Writing

Houston Tribune
May 2005
Bridgette Mongeon © 2005

I just came out of the science lab, one of the only two places that I can e-mail things here on the campus of Vermont College of Union Institute & University. Walking up to my dorm building at Dewey Hall I watched a half a dozen people outside, playing music talking and smoking cigarettes. These students are not your typical eighteen to twenty year olds. No, in fact they are students of all ages. The door to the dorm hall seems to be in perpetual motion. Someone is always coming or going. I can hardly believe I’m forty-four years old and having a college experience. I’m on my first intensive week residency in a very progressive sort of program. In this program at Vermont College of Union Institute each learner picks a faculty member to work with. The learner also picks what they want to learn. Ah, what a wonderful idea for education. Tap into the passion of a person, give them guidance and watch them grow. I know the program sounds new and inventive, but this program has been around for almost forty years.

If the program in itself isn’t stimulating enough, there are all these learners (students) around me that are so impassioned with this past semester projects that they will present throughout the week. I am a newbie, one of only three new people, trying to make my way through the maze of buildings and schedules. I’ll stay here for a week; design a program of study, according to the program is dubbed” twenty-forty-twenty. I have to spend twenty hours a week, write forty papers through the semester and read twenty books as a part of my project. Luckily I’m using my sculpting work as my project, so the actual work won’t take any additional time away from my life. And I’m journaling most of my projects on my web site as well, so I am hoping that will work into the writing portion of the program.

This week I will also watch a hand full of people from this incredible program culminate. I can’t help but envision my own graduation eighteen months from now.

My future is in Vermont, but it is not my only ties to this wonderful “Green Mountain State.” In fact it is amazing that of all places I would choose to go to school I would end up here.

When I was little girl, every year in the spring, usually around Easter my parents would take the long drive to Vermont. Our first leg of the journey was 300 miles from my hometown in Buffalo, New York to Troy, New York where we would spend time at my aunt Bea’s. I loved aunt Bea’s. The meandering creek held my attention for hours. The large pine tree in the neighbors yard held the biggest pinecones I had ever seen.

From Troy, New York Mom and Dad would load us all up into the car and head off for the additional 150 miles to Vermont to see Meme (French for grandmother) and Pepe (French for grandfather). The trip from Troy, New York to Burlington Vermont always held the special attraction of visiting the maple syrup manufacturer. I only remember really getting the grand tour once. When you are six years old watching how the maple syrup is tapped from the trees, poured into huge steaming vats and turned into sweet syrup seemed like magic. As a family ritual, on each of our Vermont trips we always stopped at the maple syrup manufacturers gift shop. Each child, my brother, my sister and myself were allowed to get one thing from the shop. I always bought the same thing- a small rectangular package that contained an entire maple syrup sugar candy family. The joyful family stood glistening at attention under the cellophane wrapper. I watched my brother and sister devour their candies. If I was lucky mom would have bought a small package of maple syrup candy pressed into the shapes of maple leaves and I could taste that sweet sensation, which was preferred by me over moms favorite gift shop item -peanut brittle. I would however leave my little candy family intact for as long as possible, sometimes even the entire trip. They were much too special to eat.

Meme’s house smelled like old people. The thing I remember the most about it was her walk-in pantry. A room filled with cabinets with glass doors that contained canned food of all sorts of pretty colors. I would sit at the table and color in my coloring book while I watched the women bustle about. Every now and then someone would ask Meme, “Where is the…” and this was always followed by Meme’s comment, “… in the pantry.” I would look around the kitchen and though it was a nice size I wonder how my father and his twelve brothers and sisters could all eat at the same time in the same small room.

I thought that when I grew up Vermont would be just a memory, but a few years ago I began to research my family Genealogy. Until six months ago my search ended in all places –Wanooski, Vermont. In my own search I could not get past the five generation that ended in Wanooski. Then upon opening an e-mail that had a subject line that read …Mongeon genealogy, I was able to put all the pieces together. Or should I say a distant cousin was able to put them together. He sent me an old photo and the research that he had done. My great, great, great grandfather was in the bottom row; his was in the top row. This photo was of the generation that came to the United States, to Vermont. The sender of the e-mail gave me the rest of the genealogy all the way back to the sixteenth-century in France.

There seems to be quite a few things in my past that link me to Vermont. Who would have thought my future would be linked there as well. Here I sit in Vermont typing this article at my dorm room at Vermont College of Union Institute. I decided on this college less than two months ago. I know it will be a lot of work, but I am thrilled to be here.

