As a young boy I showed little interest in the things boys generally show interest in. But if there was one thing I was fascinated by, it was kitchens – the cupboards, the appliances, the counters. While Chris, and Dave, and Brock were out riding skateboards, I was usually in my mom’s kitchen.
I would take everything out of the cupboards, wipe their insides down with a damp cloth, and then put everything back just so – this involved stacking casserole dishes largest on the bottom, the same with saucepans (ensuring their handles all pointed the same direction), and placing the larger boxes and canisters and jars of food stuffs near the back with their shorter counterparts in front so you could see what is behind them (it goes without saying that all labels faced forward).
An afternoon spent in the kitchen organizing things was how I “played;” Chris, Dave, and Brock found this (and me) quite annoying, as catamaraning on skateboards (see photo at left) became a thing when we were growing up.
The idea was two teams would start on the corner of Glenwood and Cleveland Road on opposite sides of the street, then each team would whiz down the gently sloping sidewalk to Glenoaks Blvd., with the first team to get there “winning;” the problem was, you needed four to do this, and they could never convince me to come out (er… of the kitchen) and join them.
I am very fortunate. My mom and dad always played to my strengths. They encouraged me to be myself. So rather than forcing me to go outside and do things that involved the throwing and/or catching of a ball, or catamaraning, they sent me to cotillion – etiquette classes for pre-teens, culminating in an annual formal dinner-dance, where we learned and practiced social skills and manners. From the time I was 11 until I started high school, I spent one day a week at the Tuesday Afternoon Club on Glendale’s Central Avenue learning and practicing all the skills I would need should I find myself attending a grand ball in 18th century Vienna.
As boys, Black Tie was our “uniform;” the girls were in white gloves and gowns (usually floor length). Mrs. Golatz, our instructor, taught us everything, like how to comport ourselves during preprandials (including how to promenade and how to ladle punch from a punch bowl), how to approach someone, greet them, identify oneself, and engage in conversation, how a gentleman asks a lady to dance, and thanks her when said dance is finished (albeit I have not used this much in my life), how to do the box step, waltz, and cha-cha, to always pass the salt and pepper together, and her “b and d” method for sorting out the plates and stemware and glasses once seated at table.
Under the table and out of sight, make the ‘okay’ sign with your left hand; your thumb and index finger form a circle, and the remaining fingers create the shape of a lowercase ‘b’ which reminds you that your bread plate is on the left side of your place setting. Likewise, with your right hand, make an ‘okay’ sign (again, under the table); your thumb and index finger form a circle, and the remaining fingers create the shape of a lowercase ‘d’ which reminds you that your drinks glasses are on the right side of your place setting and saves you the embarrassment of grabbing one from the person sitting to the left of you or taking a bite out of the roll belonging to the person on your right.
In our increasingly polarized, combative, and just plain rude world, where interaction often feels more like a battle than an engagement, I look back fondly on the four seasons I spent learning how to be civil and civilized, and I not only believe cotillion was an important part of my growing up but that it served me better than sports – which teach tribalism, competition, disdain for the “other,” and winning at any cost.
Since the 70s, these etiquette classes have taught courtesy, table manners, and social dances to middle schoolers, and they culminate in a final session which parents attend to observe what their kids have learned (kindof like watching their son or daughter play in the big game). This final session each season (a year of cotillion, like sports, is called a ‘season’) is where the name “cotillion” comes from – it used to mean the final dance at 18th century European balls.
Cotillion is not going to bridge the divide between Right and Left, between Christian and non-Christian, between black and white, between Pro-life and Pro-choice, between straight and gay, between cisgender and transgender, between abled and disabled, between immigrant and native, and the list goes on.
But at 11 years old, I didn’t like girls (I still don’t, but that’s beside the point) and cotillion taught me they were not the enemy and how to talk with them. And (yuck!) dance with them. I dare say, we need a national season of cotillion.