THE LITTLEST PROM

I recently gave in to one of those free trial subscriptions from the New York Observer. Some really geat writing in it, and since I haven't been doing too much writing of my own, I guess I'll just turn you on to what I've been reading. I know that my blog runs the gamut from sick and retarded jokes to fire and brimstone political rants, but this might be my first "cute" entry.

Also in this issue of the Observer, Simon Doonan describes his book tour--best moment: at one stop a shopkeeper can't recognize the author because his publicity shot is so youthfully doctored--and a report on the surge in popularity of male butt cleavage on ddisplay in Manhattan. For more go to www.observer.com.

THE LITTLEST PROM

When you’re 5, going to a school dance can actually be a lot of fun.

Such good spirits abounded on a recent Friday afternoon at the Young Minds Day Care Center, in Fort Greene, as Ms. Merilien Mann Moore’s students gathered in the rec room to attend their kindergarten prom. According to Leticia Johnson, the center’s director, the tradition began when a teacher reasoned that if high-school students enjoyed the opportunity to dress up, dance and mingle, then why wouldn’t preschoolers? Since 1978, the school has staged a prom each June.

Certain concessions have been made, of course, to the changing musical tastes of toddlers and their increasing power in exerting those tastes over their teachers. "Now the music is hip-hop, because the kids like hip-hop," Ms. Johnson said. "Back in the 70’s, we used to have Soul Train lines."

But always, pictures. Posing beneath a bulletin board with the word "Congratulations" and a blue rickrack border, the students were a handsome bunch. The girls wore tights and Mary Janes, and their hair—in braids, French twists, sausage curls, spiral curls, Coke-can curls—was freshly washed and flawlessly set. They’d had their nails done, too.

The boys had also made an effort. "He look pretty!" one boy exclaimed, upon seeing his classmate arrive in a miniature five-button Nehru jacket worn over a shirt with a gold fleur-de-lis design on the placket and an onyx stud at the neck. The look was decidedly more Little Richard than Little Lord Fauntleroy.

Once the portraits were taken, the students settled in for a three-course banquet. Four best friends, Jeremy, Amaaru, Brian M. and Brian W., were happy to find that they had been seated at what amounted to a kindergartener’s stag table.

"We want boys at this table," Brian M. said.

"This is the boys’ club," Brian W. added.

"Party, party, party, party!" Amaaru called out, cupping his hands like a megaphone. He was wearing navy leather boat shoes, pleated gabardine slacks, a royal blue button-down shirt and a tie with a triple-stranded chain around the knot ("It’s solid gold").

"I have parties a lot of times," he said. "I want to have a surprise party. I want to throw it for somebody and for somebody to throw it for me."

Ms. Moore delivered four beef franks on small paper plates.

"Party, party, party-break for this!" Amaaru yelled. "We have party bags and we take toys home. We eat hot dogs." He took a hearty bite. "When you go to a party, you get to drink juices. You get sodas and juices, like green juices and red juices. And what about Dr. Pepsi—I mean, Dr. Pepper? You raise your hand for juice. If you don’t raise your hand, you don’t get one."

He looked across the room at the co-ed section; a girl wiggled her fingers in his direction.

"That’s Diamond," Amaaru said. "She’s my date. She won’t listen to anyone."

Brian M. burped.

Another classmate, Nakido, approached the table and, introducing himself, carefully instructed a reporter on how to spell his name.

"Put B-U-T-T," Amaaru suggested.

Ms. Moore announced that there would be a dance contest.

"Go over there; make a large circle," she said. "Freeze! I’m getting a headache. You guys were running. You have on your suits, your gorgeous dresses. You don’t want to be on the floor." She called to a boy in a gray-and-pink plaid three-piece suit. "Sha-mel! If you’re warm, you don’t have to keep it on. When I call your name, go to the middle."

"Nakido!"

"Sha-mel!"

"Justin!"

"Ciara—I know you know how to dance, girl!"

"Brian and Brian!"

"Drop It Like It’s Hot" by Snoop Dogg came on the stereo, and the kids rushed the dance floor, turning the contest into more of a pile-on than a dance-off.

"Everybody dance!" Ms. Moore said, needlessly. The students’ stylings tended to be gymnastic and highly individualistic.

Sha-mel, the class’s standout dancer—he’s also the valedictorian—stripped down to his shirtsleeves. After showing off his moon-walk prowess, he went over to the guys’ table for a breather.

"I want to be a SWAT officer," he said. He leaned back in his chair and placed a pretzel stick in his mouth deliberately, as if enjoying a cigar. "I like to have girlfriends when I grow up. I have one now. She’s big and she’s white. I saw her at a cookout. I think she is like 15 or 16 or 17 or 18. I don’t care how old she is, ’cause she’s pretty and she’s nice."

Ms. Moore came over with dessert: a swirl cake topped with vanilla ice cream.

Amaaru, breathless, ran over from the dance floor. One side of his tie chain was hanging down and his tie displayed evidence of course No. 2, Buffalo chicken. He picked up a plastic spoon and yelled into it. "I got a wedgie from doing flips!"

—Lauren Collins


This column ran on page 2 in the 6/27/2005 edition of The New York Observer.