A few bonuses for those of us who survived Shirley Temple syndrome

Tag : straw fabric

I was born in the heart of a major depression. The economy wassuffering, and my family faced daily struggles. All around me,people were praying for better times and an end to dreary days.Although I was largely unaware, little girls born in the early '30sfaced a number of problems. The Great Depression left few jobs,little money, negative attitudes and a struggling citizenry. Thegreatest challenge, however, was a curly-topped, dimple-cheeked,precocious cherub with limitless talent and earning power namedShirley Temple.

Every female child born between 1930 and 1935 was patterned afterthis Hollywood phenomenon and groomed for neighborhood stardom.

If springy curls were not a natural adornment, rags were tied onthe ends of unruly tresses, or an iron was heated for homemaderinglets. If dimples were missing, lamenting mothers suggested aset smile. White straw sailor hats were tied under the chin; velvetcoats and ermine muffs were fitted to lean, lanky, lackadaisical5-year-olds, and every preschool female was encouraged to warble oncue “The Good Ship Lollipop.”

A number of mothers went a step further and enrolled theirdaughters in tap-dancing classes. Under the tutelage of aninstructor, it was hoped an awkward offspring might clog her way tothe magical Hollywood kingdom of 20th Century Fox. If littleShirley could flap-ball-change to Hollywood and Vine, every stickfigure copy from Boise to Boston had like opportunity.

Unhappily, my mother was caught up in Shirley Temple fever. If Ihad been born with any one of Shirley's endowments, it might nothave been so pitiful, but my parent had little raw material to workwith. There was no evidence of curls, no rounded body, no melodiousvoice, no enthusiasm to perform, prance or participate. Instead,little Patty was straight-haired, knobby-kneed, off-key and out oftime with the entire project.

Mothers, however, are persistent. For 13 years, from kindergartenthrough grade 12, I dutifully shuffled, flapped, twirled andtwisted across Fort Wayne stages but was never offered a contract,an audition or an escape route. I wore feathers, sequins, net andchiffon in every conceivable pattern. Mother and I traveled toChicago for fabric, Grandma slaved over her Singer, and I gallopedthrough my yearly recital in military red, white and blue, SouthAmerican ruffles, a Hawaiian grass skirt or just winged it to“Marie” or “Stompin' at the Savoy.”

I enjoyed a number of extras that tap dancing furnished. I made newfriends, met boys from different schools, wore stage makeup and hadalready-memorized routines for my local school “talentnight.”

There were also drawbacks to my early career. I had to practice,learn to smile when my stomach hurt, never roller-skate lest I falland skin a knee “pre-recital” and give up activities toentertain at a hospital, nursing home or Christmas party.

When I look back at the experience, I feel little bitterness. Ieven enjoyed showing off in front of the crowd. My“ham-like” demeanor has served me well both in theclassroom and on my retirement speaking circuit. Throughout it all,I developed a bit of grace, a smattering of rhythm and alight-footed approach. When it was time to cavort at the after-gamedance, I could dip with the best of 'em.

Dancing kept me off the streets and in the rehearsal hall.

My mother never admitted her disappointment. She pretended I was aShirley look-alike. She never gave up hope that Louis B. Mayerwould pluck me from Franklin School playground or the front row ofthe Wells Theater and turn the camera my way.

She buried me in ruffles when my body cried for checked denim, andshe shod me in black patent Mary Janes when my feet pleaded forGirl Scout oxfords. She sat in the audience smiling, clapping,urging me on toward my star on the walk, my place in the sun.

My mother never got her wish. I never auditioned at NBC andpretended to become a “dancing star”; furthermore, allof the '30s dancers are now gone or have slowed down a bit, andI've hung up my tap shoes, too.

Now when the price of gas escalates, when I'm given to complaintabout taxes, food prices or foreclosures, I remember my early '30supbringing and express my gratefulness that, at least, acurly-haired, dimple-cheeked tap dancer has left the stage and nolonger expects me to shuffle off to Buffalo. I can't clog to StateBoulevard, let alone take to the road. Patty Martone is retired assistant superintendent of Fort WayneCommunity Schools. This is an updated version of a column thatfirst appeared in 1984.