It is hard to believe that at forty-four years of age I am sitting in a dorm room, away from home and in eighteen months after three more residencies, I hope to be graduating. Even though it has been over thirty years since I have been here as a child it still feels familiar. Not only is my past and my roots touching deep within Vermont history, but as the college experiences prompts me to reach higher than I have ever tried to before, this lovely state of Vermont also holds my future.

Bridgette Mongeon is a writer artist and now student of Vermont College of Union Institute. She works and studies in her Houston home.

All written work is copyrighted and cannot be used, whole or impart,
without the written consent of the author.

Houston Tribune
April 2005
Bridgette Mongeon © 2005

It is interesting how inanimate objects and memories of them can reflect the changes that have happened in your life. Finding and having a place to create is imperative to all artists.

There comes a point, especially for a sculptor, when having space outside of your home is not only needed, it is necessary. This was first displayed to me many years ago when I tried to pour a terracotta slip mold in my formal living room that was then dubbed “studio space.” My daughter was all of six or seven at the time. First, let me explain that slip has the consistency of cake batter. This is poured very carefully into a heavy, multiple piece, plaster mold that is securely fastened with rubber bands or straps. The operable word is securely fastened. It was my first time pouring a slip mold, and those straps were not as secure as I would have liked them to be. Brown slip came gushing out of the unsecured crevices, pouring all over the hardwood floor. My daughter looked on in horror as she tried desperately to help me collect what had come out. Both of us were laughing, our hands caked with the batter. I seem to remember that somehow brown splatters ended up on the cream-colored drapes and walls. When it was all done, my daughter in her incredible childlike wisdom that would often blow me away said, “Momma, this seems like something you should pay someone else to do.”

The demise of hardwood floors and drapes were not the only thing that suffered from my lack of an appropriate space. I’ll never forget taking the fax machine in to be repaired. It seemed extremely temperamental and was always breaking down. The service man opened her up and replied, “Lady what are you faxing through here anyway? There is a terracotta dust everywhere.”

It was over 15 years ago that I drove through the Heights area searching for studio space. I would look at old buildings like most women my age would look at a potential boyfriend. My heart would beat a little faster; my gaze would be with longing and desire. I had to be close, see all there was, explore all possibilities of developing a long-term relationship.

I examined many buildings. The old house that used to stand behind the paper mill and the seed bins on Montrose. It was torn down years ago. I examined the clock tower behind Fiesta and the second floor of what was then Grace Equipment. It was an enormous space and a little creepy. Oh, that time of searching was filled with a lot of fence hopping and pleading for audience with property owners.

It was my good friend Harry Shepherd that led me to my present landlord. Apparently both the landlord and I had a fondness for jazz and for Harry’s awesome playing. My landlord Don Shaw was a long time painter and artist of Houston, and he told me about the studio space. It had been his painting studio for years. I could not wait to see a space that might be called my own.

The old shotgun house sat back within the property; no curtains were on the windows, and I could get a good glimpse of the potential space. The fenced yard housed two large oaks that seemed to nestle over the building like a mother bird’s wings over her young. The yard looked ominous with abstract sculptures and found items strategically spread about. Standing along the back fence was a wooden cutout of a figure with what looked like matted hair blowing in the wind. There are also large sharp metal sculptures with piercing pieces threaded through them; these sculptures have a foreboding look of teeth. All of the yard art seem to keep intruders away. People seem to have both an intrigue and a fear of the property.

I was glad to move in to the place and call it my own.

All those years ago, the studio seemed so big, and my daughter seemed so small. I painted the kitchen a salmon color with teal accents and had Christina paint her small palm print and stamp the wall and the door. Intentional drips of alternating colors fell from her delicate little hand.

Chris’ handprints were not the only ones in the studio. Any visitor that I could entice marked the bathroom door; the palm print was always accompanied by a personal signature and message, “May all your dreams come true, let your heart soar, here is to making money with your art” and many more.

So many memories happened at that studio. My daughter would come there with me late at night, shower in the shower, and take a nap on the cot in the kitchen while momma worked. Often we would have First Thursday Art shows always accompanied by a creative endeavor, a creative event that all attendees could participate in. For one show there was “shoot the sheet.” All participants would shoot the hanging sheet with water pistols filled with fabric dye. For another event there were the sculptures of found yard objects. There were paper airplanes at yet another event, and there is still a paper airplane caught in the rafters from that escapade. The mud pie contest never went over big. I was surprised at how many people do not like to get their hands dirty, but there were a few strong contenders for first prize.

