DISCLAIMER: All recognizable characters belong to Gilmore Girls and the WB and are used here without permission for no financial gain. You can sue me if you really want, but since I'm a poor college student, it's kinda pointless.
Author's Note: Just for the record -- I don't like Shelley. She annoys me. So if you really like her, you might not want to read this story. I've tried to portray her as fairly as possible, but this is how I really see her. Anyway, I hope you like it.
Ballerina
When I was three, I got my first pair of ballet shoes and a pink leotard. I took lessons at Christie Lee's Dance Academy. The building was tall and thin with a wide center hallway off of which were the dance studios. I remember how clean and shiny everything looked -- huge mirrors, perfectly waxed wooden floors. Even the dancers looked smooth and perfect with their shiny, neat buns and cold faces. I went three times a week, every week. I went, and I struggled, tripped and fell, sweated and cried. I was clumsy and awkward, and no matter how hard I tried, i could never be as smooth and cold and perfect as the others.
When I was four, I had my first recital. I stood in the back waving a flower while the best students performed their solos. The stage lights dazzled me, and I peered anxiously into the audience until I finally found my family -- my dad with a video camera, my mom smiling, and Rory, home from Yale for the summer. Afterwards, my parents gushed over me, apparently forgetting that on the drive over, they'd been arguing because my mom had really pressured Rory to come. But Rory didn't seem upset at all; she hugged me and told me I was great. I could tell she was just being nice, and I think she knew that I realized how bad I'd been.
My mom suggested that we all go out to lunch. Rory looked uncomfortable and tried to explain that her mom was planning to pick her up right after my recital.
I could see my mom flinch a little, but she was undeterred. "She can come with us!"
So she and Rory ran outside while my dad and I stayed close to the door. It was hot and bright, and I squinted at the car. My mom was bending over to talk through the window. Rory was shifting her weight from one foot to the oter. I couldn't see Lorelei. My father was frowning slightly, but he plastered on a smile when he saw I was looking at him. I couldn't hear them, but I knew what she was saying. "Please, Lorelei? It would mean so much to Gigi." I hated it when my mom used me as an excuse.
Of course we all went out to lunch together. We went to a small, nice place, in which I was the youngest person there. Lorelei was nice, but clearly uncomfortable. Rory kept looking at her mom, checking her reaction. My dad was too cheerful. My mom was too bright, too loud, too obvious. I twirled my straw in my soda and tried to be invisible.
When I was seven, my parents got divorced. For months before, they argued constantly -- first every night in their bedroom, then everywhere, as if their bedroom could no longer hold all of the angry words. I hid in my room and stared at the walls while I pretended that I couldn't hear them yelling -- about Rory ("She's not your daughter! Stop pressuring her!") and money ("You can't keep quitting your job, Christopher! You have a responsibility to your family!") and me ("You're always trying to control her! just leave her alone!" "I just want what's best for her!" "Best for her? Best for you! You just want bragging rights with your friends!") I stared at the pale green walls, the white and green bedspread. My mother had decorated the whole house, and everything looked perfect, like a home in one of her magazines.
And then the yelling stopped, and my father left. My mother locked herself in their bedroom and cried, and then came out and put on fresh make-up and drove me to ballet.
After that, I saw my father a lot of weekends and some holidays. His apartment was small, not messy, but cluttered -- books and CDs in stacks on the floor, overstuffed couch, walls covered with posters and pictures. I liked it much better than the house where mom and I still lived, with its designer furniture and perfectly coordinated color schemes.
But I always went back to her and our perfect house. Perfect mom and perfect Gigi, the little ballerina. Except I wasn't close to perfect, I wasn't even a ballerina. I was still awkward and uncoordinated despite all those lessons and transfers to better schools. I could never be the daughter she wanted, and I didn't even want to be. i wanted to be georgia -- quiet and awkward, a good student, a listener, a thinker, an observer, a dreamer. Not pretty perfect perky Gigi. Just Georgia.
When I was twelve, everything changed. It was one of my dad's weekends, and he was going to pick me up after ballet. When he got there, I was outside, crying. I remember it was hot, and I watched my tears hit the pavement, staining it a darker gray. I remember watching my father's car pull up to the curve, watching him jump out and wrap his arms around me. "Gigi, honey, what's wrong?"
Hearing that nickname made me cry harder. It was a name for a perfect French ballerina, for a stupid French poodle.
"I don't want to be a ballerina," I sobbed into his shoulder.
