Life With Mother Superior by Jane Trahey

walk ing—getting to and from chairs with a certain amount of ease—we couldn’t understand what more she could teach us about walking, but dancing was another kettle of fish. We all wanted terribly to learn to do the Big Apple and the Carioca. Even though it seemed un likely that Mother Superior wanted us to do the Carioca, we were excited.
    “Now, since our program is very crowded for this semester, I have decided to give up two study periods and let the seniors learn to dance.” She looked at us and smiled. “If all goes well, Mrs. Phipps promises an exciting program for all of you in June.”
    “Mrs. Mabel Dowling Phipps,” Mother said, holding out her hand. Mrs. Phipps came forward and danced around Mother Superior. I don’t think Mother Superior quite expected this and looked a little embarrassed.
    “Oh, my darlings, I know we will have the most graceful-looking group. Now”—and she grabbed Lil lian—”let me see you dance.” Lillian almost passed out with embarrassment.
    “That’s all right, my love, I’ll see to it that you are the best of them all.” It was obvious to all of us that Mrs. Phipps was not only a dancer, but one fine sales lady. Mother Superior smiled graciously and left the room. I had only seen her smile three times, and obviously Mrs. Phipps either owned the mortgage on the school or she was a practitioner of hypnosis.
    “Now, my darlings, I’m going to ask you all to write home and ask for ten dollars for your costumes.”
    “What will they look like?” we begged. I hoped it would be sequined.
    “That’s a surprise. Next time we meet, have your ten dollars.”
    And she was gone.
    My father sent a sarcastic note to Mother Superior about costumes. Obviously, she had received a good many of them, as she delivered one of her “I’m trying to prepare her for a gracious life” answers. We all had our ten dollars ready for Mrs. Phipps.
    She took them and was gone—but before she went, she said, “Today, I want you all to just walk up and down the gymnasium, pretending you are a leaf . . . a leaf that is just drifting down from a tree. First you flutter,” and she shook her arms in fluttering move ments, “now, quietly, you descend to your death. You have left your Mother Tree and you are dying. You get weaker and weaker” (and she got weaker and weaker), “and now, finally, you return from whence you came.” She was now writhing on the gymnasium floor. For writhing, she wore khaki-colored tights with a sleeve less overblouse and soft dancer’s shoes. As she writhed, we gathered around her, fascinated. I could hardly wait to writhe. I fell to the floor almost instantly.
    “No, no,” she shouted. “You have to come down from your Mother Tree,” she admonished me, “never just do the end.”
    We adored Mrs. Phipps and looked forward to the hour. It was pure insanity and we had nothing like it. We fluttered and fell, we rocked with laughter, we imitated her; it was heaven. Was it possible that Mother Superior realized how much fun Interpretive Dancing was? Our initial saddened mood over not learning more up-to-date dances was dispatched by Mrs. Phipps’ moods. She flew into class much as Peter Pan did, only she didn’t have invisible wires. Actually, I think she might have had some form of levitation, as she could actually stay up in the air quite some time, her little body fluttering, her legs wildly flailing the air.
    When our costumes arrived, we must have looked quite terrible, for Mrs. Phipps tried to adjust some of them. They were khaki-colored togas over khaki- colored leotards, and we wore sandals with our toes hanging out, and little laurel wreaths in our hair.
    “You’re all too fat—too, too fat!” she wailed. “Just look at you.” We all looked down at our protruding stomachs and our just budding bosoms. All in all, it was no corps de ballet.
    “I’m going to speak to Mother about your diet.”
    And she did. School food is institution food. Anything