A Fly on the Wall : On Entitlement by Rachelle Allen |
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June 19, 2017 My husband feels the incident I'm about to describe happened because it was predicated on a snafu with an impending wedding --the knee-jerk catalyst for hysteria. Myself, I am equally certain that, regardless of the event, the scene in question would have escalated to the same unconscionable proportion it did, because the party in question was rife with spoiled brats: i.e. The Uber-Entitled. The Setting: A lovely chapel on a college campus where, between the hours of 3:00 and 8:00 p.m., seventy-seven piano students were scheduled to practice on the glossy concert grand in preparation for their Recital on it four days later. The Conflict: At 4:30, a frantic Mother-of-the-Bride approaches the lip of the stage to say that, although she sees my reservation on the schedule, there's been a mistake. Her daughter's wedding rehearsal is supposed to be scheduled here from 5:30 to 6:30. Phase One: "Is there some way we can work this out?" she asks with class and kindness and the utmost diplomacy. I assure her there probably is and ask if she could check back at 5:10. In the meantime, I tell her, I'll hurry things along as best I can. She smiles warmly and offers a genuine "thank you." Phase Two: Five minutes later, the groom and his mother barrel down the aisle to the lip of the stage and suggest that, surely, there is another piano "somewhere on this campus" we can use for our rehearsal so the bridal party can use the chapel, unimpeded. I explain that the purpose of our rehearsal is to become familiar with the piano that's going to be used for the upcoming recital. This causes the Mother-of-the-Groom to roll her eyes in utter contempt and exasperation. Her son tells me, "This. Is. UNACCEPTABLE!" He goes on to explain that recitals occur all the time, whereas this wedding is a once-in-a-lifetime event. I smirk and call the next student to the stage, turning my back on Groomzilla and his mommy. Phase Three: After a fifteen-minute reprieve, the groom's mother and two of her cronies storm the stage, standing just inches behind my student who is playing her extremely difficult piece masterfully. Their arms are folded, and they are tapping their feet to show their well-earned impatience. I pseudo-ignore them, my eyes lasered on my student's sheet music, until the moment that one of the interlopers actually juts her cell phone into my line of vision and informs me, "This is THE DEAN on the line, and she would like to speak with you." Conclusion: Some people --and there seem to be more and more of them with each passing day (or are they just more shameless than ever because they have an audience on Social Media?)-- have absolutely no concept of not getting what they want. "Compromise" does not even whisper at the edges of their soul. To them, a compromise means they get what they want and too bad for anyone standing in their way. Diplomacy is as obsolete as snail mail. And gentility is found --with the exception of the bride's lovely mother-- only in the dictionary. Vindication: They did get to use the chapel for a bit in order to insure that they could master the challenge of walking in a line behind each other on The Big Day. But I'm the one who will live happily ever after because I got to watch the lucky girl who was marrying that catch of a lifetime come down the aisle. And I also got to hear what she had chosen as her entrance song: The Theme to Jurassic Park. I kid you not. As I stood at the back of that glorious chapel, incredulous, basking in the irony of it all, I heard a voice from above whisper to me, "You're welcome."
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Rachelle Allen
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