2009 Edmund Jones Essay
My Life in Swarthmore
By Jane Brendlinger
BROWN UNIVERSITY
My heart beat frantically as I crouched backstage near a small curtained door. Though warm and sweaty in a leotard and frilly pantaloons, I felt like a grown-up girl of six, with dots of rouge on my cheeks and a coat of hot pink lipstick. The music neared my familiar cue, and I mentally prepared for my entrance as third in line in a row of pastel tutus. A moment later, I was ushered under a voluminous hoop skirt, sliding past the legs of Mother Ginger. I burst through the fabric, and with a gap-toothed grin and a wave of my arm, I made my Swarthmore Ballet debut in The Nutcracker as a five-year-old Ginger child.
My passion for the arts, I maintain, found its origins in this strange dance. Mother Ginger, or so the illusion of theater has the audience believe, keeps all of her children, about a dozen or so, under her dress at all times. When Clara and the Nutcracker Prince tour the Land of Sweets, Mother Ginger lets her kids out for a little breather before ushering them quickly back underneath her bustle. Though seemingly ridiculous, this small role in The Nutcracker meant a lot to a five year old: the chance to perform, an introduction to classical music, a newly born love of story. I gave up ballet years after my Ginger child stint, but the artistic enthusiasm that blossomed beneath Mother Ginger’s skirts stuck with me.
Luckily, Swarthmore has proved itself an artistic goldmine. Eleven years ago, I began piano lessons with teacher Donna Kay Croddy, just a quick walk away. In that time, Mrs. Croddy has become both a fantastic mentor and a dear friend, helping me get through Mendelssohn as well as my last breakup. At SRS, I was awestruck by the musical instrument presentation in 3rd grade. I heard the delicate tremor of the violin, and I knew I wanted to play. Thus I met Adrian L’Armand of Dickinson Avenue, Australian violinist extraordinaire, who taught me the subtleties of strings peppered with anecdotal life lessons.
It was in Swarthmore, too, that I found my zeal for the written word. In elementary school, I took a creative writing class from Swarthmorean Joanne Sutton-Smith, rooting me firmly in the world of poetry. The school system was a writer’s haven (no pun intended). As I got older, I took advantage of all the opportunities for writing I could find, and there were many: Young Playwrights at the middle school, creative writing classes at the high school. I was lucky enough to find a mentor in Emily Farrell, my high school English teacher, and her guidance has brought to life my dram of a career in writing.
After 18 years of growing up in Swarthmore, I find my upcoming departure for college bittersweet. What I leave behind is an oasis, a town with not only a renowned school system and my pizza joint of preference, but the kind of place where neighbors will converse on the sidewalks at dusk, where you can walk to the Co-op for that extra egg that’s missing from the recipe. Most of all, I will miss my friends, those girls I’ve known since pre-school, the friends who suffered and rejoiced with me from first dates to calculus. Though it will be hard to say good-bye to my only home, I find comfort in the fact that I bring bits of Swarthmore with me: its music, its writing, its wisdom. My Swarthmorean passion for art, I hope, will put me in good stead for college, and for the rest of my life. Only one question remains: how much for a Renato’s out-of-state delivery?