The Sean Conroy Lifeletter #71

Happy Father’s Day! And Happy Juneteenth!
 
So yeah, in 6th grade I got put in a program for “gifted” students. It might seem like we should have gotten beaten up by the other students for being nerds, but instead, they just circulated petitions at recess, about how unfair it was that we were being treated better than they were (those fucking nerds). 
 
The craziest thing about that program was that one day a week we had enrichment classes. Art, Dance, and Film. 
 
FOR THE WHOLE DAY.
 
No math, no science, no reading, no writing (well, maybe some writing in Film class). Just dancing around, drawing a bunch of crap, and being silly on camera. For 20% of our week (see? I didn't even NEED math class that much). 
 
We had to “pick a major” in one of the three at the beginning of the year, and that was what we would do all Thursday afternoon after lunch. The morning was split between the two classes we didn’t major in.
 
I got together with two of my friends to discuss our choice of majors- the pros and cons of each, our individual strengths and weaknesses, whether this or that major would help us get further in life, how it would look on our college applications, whether it would limit our incomes later in life, everything it's important to take into consideration when you are picking an arts “major” in 6th grade. And ultimately we made what we thought at the time, and what I in retrospect agree, was a brilliantly counterintuitive choice. 
 
We would major in dance. Dance? Why would three 12 year old boys major in dance? We weren’t actually dancers, in any way. We had no dance training. We had no dance aspirations. We had no dance dreams. We didn't even see dance as a potential avocation, going forward. Who would major in dance? We didn’t know for sure, but we had an idea.
 
Girls.
 
That first day we went in, and the class was the three of us, and a bunch of girls. Like, a lot. Fun! I don’t remember a lot about it, I’m guessing we probably... danced around a bit? It was definitely the first time where I did that acting/dance/improv warmup where you connect a sound to a movement- in this case the sound was my name and the movement was ... something fandancical. No idea. How would YOU dance “Sean Con-roy”?  But I very specifically remember the teacher, whose real name I won’t use (privacy or what have you), but let’s say it was Janet Jenkins (seriously it wasn't), screaming “JA-NET JEN-KINS!”  and flinging her body around so enthusiastically that I was afraid she had dislocated something.  But it was just her dignity and high status as a teacher floating away.
 
It turned out she wasn’t really much of a teacher, I guess more of a dancer? Though she did leave for a while mid-year to compete on a game show...  The class was fun, although (or perhaps because) she didn’t have much in the way of classroom management and discipline skills. Basically, a two-hour dance party every Thursday afternoon, is how I remember it. About the extent of her being in control was that sometimes she would force one of my friends (the one who was the most out of control of the three of us) to go sit in the kindergarten class.  Very small chairs.*
 
*Of those two other guys, one went on to be very high up in the food chain of a major media conglomerate, and the other became a lawyer. Then, a convicted felon. “Con-VIC-ted FE-lon!” I got into comedy. Which... insert joke about splitting the difference or whatever.
 
We also went to our first art class, and our first film class. The classes we had decided not to major in. 
 
I’m guessing the art class was fine- we probably did something with cray pas or charcoals or pastels. They always give you the good shit the first day, to get your hopes up. Then comes the crushing disappointment. 
 
But the film class? Whoa.
 
We decided after that we wouldn’t go to the art class anymore- we would spend all morning in film, first ours, then the one that was only for art majors. Yes, I became an inveterate class-cutter in a 6th grade gifted enrichment program. The art teacher never said a word about it to us (she must have noticed, we were the only boys in the class). The folm teacher also must have noticed, because we were there way too much. But he never said anything either.  I suffered no consequences for it, ever (except years later, perhaps, when I became involved in animation and was relentlessly mocked by my colleagues for my deeply rudimentary and primitive drawing skills). **
 
**There may also have been karmic retribution when I reached 7th grade, and one time the hottest girl in 8th grade sat next to me on the bus on a school trip and, during the course of our conversation, asked me if I wanted to sleep with her. It definitely felt like a bit of a trick question, with no right answer, but before I could answer, I realized there were a bunch of her friends sitting in various parts of the bus in close proximity to us, watching intently, snickering... how is that karmic retribution for cutting art class? She was the art teacher’s daughter. Different school, same family.
 