There were visiting artists at each show, usually painters that would hang their work on the back wall. Each of us would invite our own set of friends and pitch in for the wine and cheese. My daughter would dutifully monitor the serving table, great hostess that she is.

I think everyone’s favorite event was the upside down Christmas party. Each year I would hang a Christmas tree upside down from the ceiling of the studio. It was strung with lights and the tree skirt was tacked to the ceiling. Every person coming to that art show was asked to hang an ornament on the tree, but it had to be something that was on their person or in their car. Amazingly, we have quite a few Halloween decorations on the Christmas tree. Each year I saved the ones from the year before, except for the few pieces of paper money that were folded into origami patterns. They made a wonderful decoration, but I admit that they were also appreciated for the financial worth by a single mom who was an artist trying to make ends meet.

I have met incredible people at 1048, the relationship of students that would take several articles to report. There were also multiple interviews with reporters. I’ll never forget the day that PBS did the special about me back in 1990. Producer Manny Santos went to all lengths to get exactly what he wanted. He even brought in a smoke machine to give some mystery to the sculptures. The studio was so filled with smoke that we had to exit the building for air as we watched the billowing smoke gush out the door and up to the mothering trees. The special effects apparently worked, for that artist documentary won an award for PBS and Manny Santos.

My dogs, Emmy and Chas, often came with me to the studio. It was a welcome play date for the current neighboring dog that shared the property with their master and myself. There were several of those dogs. Maggie, a black chow, was a fence hopper nothing we could do could stop her. Maggie seemed to come with the property, being adopted by the Mike when the prior neighbors moved out. She is gone, but there is a wonderful marker created by artist Mike Robins in her memory. There was also Nina, a chocolate lab, weimaraner mix. Though she and her master have moved, we still get to see them both and often baby-sit for Nina whenever possible. Then there was Max, a stately black lab, who I am told has a wonderful new home in the country. He too was another fence hopper. Presently it is Coffee, a chow and Violet who is a mutt.

My work has changed, as have the years. My sculptures have gotten larger, and I am happy to say in more demand. The studio has served me well, though it has grown weary with its age, and the dampness seems to affect us both. It now goes the way of the rest of 25th and the Heights. It will soon be scheduled for demolition. Torn down for newer homes. I have watched the back hoes come through tearing down everything in sight, snapping trees like toothpicks and pulling them up from their roots. All in the name of progress. I do hope they save the oak trees at 1048; they must be over 100 years old. It is one thing to move away from a place and be able to come back to it. It is an entirely different thing to see it demolished. I’m sad to see it go. When I move, I will take a few things. I plan on cutting my daughters palm prints out of the sheet rock, taking the hand print door, and keeping Maggie’s memorial.

As sad as change can be, it can also be good. Since that first day of moving in nearly 15 years ago the studio has grown increasingly smaller, and my daughter has grown into a woman. I’m planning my new space and happy to report that there is plenty of work that is already contracted to be created in the space. Remember that six year old little girl who napped and created and played hostess? Her wedding is scheduled for 2007, and I know that not long after that I’ll have other children, grandchildren to entertain and create with in my new studio space.

The space at 1048 West 25th has always been about creating art. I am very blessed to have had it. It is, however, amazing to think of the many, many memories that were also created along the way.

All written work is copyrighted and cannot be used, whole or impart,
without the written consent of the author.

Houston Tribune
January 2005

by Bridgette Mongeon © 2005

I have recently seen the movie Pollyanna, a PBS special. Growing up I had heard of the girl Pollyanna, or the term Pollyanna, but never read the 1913 book by Elanor H. Porter.

I was intrigued by the little girl and her “glad game” that she taught to just about everyone that she came in contact with. In Pollyanna’s words: “Oh, yes; the game was to just find something about everything to be glad about-no matter what ’twas.”

Sometimes the game was not easy, like the first time she played it. She had asked for a doll from the missionary aid and instead received crutches. She decided she could be glad she didn’t need the crutches, and the game began.

More people should play this glad game. In fact, many are professionally trained in the glad game. It might be said of Pollyanna that she was practicing a form of cognitive therapy. Cognitive therapy is basically the idea that feeling follows thought. If we can change our mode of thinking about a life event or about ourselves then we can change the way we feel about it. To help patients with such things as depression, anxiety problems, self-esteem, and anger management, psychologists sometimes use cognitive therapy; many books have been written on the subject, such as Feeling Good by David D. Burns M.D.

