This is a Fourth of July story. Well, it happened a little before the Fourth of July, but it was 1976, the year America celebrated its bicentennial, 200 years as a nation. That theme permeated everything from the start of that year up until Independence Day. As a third grader, it just seemed like one big exciting party with everything colored red, white and blue.
In school, to highlight the history of our nation, my third grade teacher-I’ll call her Mrs. R-came up with the idea of having us do a play where all the kids played some key figure from American history, figures such as George Washington, Betsy Ross, Susan B. Anthony, Abraham Lincoln and more. There were more than 20 of us and there had to be enough parts for everyone. I, of course, wanted to be Betsy Ross. I dreamed of it, hoped and prayed and thought about it day and night until the parts were handed out.
The catch, and in my life there was always a catch: Mrs. R despised me and I despised her. I’m certain I was a constant source of frustration for her. I rarely completed my work. School was torture. I often disappeared into the worlds in my head as Mrs. R went on and on about the assignments I couldn’t keep up with or cared less about. I couldn’t keep track of what was left and right let alone figure out times tables and phonics. Mrs. R yelled at me frequently. It didn’t help. In fact, it more often than not made things worse. I was less apt to want to finish things. I was more apt to go deeper into the more pleasant imaginative world in my head. Eventually, she became so frustrated she began nitpicking at little things that really weren’t things that I necessarily did wrong. Once when I was in reading group reading aloud and using a bookmark and my index finger at the same time to keep my place as I went along she yelled at me to use only one, either the bookmark or the finger.
Still, I wanted to be Betsy Ross. I knew it was a long shot and it was indeed the last thing Mrs. R was going to do. In fact, nearly all the parts were doled out before I was given a choice. I was left with what everyone in my class saw as the bottom of the barrel. Everyone wanted those juicy historical characters we’d read about and drawn pictures of in class. Bob Hope wasn’t in the history books. He was a guy we saw on TV. Sure, he was funny, but he just wasn’t historical enough at the time to be cool for our class. Plus, I am a girl and I was as girly girl as they come. I wanted to wear period clothing and have a bunch of key lines.
It wasn’t meant to be, and when I went to tell my mom I was Bob Hope for my third grade class play about America’s bicentennial year, she must have sensed my disappointment. She always sensed when teachers weren’t working in the best interest of her kids. Of course that unnerved her to her core. She’s Sicilian and Sicilians are funny about their pride and their children. My mom didn’t fight her children’s battles by arguing or confronting those who wronged them. No, she saw it more fitting to one-up those who saw the worst in her children. My mom dove into making me the most convincing Bob Hope a third grade girl could be. She found some old golf get-up of my dad’s, tailored it to fit me, and carefully cut a likeness of Bob Hope’s distinctive nose from a sponge. The sponge nose was taped over my nose. My hair was pulled back, I was given one of my dad’s old golf clubs and viola! I was Bob Hope.
I did have a line. At some point in the play, maybe it was the end-I’d like to think I had the last word anyway-I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, “Golf, anyone? Anyone for golf?”
So, on this holiday, even though I don’t play golf, I say, Golf, anyone? Anyone for golf?