When I was in grade 5, my mother caused the most amazing disturbance in my classroom.
I had spent part of the afternoon hanging out with a kid named Alec McNicol. It was one of those random times of being at school after classes were over and the structure of the day was done. Alec McNichol had a metallic orange banana seat bike which I thought looked very cool, and he wheeled around me, tracing casual circles on the school’s paved courtyard as we kept each other company, chatting about whatever occupies kid’s interests when they’re free from adult supervision. I didn’t feel comfortable in large groups, but me and Alec had clicked and become friendly that day, and had found each other’s company.
Looking back, I can’t remember anymore why I was still there after school, except I knew that my mother was coming to pick me up. My elementary school was unique for having large rooms for entire grades – it was an “open area” school, with areas A through D set up for grades 1 through 7. Each area had three teachers and three classroom spaces with a chalkboard and rows of desks. There was also a lab area with counters, benches and a sink where we’d have science or art, audio-visual workstations where we’d listen to tapes on headphones or use a computer, and a large common area, where we all sat on the floor together for area assemblies, to hear current events or to sing songs on Wednesday mornings. I think that every other Area in the school was pretty much the same as mine. My sister went to Area A for Grade 2, while I was in Area C for Grade 5.
I recall being back inside Area C with Alec when my Mum arrived. She was wearing a blouse with peach and grey shapes that resembled smoky flower petals. She didn’t drive, and our home was only a few blocks away, so she would have walked down to meet me. It was one of the first times I remember her being at my school and I was very excited for her to be there with me.
I showed her around a little, and she went immediately to our area’s upright piano. My Mum could never resist a piano. Dad had told me stories of her musical abilities, but I’d never actually seen my mother play piano before. To me, it was nothing less than a glimpse into her greatness.
The moment she touched the keyboard, she owned that piano, and I saw a different person in action. Her left hand started banging out a bouncing bass beat that went “bumpa-bumpa-bumpa-bumpa”. It was like 12 bar blues, but fast and punchy. After 12 bars, her right hand attacked the high end with bright flourishes that went “ba-dat-de-baddely-at-de-dah” over and over, in different registers. It was so lively, so energetic, like Oscar Peterson was playing right in front of us. Me and Alec McNicol clapped and slapped out time on the side of a filing cabinet, while our faces beamed with excitement. It was the most fun I’d ever had in any classroom. I didn’t know where the teachers were, but I really didn’t care.
In that brief five or ten minutes of bliss, I saw my mother Angela transform into her true rocking, joyous self. My Area C became her blues bar, her stage, and her concert hall. That day, when Mum came to get me from school, she lit up my classroom with her killer boogie woogie.
