The irony of innocence
It’s funny the random things that you find on TV while you’re flicking through channels in an attempt to pass the time between mid-afternoon and “its ok to eat” PM.
This timeslot seems to me to swing between two extremes - ‘tumbleweed’ hour, that frustrating time of the day in which even Hillsong TV can pass off as entertainment, and ‘yum cha’ hour, in which tiny morsels of intriguing television push past, leaving you to decide what you feel like nibbling on.
Never was this proven to be more true than the other day, when my fingers stumbled upon a most random documentary about New York children learning to ballroom dance, in their inner-city public school.
The first thing that got me was the accent – that broad, brash, broguy accent that I love so much. It’s a very endearing accent, for some strange reason, and it always seems to make its owner seem both much knowledgable yet more laid-back than they may otherwise be (I’m not speaking of course of the atypical ‘Jewish’ NY accent – that’s a different kettle of fish altogether!).
It amused me to watch these 11-12 year old kids, old before their time, forcing themselves to be OK with the hand-holding, shoulder leaning, step-following aspects of ballroom dance. They stumbled around the room, clutching each other’s tiny shoulders, pushing their chins up to the sky, dancing as they believed adults dance. Every now and then their partner would stumble, stepping on their feet, disrupting the flow - and for a moment, pure childish annoyance would storm their faces - before, of course, they remembered the camera-people around them, and re-arranged their features to feign some manner of of cool indifference.
The movie at one point cut to a talking heads piece with two young girls, no more than 12, talking about boys, and more specifically, what they look for in a ‘boyfriend’. The main criteria, it seemed, to charm these two Lolitas was not to sell drugs, smoke crack, or be old and creepy.
“I hate when i see a guy selling drugs,” said one, wrinkling her nose. “It makes me feel like, you know, they’re wasting their life and stuff.”
The other agreed. “I want a guy that’s gonna make something of his life, ya know? Not be in jail for smokin’ crack.”
I was a little shocked at how old these kids seemed, for only 12 years old. If you’d asked me at 12 what crack was, I’d have laughed, blushed, and described what happens when you wear hipster jeans.
The next scene, however, was as endearing as the previous was shocking.
Two boys stood awkwardly against a brick wall, speaking openly about the perils of reaching adolescance.
They seemed to be in general agreement that the whole thing was a nasty, nasty business.
“You start growing hair where there was no hair before, ya voice starts changin’…” one said, his face scrunched up in indignation. “You notice girls, who ya didn’t notice before…”
Then he said something really floored me. “And you have ta keep changin’ your sheets, cause you pee ya bed in the night!”
His friend nodded sagely, while I snorted with laughter.
How is it, that these 12 year adults, who know of drug deals, snorting crack, drive-by shootings and gang colours, do not know of wet dreams and the unpredictability of adolescant ejaculation?
On one hand, it made me sad that they knew so much of the adult world, and so little of that of their own age group. But on the other hand, it warms the soul to know that at least part of them can remain young, for as long as possible.