Sometimes, in our thoughts about our life or thoughts about ourselves, our thinking becomes distorted. We can ultimately change the way these things affect us by changing our thinking, which will in turn change how we feel.

A psychological concept often used with cognitive therapy is “self talk.” Self-talk is what we say to ourselves as we confront obstacles, make decisions or resolve life problems. This is a normal thinking process for individuals. When our self-talk is negative it can immobilize us and keep us from moving forward. Learning to change negative self-talk into positive self-talk can take some work, but when it is done it can make a world of difference in your personal growth.

The concept of cognitive therapy is not new to me. In fact, intuitively I have been doing it for most of my life. If a friend begins to tell me that they can’t do something I am known to break into that old song: “Just what makes that little old ant, think he can move the rubber tree plant, anyone knows an ant can’t move a rubber tree plant, but he has high hopes …”

Friends often change their own thinking about the situation just to keep from listening to my song.

My cognitive training did not come from a book on psychology or a counselor it came from Sunday school. When I felt I could not do something my Sunday school training said, ” I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” When someone comes to Sunday school and feels unloved or unlovable the Bible tells him he is loved and lovable. People who learn these principles change their thinking, and strive to better themselves. Whether it is through cognitive therapy or spiritual living.

I have often said that one of my favorite songs is from the movie White Christmas. Bing Crosby sings: “ When I get worried and I can’t sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep, and I fall asleep counting my blessings. When my bank roll is getting small, I think of when I had none at all, and I fall asleep counting my blessings.”

And my favorite saying is by Ralph Waldo Emerson. “A man is what he thinks about all day long.”
Mr. Emerson was on the right track. If you think depressed sad and lonely thoughts, or your self-talk is negative, that is exactly what you will be.

Maybe we should take our cues from Pollyanna, Bing Crosby and Ralph Waldo Emerson. There is something to be said about it being “all in your mind.”

For those of you who are still not convinced here are a few more thoughts to ponder.

“No matter where you go or what you do, you live your entire life within the confines of your head.”
Terry Josephson

“A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the
effort.” Herm Albright

“A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.”
Winston Churchill

Bridgette Mongeon is a writer and artist living in the Heights, www.creativesculpture.com

All written work is copyrighted and cannot be used, whole or impart,
without the written consent of the author.

Houston Tribune
December © 2004

The New England Journal of Medicine, June 19,2003 suggests that ballroom dancing may prevent dementia. A group of men and women participated in six hobbies that were considered brain stimulating activities, such as writing, reading, discussions, playing games, crosswords and playing instruments. There were also eleven physical activities like ballroom dancing, and different sports; the 469 participants were studied for 21 years.

During the course of the study, 124 people developed dementia, 61 developed Alzheimer’s, 30 had strokes, and 25 mixed dementia, 8 had other types of dementia.

It was reported that those who took part in the brain stimulating activities had a reduced risk of developing dementia. The only physical activity that showed a reduced risk was ballroom dancing. In fact ballroom dancing scored the highest in both brain stimulating and physically ,stimulating group. It is thought that the old saying, “use it or lose it” applies to the brain stimulating activities. Ballroom dancing has so many brain stimulating elements such as remembering steps, reacting to the partner and hearing the beat that it is mentally challenging.

Because physical activity is important at any age, and brain stimulation may playa part in preventing dementia, ballroom dancing is proven to be a great exercise for both the body and mind.

All written work is copyrighted and cannot be used, whole or impart,
without the written consent of the author.

Houston Tribune October 2004
Bridgette Mongeon © 2004

For the longest time I didn’t understand the entire concept. A mama bird in my back yard, day after day, after day, would fly to and fro gathering little worms for her precious baby birds. It’s a wonder for anyone to see. The feeding of these baby birds I understood, it is the next step in the growth cycle of the bird that had me puzzled. Finally mama gives the baby bird a gentle nudge. “Fly my little darling”.

I sure didn’t understand that concept, until of course I had a teenager in my own home that was about to go to college. My vision of the mama bird has changed a bit. I now envision the mama bird talons firmly placed on the rump of the baby bird pushing the baby bird to fly, who by the way has learned to moan and whine quite loudly, and pay little attention to what mama bird says. In fact the baby, quite irritated that the mama’s beautiful songs now sound like squawking, was ready to fly.

Any parent who has experienced the push and pull of the teenager about to become an “adult” knows what I am saying. I don’t want to sound bitter. I’m just being realistic.