Anyway, film class...
 
TO BE CONTINUED

And by the way, if you enjoyed this Lifeletter, you can subscribe to the Lifeletter and receive it in your inbox on a regular basis by going here.

For the last couple of years, I have published a weekly newsletter, called The Sean Conroy Lifeletter, about a variety of things: writing, life in Hollywood, life, the strange irritating beauty of others people… mostly navel-gazing, but hopefully stuff some people can at least relate to. One thing I thought I might start doing is posting the Lifeltter as a blog entry here on the website, in case anybody ever found it and wanted to subscribe. If that’s you, welcome! Go here to subscribe! ANd if I get really ambitious, maybe I’ll start posting the old Lifeletters too, give them a place to live. We’ll see. THere’s 69 earlier editions haha nice 69 I promise it’s not all like that almost never. Meantime, please enjoy.

June 15, 2022

The Lifeletter has obviously been on unforced hiatus. But as of today it’s been 33 years and two days since I did my first “professional” comedy show, when I appeared onstage at Grandpa Al’s Shooting Stars on Central Avenue in Yonkers, New York.

So I felt like starting it up again. Here goes.

My seventh and final year at Daniel Webster Elementary School* on Calhoun Avenue* in New Rochelle, I entered the 6th grade. That September, I experienced two deeply insignificant personal tragedies, but also did something that changed the trajectory of my life. Or at least, something I still think about from time to time.

*Daniel Webster (from New Hampshire by way of Massachusetts) and John C. Calhoun (from South Carolina)were two of the three members of the Great Triumvirate. The Great Triumvirate dominated the political landscape of the United States throughout the first half of the 19th century, as Senators, Secretaries of State, and (in Calhoun’s case) as Vice-President.  Although they were all dead before it happened, their combined statesmanship was pretty instrumental in setting the table for the Civil War (though obviously far rom the only factor). Can you name the third member of the Great Triumvirate without looking it up? They were also known as the Immortal Trio, and are dead.

First, I, unlike most of my closest lifelong friends, was not named a member of the Outdoor Safety Patrol.

Tragic.

There were four public entrances to the school, open all day every day. At peak arrival and dismissal times, two Safety Patrolmen were stationed outside each entrance, making sure students didn’t jostle each other too hard, use abusive language, run, skip stairs, or do anything else that might endanger their welfare or well-being.  Who better than me to be entrusted with such responsibility, and the canvas Sam Browne belt, badge, and status amongst the school population that went with it?

Others, clearly.  Multiple others.

Or so my homeroom teacher, whose responsibility it was to nominate two Patrolmen Patrolpersons, felt. In her defense, she was brand-new to the school that year, and probably didn’t realize what an ideal candidate I was, or even how important and deeply prestigious the position was. Also in her defense (sort of?), she was the first teacher I had who made it clear fairly early on in our relationship that she intensely disliked me.** So maybe that dislike affected her decision? Although even as I say that, I’m guessing her hatred (yeah, it was hatred, not just dislike) of me didn’t really set in until at least mid- to late-September, so I’m guessing there were other factors.

**There were really only three I can think of who actively disliked me in my entire scholastic career, from nursery through grad school, which isn’t bad. And one of them hid it til at least our 15th, possibly 20th ,  reunion, and died not long after he expressed it to me, so had I not attended I might never have known.

And by the way, I don’t blame her for hating me. Having taught 6th grade myself for a while, inveterate wiseasses can be threatening and difficult. I always found them the most charming and the most fun, but I get it.

The second calamity that September was I lost the election for President of the school.

How could this be?

In 5th grade I had served my school as Vice-President.  And sure, I can’t say I accomplished a lot myself during my term of office (the position was largely ceremonial, and involved  a lot of attending meetings and looking interested). But it was devastating to realize how meager my support from my base actually was.

But that year I also took my first film class.

TO BE CONTINUED...