Sometimes it pays to be the squeaky wheel

My son Stuart’s end-of-the-year dance recital was last Saturday night. He looked like a million bucks up there on stage and handled himself swimmingly when the dance moms and girls looked askance at him as one of only three boys in the dance studio.   He’s an 8 year old boy and he loves to dance. What more needs to be said?

Apparently, more needs to be said . . .

Last year at the dance recital, all the girls had a designated place to change costumes and primp. Sure, it was a cramped space, but it was still a designated place. Stuart couldn’t go into their dressing room for obvious reasons and didn’t have a designated place of his own. So he ended up running to the general bathroom to change, lugging his clothes and shoes and costume accessories, dropping things along the way. It wasn’t ideal, but he managed.

During the recital, the studio owner noted to the audience that “these girls have worked so hard all year round” and later asked everyone to “give these girls a big round of applause for the wonderful job they’ve done.” Stuart laughed when he heard “these girls” and shrugged his shoulders. He’s used to gender-exclusive language being used at the dance studio. When he first started at the studio, I overheard the teacher start all her instructions with, “Girls! Girls!” After the second week, I quietly mentioned to her that she needed to start saying “Kids!” now that Stuart was in the class. She laughed and said it would be a hard habit to break and I smiled and encouraged her to begin breaking it.)   Later that year, he emerged from the studio with a note from the studio; his little thumb was underneath the line explaining what “each girl” needed to do for the upcoming recital. Again, he shrugged it off and so did I-not wanting to be the squeaky wheel.

After the dance recital last year, I decided to mention it to the dance studio owner. I was afraid she would be mad or think I was “one of those women” (which is funny, because I am one of those women!). I didn’t want to burn any bridges; we’re planning on living in this town indefinitely. I didn’t want her to see Stuart walking in the door and roll her eyes and think of me, the pushy feminist mom.

I started by telling her how much Stuart enjoyed the recital and that I appreciated all the work she had done in pulling it together. She was gracious and said she hoped Stuart would continue taking dance lessons. I told her he definitely wanted to continue and then said that I had a request. I probably said something like, “Please don’t think I’m crazy, but . . .” and then asked her to please stop saying “girls” all the time when referring to the dancers and reminded her of the two comments she had made at the recital. I cringed and awaited her reaction. She looked surprised, but then said, “You know what?   I’ve never even thought about that. I should know better than to do that. I guess it’s just a habit.” We talked a bit more about it and then I left.

Fast forward to the recital this year. When we got to the Saturday morning dress rehearsal, imagine my surprise when I was told that there was a boys’ dressing room this year. It made our lives much easier this time around. During the recital, when it came time for the dance studio owner to wrap up, my 11-year-daughter leaned over and whispered, “Mom, I wonder if she’s gonna say what she said last year.” I wasn’t even thinking about that year-old conversation, but both Stuart and Marin had remembered.

This year, the dance studio owner said, “Let’s give all these kids a big round of applause . . .” Stuart’s eyebrows went up and he said, “Mom, she said ‘kids’ this time!”

So the moral of the story is: sometimes it pays to be a squeaky wheel.