Photo: purpleslog

For a few years when I was in college, I taught tap and jazz classes to little girls. I wasn't particularly good at the dancing — sure, I could clap on beat and do a mean twirl. But I knew how to count music like an expert — and more importantly — was a really excellent role model for the kids.

"And a kick... and a turn... and a shake, shake, shake!"

I would stand in the front and call out the moves — a figure of authority in the studio mirror making sure the steps were right.

"Kin we try it agin with music?"

This was Georgia, and some of the girls came from far-reaches of the county. This particular student had a precious accent to match.

I liked her ambition, because we were working on a performance piece — it was important to practice the whole number from the top. So I put the needle on the record — a show tune with catchy rhythm — and gave them the cue to come in.

"And a 5...6...7...8!"

Flawless!

Except for that one critical little pose at the end...

It was sort of a classic Charlie's Angels configuration. On the last beat of music, they hit position. The dancers in the front were to point their fingers at the crowd.

"Wait, wait, wait — Some of you look like you're tattling on the audience," I said. Like any good teacher of children, I instructed them to turn their wrists... make their hands, perhaps, more like a gun. Come showtime, I couldn't have them rudely finger-pointing at their moms and grannies, but looking back, I don't know why pretending to shoot at them seemed somehow better.

"As a matter of fact," I added on the fly, "why don't you hold that pose for one more beat, and blow on your fingers after the song is done." The choreography didn't already have quite enough cliche.

"Blow on our fayngers?"

"Yeah, your pointer finger. You know, like there's smoke coming out of the tip."

They practiced this new move with enthusiasm.

"I shot the mayor!" one little girl giggled. I burst out laughing too.

"No, sweetie," I corrected. "It goes 'I Shot The Sheriff!'" Then the room fell silent, and I was met with slack-jawed blank stares. "You know... 'I shot the sheriff?'" I began to sing and snap, "Sing it with me now... 'But I did not shoot no dep-u-ty?'"

Still nothing.

As it turns out — if you can believe it — these second-graders had never heard of Eric Clapton. And apparently their parents hadn't listened to Bob Marley since they were in college themselves. I'm reflecting on this today, because the little girl from Georgia was actually telling me she'd shot this week's Theme Thursday topic. What she really said was, "I shot the MIRROR."


(Yes, I'm a day early for Theme Thursday)


[PS: I posted this earlier, and it's been bugging me since. I've always thought this miscommunication was so very cute, but would like to clarify something in case I failed to make it funny on paper: I'm not the sort of person who makes jokes about guns. It's language and my judgment that are the the intended punchline here. This took place years before most anyone was aware the threat of weapons in educational settings existed. Even as a moronic 18 year-old, I'd have suggested something else had I been able to predict it.]