“Be a Man” by Gregg LeFevre
Copyright 2020
If I hadn’t blown my violin recital, I never would have wound up at the slaughterhouse on my 11th birthday. Plain and simple.
When it came to teaching his son how to be both masculine and sensitive, my father was a big thick coin with two sides: heads: he taught me to be a man, speak my mind, never take abuse from anyone, never be afraid, fight when necessary and enjoy as many women as you could along the way, and tails, he encouraged me to be creative, to make art, play the violin, enjoy poetry and writing, and always be a gentleman who respectfully enjoyed the company of women.
Up until my recital, he jumped back and forth between these two teachings: However after that watershed event his lessons leaned almost exclusively toward the “manly” side of the equation.
The Violin
My whole career as a violinist which started in third grade, began because my grade school didn’t have enough saxophones. At the beginning of the school year kids could sign up for music lessons and be given an instrument on loan, I set out to sign up for a saxophone. Unfortunately there were only 3 saxes available, and by the time I got to the head of the line, they were all gone, so I let the music teacher, Mr Madden, talk me into taking a violin.
I was unaware that the violin was considered by most of my young friends to be a sissy’s instrument - a girl’s instrument. I was initially intrigued by the violin that I received on loan, because of both the beauty of the instrument itself, and all of the interesting accessories that came with it. How could the violin which included a bow made out of horse tail and strings made from the guts of a cat - not to mention big perforated F holes - possibly be a sissy's instrument? But sadly, I was told I was wrong. It became clear to me that in masculine culture, playing the violin was a feminine enterprise and I could never quite shake that idea myself.
The Recital
After several years of my taking lessons from Mr Madden, which involved practicing an hour or two every day, my teacher decided that I had talent He then approached my parents with the idea that I play a solo performance at the school's annual springtime music recital. My parents were both very pleased, and they said yes..
The idea made me nervous, but my Dad seemed excited by the venture and pressured me to do the concert so I eventually agreed, and soon there after, the horror of the situation set in. The thought of standing center stage in front of an auditorium filled with the whole student body of my school and their parents made my blood run cold.
During the three months when I was rehearsing Frederich Seitz’s Violin Concerto #5 in D Major with my pianist, whenever I felt carefree or was enjoying myself, the specter of the recital would suddenly rear its ugly head and gnaw at the pit of my stomach,
The rehearsals themselves however were going well enough. I was definitely mastering the music, but I still knew down deep that once I walked out on that stage, no matter how well rehearsed I was, anything could happen. So I developed a plan to cope with different scenarios: First, I knew I would have to wear a jacket and tie that would make me sweat profusely under the stage lights, so I found a very lightweight shirt to wear. Secondly, I knew that my fingers would get sweaty and my left hand would stick when moving up and down the strings on the neck of the violin. So I planned to place an envelope full of talcum powder in my left side jacket pocket. Thirdly I worked out a plan with my pianist that, should I freeze with stage fright at any point, then we would both go back to the beginning of the section that I was playing at the time I stopped, and we’d start again together from there.
While all these plans helped a little, I still hadn’t really dealt with the stage fright itself. What could I do to master that? I considered wearing a sleeping mask so that I couldn’t see the dreaded audience, but that would of course be ridiculous. Then upon hearing my mask idea, a friend who’s dad was an optometrist, suggested that I dilate my pupils which would have the same effect as the mask but no one would know it. He promised to procure a small bottle of the drops from his fathers’ medical office. He told me that the dilation would cause my vision to become very blurred, the effect that I was after, but he also cautioned about severe light sensitivity, so I should bring along a pair of sunglasses just in case.
I was so desperate for a quick fix that I completely embraced this plan without thinking it through in any way whatsoever. The fact that I had a concrete plan was so necessary and reassuring, that it immediately lessened my fear in anticipation of the recital. I thought that everything was now under control and I could relax until the cursed event.
On the day of the recital, things got off to a shaky start: first my new very light weight shirt didn’t fit right underneath my new dark blue jacket, and so my mother and sister figured out a way to use paper clips to cinch it in so that the front laid flat. As the whole family drove to the recital, everyone was trying to be supportive and in good spirits while I sat frozen with fear in the back seat, with my tie pulling at my neck and the paper clips digging into my sides.
When we arrived at the school, between my blurred vision setting in and the nerves that had stiffened my body, I could barely make my way into the building. My dad had to keep me moving forward and as he walked me all the way through the stage door of the school's auditorium he whispered sharply:
“ What’s wrong with you boy?”
Once inside the backstage area, my vision really started to go. I could sense in a blurry way that my accompanist was also putting on a happy face, but I soon I realized to my horror that she was struck with stage fright as well, particularly when we both peaked through the side edge of the curtain, and she whispered that the house was completely packed. I could just barely make out the audience as a sort of pointilist abstract painting with lots of moving parts.
The principal of the school welcomed everyone and made his thank you’s, then he introduced me, I was still standing in the wings and my heart started racing full speed while my body became even more numb with fear. As the audience applauded my entrance, I stuck my head tentatively through the back stage curtain and as I hesitated, the first titters from the audience could be heard. I guess some people thought that I was trying to be funny. I finally came out and tried to feel my way along the rear curtain, but the overhead stage lights were so bright, I could hardly see at all. Again more titters. I could just make out the Steinway Grand Piano at center stage because it was large and black and it became a good reference point, so I let go of the rear curtain and made a halting rush toward the piano.
