Pigeon-toed girls are hot.

My family is profoundly narcissistic.  We love ourselves as a unit - and there is no apology coming any time soon.  In fact we have worked hard to develop this specific pathology over the years.  

An example of our delicious narcissism: one of the favorite Brice activities is watching old home videos of ourselves.  Home videos are like wine - they only get better with time - and are delicious when coupled with cheese.  

One scene from the home video that my siblings and I watch at every available opportunity (always to the dismay of guests and lovers… you can see their faces get this forced, frozen smile as they agree to sit through yet another hour of home video footage surrounded by all of us DYING laughing and squealing at how cute we were…) keeps coming to mind.  It is a moment of intense shame for six-year-old Charis Brice from the year 1988 – a moment in time n’er to be forgot.  

Picture this: three girls are dancing frantically for the camera.  Our dance was a strange combination of ballet, erotic dance and epileptic seizure – the kind of dance moves that are only cute because the children engaging in them are under the age of 10.   In every scene I am profoundly pigeon toed - and it was on purpose.  I believed this stance to be incredibly provocative all the way through high school.  (Okay okay, sometimes when no one's looking I still put my toes together, pull my heels apart and smack my ass.)  

In this scene I am bossing everyone around including my Dad and every few minutes ask, “Can we watch it now?” with a strangely nasal voice.  Calen is sucking her two middle fingers, stuttering in a way that breaks your heart and clinging to her “b-b-b-b-blanket” (which was actually a changing pad) as she dances.  Kensey is edibly cute, barely able to walk and keeps shrieking when I try to pick her up (which was virtually impossible as she weighed as much as I did during 1988, despite the five year difference in age). 

Wherever the camera went, there my face would appear.   Like magic.  I always acted surprised to see the camera, even though it was obvious that I was straining at an odd angle to be included in every scene: “OH, you’re here? I didn’t realize.  HellLO!”  My face greeted the camera with an expression that oozed with smugness.  “Can you BELIEVE how grown-up and beautiful I am?” my face seems to say.  Wait, no I think I actually said that in the video…  no phenomenological interpretation needed.  

There is always a specific moment in every scene of cozy family dancing and Christian music playing in the background and Mom strategically hiding from the camera with a nearly creepy expertise, when things start to implode. 

This moment of implosion is when my sisters and I get a LITTLE less concerned with being cute and more concerned with just being [CRAZY] – a moment when my Dad gets a little less concerned about being fun or fatherly and more concerned with us being quiet [“Sssshhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”]. 

My moment of shame occurred at this particular stage of breakdown.    My Dad had the camera in the living room and was stating encouraging statements such as “Kensey! Yer WALKIN! WALKY WALKY! HELLO widdle girl!  Kenser – Kenser-Winser!” and I decided that it was time to REALLY show the camera what I could do.   “Enough with this cute ballet shit,” I seemed to say.  Plus, the camera had been off of me for 30 seconds, and this was absolutely unacceptable. 

 

I started at the far end of the room (you can see my preparation in the video…) and ran as fast as I possibly could towards my Dad (ie: the Camera… my Dad was just the person holding the Camera).  Closer and closer I came, running faster and faster, and JUST before the moment when my face would have crushed violently into the camera, I gave a very loud cackle (similar to my laugh now – a mix between a witch and a gunshot) with all the force my lungs had, and moved my head dramatically out of the way and continued running into the next room.  I scared the shit out of my Dad (check), who said something abusive and violent like, “PUNKIN.” (it's his petname for all of us - it's slang for "Pumpkin" - my Dad is pretty gangster) He followed his verbal abuse by giving me a little headshake of disappointment.  (DAMN those headshakes… they got me EVERY TIME). 

I didn’t see his disappointment (though I’m sure I felt it: CO-DEPENDENT alert, Co-DEPENDENT alert) because I was in the other room having the most shameful moment of my life.   After my incredible feat of Run-Cackle-Dodge, I continued my speedilicious route into the dining room where there was hardwood flooring.  The shamefest that occurred there still brings tears of pain to my eyes. 

I was victorious – running – I had scared my Dad and done something that would surely provide great entertainment when we watched the video for the 100^th time in the following minutes… and then, suddenly, I realized that I was still running.  As I slammed on my six year old brakes, my feet slipped on the waxy floor sending me with a deafeningly loud THUD to the floor, careening like a wild truck on an icy highway through our dining room.  

I slid on my head, on my back, on my side, arms and legs flailing on the dark, wood dining room floor - a complete dichotomy from the dance-for-Jesus-fest, carpeted, warm, sing-songy living room a few feet away.  I slid completely under the dining room table, knocking over several chairs, and probably would have continued into the next room except that I was stopped by the sturdy, angular base of the dining room table, where I proverbially lost my dining room virginity.  That table base SMASHED my poor pelvic region like it was trying to make wine; six-year-old Pain wine from the region of Pelvis with notes of shame.  And even though I was pretty sure the camera had not seen me, I was mortified.   I stood up, and walked like a stoic soldier back into the bright living room, sat in a huge chair and tried not to cry with every ounce of strength I possessed.      

From the video perspective all you see is me running, screaming and darting off screen - then you hear this incredible CRASH, the whole camera shakes, and a few seconds later I walk back into the room and sit in a chair, my demeanor completely altered from the preceding seconds. 

I was absolutely, 100% embarrassed.  Mortified, in fact.  At the precise moment when I was at my prime – when energy and risk and craziness and humor and provocation had all been present – my ass hit the floor, my control was taken away and the impact of this loss was horribly and intimately painful. 

 

When I see this scene in our home video I laugh, and I also feel a tightening in my chest.  Because really?  Disappointment and embarrassment and vulnerability and pain are terrible party planners..  I want my name off their list, thank you.  

Twenty years after this scene from a home video I have once again crashed out of the carpeted living room and with a loud thud have gone careening on my ass and head across the wood of a very hard floor, only to get nailed in the looloo. 

It seems like I should say that twenty years have helped me develop a different method of dealing with falling on my ass and feeling pain in intimate places, but my methods are virtually the same, and that feels okay.  

My ass hits the ground.  I careen across the floor with limbs flailing.  I get up.  I take a very stiff, painful walk back into the well-lit room filled with people who love me.  I sit with a stoic, concentrated face until the pain has subsided enough to get back up and dance… and do something crazy…

“OHH, you’re here?  I didn’t realize.  HelLO!”   

Comments

[Kensey]

Um Charis.. I seem to remember that I was the main event in this video.. God. You've got it all wrong.

[Charis]

Hahahahahaha... I love you SO much Kensey.

[Mom]

Charis, I loved this. I so remember you all dancing around (it was last week, right?) It breaks my heart to think that you were experiencing something so memorable and painful and I might not have even noticed.

[Collin]

I TOTALLY remember that, Charis!

[David]

This absolutely made my day...