I know from experience. My daughter, the writer of the story “The Rest of my Life” in this month’s Tribune, is the baby bird. I love her to death, but it is definitely time to see her fly. Through the last few months she has worked diligently making money as she wrote about in “A Real Job” July Tribune. The mound of “things I’m taking to college” grew daily. I didn’t understand half of the purchases, but now that I think about it, it was probably more about buying the first things for her own place. We have all been there, in fact, I can remember getting excited over the first can of Comet that I purchased. Sounds funny now, but that was My Comet and was going to be used to clean My toilet. Ahh to be that excited over cleaning supplies.

You should have seen the look on her face, second day in the dorm as she opened her cupboard, to reveal the fresh shelf paper and toiletries. It was priceless! In another cupboard she had all of her plates, and snacks placed perfectly and her coffeepot perched on top of her shelf. The new can opener she tried to use to open the coffee did not work, it must have been one of those dollar items. So that will be one of those things in the next care package.

College life is indeed the beginning of the rest of her life. I can’t wait to see how the experience molds and shapes her. Though she did whine a bit through the summer and we also played a small game of emotional tug of war before she left, she is an incredible young lady with many talents. I know she will do fine. That is the reason I can let go of some of my fear for her spreading her wings. Besides I am most excited about her experiences and the feeling she will get from flying.

As the mama bird sits in the nest watching the first flight I can’t help but ask myself a ton of questions. “Will she remember to study? Will she put her studies above socialization, will she be accountable for the money that she earns, and know that it needs to go to tuition?” The thoughts are endless.

There was little activity after the baby birds flew away, just the mama bird busy cleaning out the nest. I did the same thing, in fact I just finished putting my treadmill in my daughter’s bedroom.

It is a new phase in the life of my husband and I as well. Our focus is more on each other and what we would like to do for our future, maybe we can even travel! Come to think of it, it’s probably the same for that momma bird. That nest in the backyard, that once held those baby birds, is empty. Momma and papa birds have taken a vacation. I said goodbye to them as they headed south.

All written work is copyrighted and cannot be used, whole or impart,
without the written consent of the author.

Houston Tribune
May 2004
Bridgette Mongeon © 2004

Prior to our marrying six years ago, both my husband and liked to dance. Our dancing was of course with different people. Once we married, we tried to dance with each other, but when we did there seemed to be instant tension. I thought, “Maybe a dance class would help.” We signed up for one of those group classes thinking, “This should be fun,” but we both had a mis¬erable time. Though both of us knew how to dance, trying to learn together left us frustrated.

Yvonne, a student who had been taking private instruction for 18 years, introduced me to The Dance Place. I told her about the difficulties that my husband and I were having. I knew we had different ways of learning and that trying to learn together was very frustrating for us both. Maybe we would try to learn just one more time. I wondered if anyone at The Dance Place could help. Yvonne was extremely insightful and understanding. As it turns out, when she first tried to learn to dance, she too had struggled. She recom¬mended Michael Schedler and said he understood learning styles. If anyone could teach us, he could. I would soon find out he had more to teach us than dance.

LEARNING STYLES
Each person has a different learning style, some are auditory learners, some are visual learners, some learn by touch, and others learn intellectually, through patterns. I was aware that the learning styles of my husband and myself were very, very different, but it didn’t really affect us, until it came time to dance. On the dance floor we had to be tolerant of each other’s learning styles, while struggling with our own.

This is probably why we did not do so well in a “group” class. Not only did we have to learn individually but also we had to leave room for the other person. Then there was an entire room of students that would move ahead of us while we were juggling all of the learning.

OUR FIRST CLASS
I was very anxious to try a private class. It was easy to see that Mr. Schedler had a very keen awareness of the learning styles of individuals. He was also able to switch gears throughout our sessions, not only perceiving what one partner was not understanding but redirecting the instructions in a way that each of us could grasp. His talent as a teacher was incredible. At home my husband referred to him as “the mediator, and referee.”

“Most people want to learn to dance, my job is to help them to learn how to overcome their handicap of how they are learning.” States Mr. Schedler. “The teachers job is to find the weakness and to make the partnership work.” I felt a little relieved.

In our first class, Mr. Schedler went over the basics of dance in what seemed like endless detail. I tried to listen to what he was saying, but there seemed to be too many words. A couple of times I thought, “Why is he talking so much? If I don’t move soon he will loose me.” You see my learning style is “feeler.” I learn through the movement. Once I retain the movement in my body, then I have it. These words were not movement. I looked at my husband. He was standing patiently and looked genuinely interested in what the teacher had to say. Later I asked him what he liked about the class; “I like when he went over the basics.” He said, “If I have the parts of things then I can make the connections between the basic parts. I can see it in my head, if I don’t have them I’m lost.” This was the first example of not only how different we are but also of how incompatible our learning styles are of each other. If, in my frustration, I had said something like, “enough, let’s dance” I would have taken away from my husband his opportunity to understand.