My pianist moved quickly to one end of her bench so as to avoid me colliding with her. Once I’d arrived, I was comforted by the piano's solid feel and decided it would provide stability while I put on my sunglasses to protect against the overhead stage lights. The problem was that in my panicked state I had no idea where they were, I tried my front left jacket pocket: No sunglasses there, but I managed to cover my hand with an ample coating of talcum powder, and then spread it all over my jacket as I systematically searched for my glasses. The last place that I looked was my inside breast pocket and there they were. When I pulled them out and put them on, there was a scattering of applause and I thought I recognized my sister’s voices amidst the laughter. I now continued to feel my way around the curving front of the grand piano which seemed endless. I could make out where my music stand was, and it was there that I released my grip on the piano and attempted to stand on my own.
When the house lights dimmed I had to take off my sunglasses because now I couldn’t see anything at all except total blacknesses. I took a couple of audible deep breaths, the pianist tapped out the beat and we began. The audience's relief that the concert was finally underway was almost palpable. Given all that had transpired, it wasn't a bad beginning - we were a little out of alignment at first, but her expertise as accompanist saved the moment and off we went in unison.
The beginning section of the Concerto was somewhat fast and furious, (the sheet music notations said “fortissimo” after all,) and as a result, my palm and fingers sweated up quickly. Because the talcum powder that I had inadvertently applied had wiped off in my search for the glasses, when I shifted positions, my hand began to stick, which precipitated complete panic mode once again and I came to a full stop, as did the piano shortly there after. Now the titters began again. But instead of backtracking to the beginning of that section, as planned and as she did, I went back to the very beginning of the Concerto. There was a brief period of dissonance, when some outright laughs came from the audience and then we halted again. Next she went back to the very beginning of the Concerto while I now jumped ahead to the beginning of the section where I first got lost, and again cacophony rained supreme. Now the audience gave up any pretense of politeness and roared, at which point all I could think to do was to flee the auditorium. I stumbled headlong toward the back left of the stage, had a little tussle with the rear curtain, which made people laugh so hard they were crying, then extricated myself, and got off stage. I was briefly night blind in the darkened backstage area where I roughly cast aside my violin on a work table. Then out the emergency exit I went, stumbled into the adjacent alleyway and hid between two dumpsters.
It was so bright outside that I immediately regretted leaving my sunglasses behind. I could still hear the sound of laughter from inside the auditorium.Then they actually started enthusiastically applauding and I thought I could even hear some calls for an encore. The whole fiasco was so overwhelming that I started to cry. There between the dumpsters I wept and whimpered a while longer, then finally got a grip just as my oldest sister was running by and I called out to her.
While my dad drove the car without saying a word the whole ride back, my mom suggested that we we all go out for ice cream, which I absolutely vetoed for fear we would run into someone who had been at the concert. Upon arriving home, I went to my room and closed and locked my door. As I sat on my bed musing about the whole disaster, my only consolation was the thought that I was certainly a tough act to follow. With that thought a flicker of a smile crossed my face.
Several times during the evening my sister and mom knocked and inquired about how I was doing.. I think that they were actually on a suicide watch. There were no knocks from my father though, and that evening marked the sad point where the liberal and sensitive side of my dad’s lessons ceased forever.
My Birthday Present
Two months after that, the whole family headed out to my parents home town of Buffalo. It wasn’t planned but we would be in Buffalo for my birthday, and so my paternal grandfather set up a special birthday surprise for me: I would get to drive a brand new NY Central Railroad locomotive by myself, with just him on board. I was overjoyed at that prospect. The romance of the rails loomed large in the boyhood pop culture of that time. Like many boys, I had a full Lionell model electric train set up on a big table in my basement. Now I would get the pilot the real thing .
My Dad said he wasn't going to take part in my birthday outing with my grandfather, and I didn't think much about it.
My grandfather was not a very nice guy. I guess dour might be the single word that described him best. Standing at 5 feet 5 inches, he was anything but an imposing figure, and he looked just like Edward G Robinson, a popular character actor of the time who often played tough guys or villains. He rarely smiled and had a rather stiff formal relationship with my grandmother. The reason that he had access to a locomotive was that he was the New York Central Railroad’s claims adjuster for all of Western New York State, which gave him a large network of associates and people who owed him favors.