"Okay, honey, you don't have to."
"But Mom..."
"Don't worry about your mom, sweetie. You have to do what makes you happy. That's the most important thing. That's all your mom and I really want."
Of course my mom wasn't happy. She yelled, and I cried, and my dad yelled. There was a whole year of arguments and fighting and lawyers. And when it was all over, I wasn't Gigi anymore, I was Georgia, and I lived with my dad and saw my mom on some weekends and holidays. I had a new room with lots of books and posters and a bedspread that I picked out. And there was no more ballet. Instead I read and studied. Sophomore year I joined the quiz bowl team, and I loved laughing with the other kids and answering trivia questions. When I graduated high school, I was the valedictorian, with an acceptance to Stanford. At the ceremony, my mother was too bright and loud and obvious. She gushed over me and kissed me over and over. My father just hugged me and told me, "I am so proud of you, Georgia."
And now I'm at Stanford, thousands of miles away from everything. I study sociology and play quiz bowl, and I live in a tall dorm with a biology major from Texas. My dad calls every Tuesday, and my mom calls every Sunday. We talk, and I tell them about my roommate and classes and friends. My father laughs a lot and tells me that he loves me and misses me and is proud of me. My mother talks randomly about everything -- her life, her friends, what she thinks I should do with my life. It only hit me very recently: my mother does not understand me. I am quiet, introverted, an intellectual. I keep my head down and my mouth shut, seeing and thinking much more than I say. Neither one of my parents really understands me -- they are so loud and energetic, charismatic and bubbly. They don't understand my chronic shyness, my love of learning, my dreams of a quiet life in academia. But my father doesn't try to understand; he praises and supports and loves. My mother questions and worries and nags and intrudes because that is all she knows how to do.
And I realized something else, something maybe more self-evident, but harder to see -- that she really loves me, that she will always love me. That everything -- the nagging, the controlling, the ballet lessons -- were all because she really, truly wanted what was best for me.
It isn't much. It doesn't take away the pain and embarrassment I went through as a child. It doesn't make me less shy or more comfortable when I see her. It doesn't make it any easier to see her or talk to her, or to hear her constant flow of suggestions. But it is always there, a golden nugget that helps me feel light and happy and free. It gives me hope that someday my mom will look at me and see who I really am -- not Gigi, her dream daughter, the perfect ballerina. Just me.
Author's Note: Just for the record -- I don't like Shelley. She annoys me. So if you really like her, you might not want to read this story. I've tried to portray her as fairly as possible, but this is how I really see her. Anyway, I hope you like it.
Ballerina
When I was three, I got my first pair of ballet shoes and a pink leotard. I took lessons at Christie Lee's Dance Academy. The building was tall and thin with a wide center hallway off of which were the dance studios. I remember how clean and shiny everything looked -- huge mirrors, perfectly waxed wooden floors. Even the dancers looked smooth and perfect with their shiny, neat buns and cold faces. I went three times a week, every week. I went, and I struggled, tripped and fell, sweated and cried. I was clumsy and awkward, and no matter how hard I tried, i could never be as smooth and cold and perfect as the others.
When I was four, I had my first recital. I stood in the back waving a flower while the best students performed their solos. The stage lights dazzled me, and I peered anxiously into the audience until I finally found my family -- my dad with a video camera, my mom smiling, and Rory, home from Yale for the summer. Afterwards, my parents gushed over me, apparently forgetting that on the drive over, they'd been arguing because my mom had really pressured Rory to come. But Rory didn't seem upset at all; she hugged me and told me I was great. I could tell she was just being nice, and I think she knew that I realized how bad I'd been.
My mom suggested that we all go out to lunch. Rory looked uncomfortable and tried to explain that her mom was planning to pick her up right after my recital.
I could see my mom flinch a little, but she was undeterred. "She can come with us!"
So she and Rory ran outside while my dad and I stayed close to the door. It was hot and bright, and I squinted at the car. My mom was bending over to talk through the window. Rory was shifting her weight from one foot to the oter. I couldn't see Lorelei. My father was frowning slightly, but he plastered on a smile when he saw I was looking at him. I couldn't hear them, but I knew what she was saying. "Please, Lorelei? It would mean so much to Gigi." I hated it when my mom used me as an excuse.
Of course we all went out to lunch together. We went to a small, nice place, in which I was the youngest person there. Lorelei was nice, but clearly uncomfortable. Rory kept looking at her mom, checking her reaction. My dad was too cheerful. My mom was too bright, too loud, too obvious. I twirled my straw in my soda and tried to be invisible.
