamese man who worked for my parents at the time, would be positioned somewhere on the curb in front of PS 81 waiting to escort us two and a half blocks home (my parents were too busy)~ Looking back throughout our entire school life from elementary to high school, I can't recall a single time when my parents showed up at school. Were there Back to school nights?; or teachers' conferences?...or anything back in the 70s and 80s that required parents? Certainly not ours! Yet, we have made it. We did our homework every night, got ourselves bathed and clothed, and we managed to eat very, very well.
It was a well conditioned routine. On the way home from school the three of us would shuffle in there like tiny wooden toy soldiers. The deli was just large enough to maintain a couple of narrow aisles where one was able to find anything ranging from Brillo pads to cereal, all happily coexisting next to each other on dusty beige shelves. At the front of each aisle, facing the register, shiny bags of fried plaintain chips, corn chips, and pork rinds dangled from nondescript poles awaiting to be plucked. In the back, refrigerated cases with sliding glass doors and mounds of frost held drinks, milk and packaged ice and eggs; basic necessities for any urbanite who might not have been willing to walk a few blocks further to a supermarket.
We always made a right turn upon entering and headed straight to the deli counter. Standing on my tip-toes with my chin raised slightly upward, I would tell the man behind the curved glass that we wanted "ham and cheese on a hero with lettuce, tomato and mayo." The tomatoes were always needed to complete the taste and definitely worth the extra 25 cents we had to pay. We always chose yellow American cheese - processed with added water, milk enzymes, unimaginable sodium, and annatto (which makes the inviting and tantalizing yellow-orange color.) That was what we wanted and it was to be cut into three pieces- my brother and me would eat the end snips, while my sister, the self-ordained princess of the family, took the soft middle. There was nothing better and we did this for about a year and a half until we left PS 81.
It also takes me back to the days when all I wanted was a pair of jeans; Sasson, Jordache; Couldn't even fathom Gloria Vanderbilt's. My parents didn't think too much of jeans - the working man's pants- so, no, I coudn't get any. In our house, clothes would just materialize in the morning and we would put them on and run out the door.
We had no say. I am still very traumatized by this. As an adult, I am very particular about clothes and how I look in them since I still look in the mirror and see a little girl, wearing a two piece purple rayon outfit with giant blue hibiscus flowers, looking back at me. UGH!!!! and DOUBLE UGH!!!! I am cringing as I write this.
It wasn't that my mother had bad taste, because she was considered one of the best dressed women in Saigon. But it was probably because she wasn't used to the rhythm of this new country yet. She was lost; we were lost; AND we had bad clothes.
Eventually my mother did cave in and she took me to Macy's in Herald Square and allowed me to purchase a pair of Sasson jeans. I was so happy that day. At home, with Abba playing on the little radio in my bedroom, I tried on the jeans. I ripped the tags off (to make sure that they couldn't be returned) and slipped the jeans on. It was such a comfortable fit that it made me just wanted to dance around my room;
You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
See that girl,
Watch that scene.
Dig in the dancing queen.....
With those Sasson jeans, I felt as if I was suddenly transformed. I now belonged with all the other girls in my class; in my new country. I was metamorphasized. I still love jeans and wear it like six days a week. Nothing is as versatile. AND I am always devoted to one specific pair. The one I'm wearing now is in dark denim and sits low at the waist. The brand is Giordano Blues and my sister brought it back for me two years ago from Hong Kong. Still, I am on the constant hunt for a replacement pair because there is only so much wear and tear a pair of jeans can go through. Somewhere out there, the next pair in line awaits.
When it comes to my own three children, I must admit that I dress them in my image, or rather, how I'd like to see them. I love putting the boys in button-downs, or a sweater over their white polo tops with the collar in place. My eight year-old is at that stage where he whines and complains that the clothes are "too itchy!" or "too hot!" I would furrow my eyebrows and tell him not to exaggerate. As I walk away feeling sympathetic to his grievances, yet adamant to keep him as he is, I realize that it is not easy to be a kid. As a matter of fact, it is rather scary to be without control and to not have a say in so many situations. BUT soon enough the day will come. I know this because I was once the dancing queen.
posted by cream cheese dreams at 7:54 PM
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