We got into his large new car and headed for the rail yard in silence. On the way he informed me that we had to make a stop before hand because he had something he wanted to show me. I was so excited I thought the stop might be another adventure as well. Driving through a section of town with lots of small shabby industrial buildings and storage yards, we came to a stop by a low brick building on the railroad tracks where a few men were herding some very cute little caves down a ramp with wood slat railings. The men knew my grandfather and he said hi to everyone. I was fascinated by all the little calves heading down the ramp. I had never been this close to any farm animals. One of the men was nice enough to stop the calves so that I could pet one of them, which I did with a big grin on my face, touching his big flat wet nose, and giggling when he licked my outstretched hand, which tickled. Then my grandfather ushered me into the building. As soon as we rounded the corner we came to a very big rugged man who was roughly up ending each calf and running a big sharp metal hook through their rear thigh. I was horrified, then stunned. The squirting blood, and the high pitched bellows coming from the terrified calves overwhelmed me. I froze but my grandfather pushed me forward. The next man in the line was slicing open each of the little animals' throats as they writhed in pain and swung along the wheeled hooks on the rail above.. I turned away and closed my eyes, burying my face against my grandfather's waist. He grabbed me by the soldiers and spun me back toward the horror.
“When you eat a steak or a hamburger, this is where it comes from.”
As I sobbed he continued,
“Don’ t cry boy. Be a man. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
I struggled to turn away again but he would let me.
“Open your eyes and look” he said as he shook me by my shoulders.
“This is the real world, now you look at it.”
The other slaughterhouse workers laughed, as they proceeded with their deadly jobs. The smell of the place was overwhelming.
When I finally did look around, all the men in the big room were watching me, and many were smiling. One of them called out:
“Be a man, kid.”
My ordeal wasn’t over yet. I numbly followed my grandfather around another corner into a bigger room where there were full sized cows bellowing and screaming everywhere Then we were greeted by a couple big burly slaughterhouse workers, wearing stained and slimy aprons who had prepared a special treat for me. They turned away, both leaned down and then hoisted a huge, bloody severed bull's head which they turned and dangled in front of my face. As blood dripped from the entrails hanging from its neck, tears streamed down my face. It seemed they had prepped the head just for me, using a knife to cut away the bull’s upper and lower lips, locking a hideous grin on the dead creature's face.
They were both struggling to keep the heavy head aloft, as one of them called out in a strained voice: “Grow up and stop crying.”
It was all just too much and I wrenched myself free from my grandfather and rushed for the door and the safety of his car.
I sat in the passenger seat quietly weeping and waiting until my grandfather came out. He started the car and then we silently drove away. Finally he spoke up:
“Now you get your reward for being a real man.”
He pulled the car over some railroad tracks and parked in front of a row of freight cars. I was still stunned but I had so looked forward to this moment, that I pulled off the kind of emotional transformation that only a young child can, smiling through my tears. I again followed my grandfather to a small group of men, this time gathered by a new spotless idling locomotive, steam hissing and rising from its wheels while all sorts of metallic noises emanating from within.
“Go ahead, young MAN” he said, strongly accenting the word man, “Climb up”
The locomotive had a narrow metal steel runged ladder, which was not at all easy to climb but I was determined to succeed. Inside the new cabin there was a dashboard of sorts, with a few simple levers and throttles, gauges, and knobs and small adjustment wheels. My grandfather showed me what to do, and then with a little shutter, the huge machine started to slowly inch forward, with me at the controls. My elation had now completely overcome my stunned state, and as we got up a head of steam and started to accelerate my grandfather put a new engineer's cap on my head.
He said:
“You can keep this as a souvenir. As we accelerated even further, he told me to pull down on the swaying cord that hung from above, When I did there was a glorious blaring blast that echoed off the passing buildings and bridges.
“Go ahead, boy, pull it again. Pull it as many times as you want, you earned it. “
I couldn't have been happier.
When we got back to my grandfather's house, I don’t think that my mom or sisters or grandmother knew anything about the special stop we had made on the way to the locomotive ride. Everyone except my dad and grandfather was all smiles as they inquired about my train ride. Then they presented me with my birthday cake and I made a wish and blew out the candles. Before I could open my presents however, my father and grandfather headed out to a bar down the street - After all, they had already given me my present.
My father never ever mentioned the slaughterhouse or the violin to me again for the rest of his life.
My relationship with my Dad was never the same. I did continue to play the violin, but his attitude towards the whole endeavor, and to me in general had changed.
When I look back now across a lifetime, I can’t help cataloguing the before’s and after’s of my recital.
Before the recital he taught me how to ask a girl to dance when all the other guys were leaning up against the wall with their hands in their pockets,
After the recital it was more like how to throw a solid punch in the nose, just at the outset of a fight when the other guy was starting to push and shove.
Before the Recital: He never tired of telling me stories about the exotic places he had traveled to as a merchant marine sailor when he was younger, particularly those in India and Egypt.
After the recital: His stories of this type were almost exclusively from World War 2, and more often than not involved death and destruction.
Before the recital He kept a big unabridged dictionary downstairs in the house for easy access and was forever looking up colorful words.
After the recital He started to keep a loaded Smith and Wesson wrapped in a rag under the driver’s seat of the car, also for easy access.
Before the Recital he coached me on how to call a girl for a date, and how not to push too hard when it came to kissing or petting.
After the recital: His one and only sex education lesson came when he threw down a package of condoms, with the commandment: “If you get a girl pregnant, I will absolutely make you marry her, even if she doesn’t want to....so don’t get anyone pregnant.”
There are so many things that I missed about my father’s former self: The reader, the writer, the raconteur, the poet and joke teller and most of all, the teacher. These sides of him were gone forever.