My parents never made home movies so it was a delight when my cousin Steve Dumont discovered some that his dad, my uncle Paul, took during a 1958 visit to our Long Island home. It is a precious artifact. I am about 10 years old, and the movie captures me playing the piano. There is no sound, but you can tell that I’ve memorized a piece and that my fingers are working the keyboard.
In another scene, all the kids are dancing in a circle with my mom as choreographer. At first it’s not exactly clear what we are doing but then, despite the lack of sound, the signs are unmistakable. We are doing the Hokey Pokey. We are putting various parts of ourselves in the circle and then we turn ourselves around.
It suddenly occurred to me that doing the Hokey Pokey is a pretty good metaphor for becoming a writer. First it takes a little rhythm. Then you have to learn the name and the order of the parts. You repeat a pattern, but every repetition ups the ante, until you are asked to put your whole self in. Call it style or voice or authenticity, but in the end that’s where the best writing comes from, from that moment when we put our whole selves in.
A musician from Idaho named Larry LaPrise is credited with writing the novelty song “Do the Hokey Pokey,” recording it in 1949. The song became a national hit in 1953 when Ray Anthony and His Orchestra recorded it, with jazzy vocals by Jo Ann Greer and the Skyliners. And get this: “Hokey Pokey” was the B-side. Flip that vinyl over, cats and kittens, and dance to “The Bunny Hop.”
According to the three-minute Ray Anthony version, the song has ten parts: right foot, left foot, right arm, left arm, right elbow, left elbow, head, right hip, left hip, whole self, backside, and finally, Hokey Pokey. This original order surprises and delights me. It begins predictably with feet and arms, but the elbows offer a surprise. The head makes a cerebral appearance, followed by the sanitized booty shaking of the 1950s, with hips, the whole self, and backside. You would think that backside would precede the whole self, but perhaps a nice display of buns, hon, is more important than self-actualization.
(As an occasional musician, I must admit to playing this number more than once at a party or dance and succumbing to the temptation to spice it up a bit:Â “Put your right cheek in” or even “Put your right tush in.”)
The experts say that the reason to introduce young children to music is that it teaches them spatial reasoning skills, crucial to the study of math. But there is spatial reasoning in the organization of a story as well. It begins with empty space of course, the blank page or screen. By the time the space is filled, the story will have parts, at least a beginning, middle, and an ending.
But there may be more parts, perhaps as many as ten, like the Hokey Pokey. A story is often more enjoyable and comprehensible if the reader can perceive the parts, making predictions on what will come next. There is pleasure when those predictions are fulfilled, but also when they are frustrated, in a good way, with a surprise.
So after you’ve put in your right arm, you might guess that the left arm is coming. And after the arms, come the legs. But elbows are just funny. And so are backsides. “Backside” is a great way to end a song or a story. So, writers, jump in the circle and devote yourself fully to your craft. In fact, put your whole selves in — even your backsides.
