A Monday memory....

Not a clue....

When I transferred to a new college my Junior year so as to pursue a degree in Elementary Education, I was met with the news that I now had a "gym" requirement to fulfill.  

What? In college? Are you kidding me?

The course selection booklet I perused offered two suggestions.  The first, an actual gym class, was being taught by a woman named "Helga."  This conjured up in my mind visions of a muscular blond woman, hovering over me whilst I did man-style push ups and her whistle screeched in my ear.

Not a pretty picture.

The next choice was a "Modern Dance" class whose instructor bore the first name of "Kitty."

Well that sounded much better and though I had never heard of a style of dance called Modern, I was sure it would be far less taxing on my body than anything a Helga might come up with.

The class was to be held on Thursday evenings, from 7 to 9.  I donned an old leotard and headed across the courtyard and down the stairs to the gym.  A notice on the door greeted me, stating that class was cancelled.  No problem, I thought. More time to settle in to my new surroundings.

This excursion was repeated the following week with the same results.

By the third Thursday, I was beginning to think there was neither a "Kitty" nor a dance class. As I descended the stairs, I noticed a concerned group of students gathered around a woman in her forties who was sitting on the stone floor holding her ankle.

Not knowing any of the players involved, I hovered at the fringes of the group.  One of the girls finally whispered that the woman before me was the teacher and that she had fallen down the stairs.  An ambulance had been called for.

And yes.  Class was cancelled yet again.

Finally, on the fourth Thursday, we had class.  The teacher appeared sporting a very fancy inflatable cast which began at her toes and finished at her knee.

She had to hobble about but did a rather impressive job of instructing us. 

She was able to attend a couple more classes before it was announced that, yet again,  she would have to cancel a few.

I finally discovered the reason for all these lost classes:

The teacher's full name?  Kitty Dukakis.  

Why yes, that Kitty Dukakis.

Her husband, "Michael" as she called him, had just been elected the Governor of Massachusetts.

(He later ran for the office of President in 1988.  He lost to George H.W. Bush)

I had had absolutely no idea that was who she was!

Kitty was a wonderful instructor.  I came to truly love going to class and learning what turned out to be an extremely different style of dance for me.  

And we were graded!  I had never been graded on my dance performance before. Furthermore, I was shocked to receive a B plus the first semester!

When I questioned Kitty, she responded that she felt I was holding back - that I had much more to give.

My response?  I thought to myself, "Fine.  I'll show you!"

So when class resumed the next semester, I gave it everything I had! 

I exaggerated every move, stretched higher, twisted into shapes I didn't know I could exit from and danced my little heart out.

At the end of class, Kitty approached me with a huge smile.

"That's what I've been looking for" she shouted.  "I knew you had it in you!"

I got an A every semester from then on.

I couldn't tell you anything about Kitty's duties as First Lady of Massachusetts or any of her husband's policies at that time.  Kitty kept our class time purely devoted to her love of dance and sharing it with her students.  If she talked about her husband, it was only as any wife who is clearly and madly in love with him would speak.  And he must have equally loved her, because he actually attended one of our performances! 

I must say, his presence was a little disconcerting for me that evening.  Not because the Governor was in the audience, but rather the awkwardness I felt when I had to slip into the lobby of our college's theater for one of my dance numbers.  Needing to enter from the rear of the theater in order to descend the stairs, I found myself standing next to a couple of Security Agents. They were decked out in their somber looking suits, while I was merely wearing the outfit pictured in the center, above.

It certainly was good for a giggle later on that evening.