When I was seven, my parents got divorced. For months before, they argued constantly -- first every night in their bedroom, then everywhere, as if their bedroom could no longer hold all of the angry words. I hid in my room and stared at the walls while I pretended that I couldn't hear them yelling -- about Rory ("She's not your daughter! Stop pressuring her!") and money ("You can't keep quitting your job, Christopher! You have a responsibility to your family!") and me ("You're always trying to control her! just leave her alone!" "I just want what's best for her!" "Best for her? Best for you! You just want bragging rights with your friends!") I stared at the pale green walls, the white and green bedspread. My mother had decorated the whole house, and everything looked perfect, like a home in one of her magazines.
And then the yelling stopped, and my father left. My mother locked herself in their bedroom and cried, and then came out and put on fresh make-up and drove me to ballet.
After that, I saw my father a lot of weekends and some holidays. His apartment was small, not messy, but cluttered -- books and CDs in stacks on the floor, overstuffed couch, walls covered with posters and pictures. I liked it much better than the house where mom and I still lived, with its designer furniture and perfectly coordinated color schemes.
But I always went back to her and our perfect house. Perfect mom and perfect Gigi, the little ballerina. Except I wasn't close to perfect, I wasn't even a ballerina. I was still awkward and uncoordinated despite all those lessons and transfers to better schools. I could never be the daughter she wanted, and I didn't even want to be. i wanted to be georgia -- quiet and awkward, a good student, a listener, a thinker, an observer, a dreamer. Not pretty perfect perky Gigi. Just Georgia.
When I was twelve, everything changed. It was one of my dad's weekends, and he was going to pick me up after ballet. When he got there, I was outside, crying. I remember it was hot, and I watched my tears hit the pavement, staining it a darker gray. I remember watching my father's car pull up to the curve, watching him jump out and wrap his arms around me. "Gigi, honey, what's wrong?"
Hearing that nickname made me cry harder. It was a name for a perfect French ballerina, for a stupid French poodle.
"I don't want to be a ballerina," I sobbed into his shoulder.
"Okay, honey, you don't have to."
"But Mom..."
"Don't worry about your mom, sweetie. You have to do what makes you happy. That's the most important thing. That's all your mom and I really want."
Of course my mom wasn't happy. She yelled, and I cried, and my dad yelled. There was a whole year of arguments and fighting and lawyers. And when it was all over, I wasn't Gigi anymore, I was Georgia, and I lived with my dad and saw my mom on some weekends and holidays. I had a new room with lots of books and posters and a bedspread that I picked out. And there was no more ballet. Instead I read and studied. Sophomore year I joined the quiz bowl team, and I loved laughing with the other kids and answering trivia questions. When I graduated high school, I was the valedictorian, with an acceptance to Stanford. At the ceremony, my mother was too bright and loud and obvious. She gushed over me and kissed me over and over. My father just hugged me and told me, "I am so proud of you, Georgia."
And now I'm at Stanford, thousands of miles away from everything. I study sociology and play quiz bowl, and I live in a tall dorm with a biology major from Texas. My dad calls every Tuesday, and my mom calls every Sunday. We talk, and I tell them about my roommate and classes and friends. My father laughs a lot and tells me that he loves me and misses me and is proud of me. My mother talks randomly about everything -- her life, her friends, what she thinks I should do with my life. It only hit me very recently: my mother does not understand me. I am quiet, introverted, an intellectual. I keep my head down and my mouth shut, seeing and thinking much more than I say. Neither one of my parents really understands me -- they are so loud and energetic, charismatic and bubbly. They don't understand my chronic shyness, my love of learning, my dreams of a quiet life in academia. But my father doesn't try to understand; he praises and supports and loves. My mother questions and worries and nags and intrudes because that is all she knows how to do.
And I realized something else, something maybe more self-evident, but harder to see -- that she really loves me, that she will always love me. That everything -- the nagging, the controlling, the ballet lessons -- were all because she really, truly wanted what was best for me.
It isn't much. It doesn't take away the pain and embarrassment I went through as a child. It doesn't make me less shy or more comfortable when I see her. It doesn't make it any easier to see her or talk to her, or to hear her constant flow of suggestions. But it is always there, a golden nugget that helps me feel light and happy and free. It gives me hope that someday my mom will look at me and see who I really am -- not Gigi, her dream daughter, the perfect ballerina. Just me.