Somewhere in fifth grade, "maturity," a mysterious condition both desired and dreaded, began closing in fast, vague, ominous shadows creeping into my social life. We spent more time playing "spin-the-bottle" at parties where one unlikely couple after another adjourned to "neck" in the closet. I didn't question why girls were not allowed to be coupled with girls, but liked the randomness of the selection process.
A boy and I sat on the floor of Warren's hall closet. I had learned all I wanted to know about long kisses and was not interested. Neither was he. I would rather have square danced or watched the impressively large TV in the living room with a flat, thin screen folding down onto the cabinet. I wished we could watch a show but wouldn't dare suggest it. My partner and I conferred a few moments, estimated a reasonable amount of time and stepped out radiating every bit of casual mystery we could sum up. Appearances, we knew, were everything.
The unfamiliar sharp edge of "Social dancing" in the gym upstairs sliced through the easy equilibrium our co-ed class had enjoyed over the years, transforming boys from comrades into bosses. I was happy to play or even dance with boys as an equal. I didn't mind choosing teams, mainly because I was usually among the first chosen, or team captain and chooser, but now, for one class period a week, boys alone got to choose just for being boys. And even though it wasn't their fault I resented them for it.
Arthur was the best dancer among the boys. Although not a ballplayer and not particularly athletic, he and I were pretty good pals. I wanted Arthur to ask me to dance. Or Mike. After Bernard asked me to dance twice in a row I decided that I didn't want to be taken for granted, especially by Bernard. He was too wimpy ( to dance? ) .
"Uh oh, here comes Bernard. I don't want to get stuck with him again," I whispered to Karen, who just recently told me that she, too, had been uncomfortable with the enforced sex roles of our dance class. I assumed that Bernard, advancing towards us, was about to ask me again. I turned away from him with a bored look on my face and he sailed past me and over to another girl.
Now I had no partner at all, like the Cheese, forever standing alone. Wimp or not, Bernard had the power to rescue me. I remembered what great friends we were and hoped he hadn't heard me whisper, that I hadn't hurt his feelings with my snotty attitude, now completely dissolved. But Bernard never asked me to dance again. He'd learned his lesson, and I'd learned mine about not taking anyone for granted, which is what Fifth grade dancing class taught me. That and the Box Step.
The implications of inevitable boy-girl coupling felt none too clear or comfortable. Power and injustice were clearly involved which meant politics, yet no name in my political vocabulary conferred existence upon it. I was already off the beaten track as a political outsider with Communist parents and could barely stand to think about the hopeless gender inequalities of professional baseball, let alone the consequences of womanhood and what it would mean for me.
Near-perfect life on 83rd Street as I knew it was to end shortly when my father's friend opened an office for Israel Bonds in Philadelphia and offered Pop a job for more money than he'd ever made before. Mom fretted terribly about not having enough money to pay all the bills. "I'll put them in a hat and pick out who I pay this month," Pop would say calmy. "The rest can wait until next month." As long as he got a steady paycheck we'd be OK, he told us, and we were, but the new job would take some financial pressure off the family, especially Mom. So Pop accepted it and I would be living in Philadelphia before my twelfth birthday no matter how much I objected.
Everyone signed my autograph book with farewells and sweet eternal promises. Karen's father wrote, "To the best baseball player on 83rd Street." I knew he was exaggerating but felt proud of the recognition anyway. It wasn't that far from the truth and seemed like a fine image to leave behind as my legacy to West 83rd Street.