I wish I could say I was continually tolerant of my husband’s learning style, but my own learning style kept getting in the way. There was a point in that first class where I did say something. The instructor danced with me demonstrating a part. Then my husband danced with me. The two felt entirely different. I don’t know how they felt different; I just know my body said, “This is different.” I chimed up and said something. I am not sure what the instructor said and he was very polite about it, but my biggest lesson in that first class was “SHUT UP.” Everything inside of me wanted to say, “It is not right, I can feel it’ but I soon learned that the instructor was more than qualified to see the mistakes. As I gave him the opportunity to be the instructor he would very gently guide my husband into the direction and moves that he needed, and he did it using my husband’s way of learning. My husband’s synopsis of the first class and the instruction is that he thought the teacher was very thorough and understanding but most of all, encouraging.

Mr. Schedler said he has never found a student that he couldn’t teach. He did say that he has come across students where their personalities did not mesh with the teachers and he would find another teacher.

In future classes our differences just kept coming out. Both my husband and the instructor chastised me for leading. I didn’t really mean to lead, I knew I shouldn’t, but the desire to do the moves over and over again was so strong. Moving helped me to retain it. Stopping to give my husband time to figure out the pattern fractured my thoughts and seemed to halt my retention. Being reminded to stop moving or leading irritated me, but I tried to be patient. Later Mr. Schedler explained “Intellectual thinkers map out the patterns in their mind. Any kind of doubt in their minds and they get stuck and need to overcome that doubt. They can get stuck on the least little thing. My job is to try and get them to relax and know they can make a mistake. There are no dance police.” My husband later referred to this quote when trying to help me to understand an entirely different aspect of his life, “that’s me,” he said. I have decided I need to remember this about my husband. It may help me to be more patient.

Another aspect of learning to dance is hearing the beats in the music. Sometimes students have a difficult time hearing the rhythm of the music and transferring it into dance. Mr. Schedler explains that with this type of person he will find music with the strongest beat so that the student can learn what to listen for and hear the basic rhythm. He then teaches how to transfer that listening into the movements.

Some students may interpret what the instructor says differently than how he meant it. That is the instructor’s cue to find a different way of saying it. Not louder or more often, as is the case with some instructors, but differently so that the individual can understand it in their own style.

Another learning style is visual learning. Visual learners have an advantage over the feelers and intellectuals. They see what the instructor does and they can transfer it. They may not understand the rhythm but they can copy the patterns.

After our fourth class it was apparent to me that in the past my desire and exuberance about dancing with my husband had added more pressure to him. As Mr. Schedler put it “The one that ‘gets it’ doesn’t mean any harm they just really want to help, however the person on the receiving end just resents it and is frustrated, that is when it is a good idea to have a teacher. The partner on the receiving end won’t want to do it again, they will feel self-conscious and they put up walls of defense. Tearing down those walls can be very difficult, even for a teacher.”

Having our “referee” seemed like the ideal way of learning, but I was concerned about when we were practicing. Mr. Schedler suggests having a controlled environment in which we would practice. And if there are problems, try asking each other “What do you remember him saying?” to see how each remembers it being taught. That did prove to be a little difficult for me; I remembered it in my body. I could tell if it was right or wrong, but to give it a definition in words or remembering what the instructor said was difficult. Mr. Schedler does allow video cameras or tape recorders in his dance class, anything that will help the student learn. He did advise, “If it can’t be worked out then give yourself permission to let it go and seek instruction.” Most of all you must keep it light—dance must be fun.

I couldn’t help but wonder how Mr. Schedler knew so much about learning styles. “I first heard about it after high school. When I began to teach dance I thought about how I could apply learning styles to teaching.” In 22 years of teaching dance he has had some practice. But he says he still tries to figure new ways to teach.

For my husband and I dance class has taught us tolerance and has reinforced the idea that we are very different and that we need to have patience with each other. Our classes have been extremely successful, as our brains are dancing the waltz, foxtrot, swing and salsa, while smiling.

The Dance Place is owned and operated by Michael Schedler and Phillip Stephens. It is located at 3300 Chimney Rock Rd., Suite 500. For more information, call 713-266-0066.

All written work is copyrighted and cannot be used, whole or impart,
without the written consent of the author.