I watched a lot of Sesame Street when I was a little girl. A LOT. I still know most of the lyrics to the songs. My mother was arguably more upset by Joe Raposo’s passing than she has been at many family funerals. The year I was six was the best year ever because I was the same age as Big Bird.
We would sing and dance to most of the songs, of course, but the one that five-year-old me was crazy into was the Peanut Butter Factory song.
Oh. Did I love that song.
In the Sesame Street clip, there is a little Asian girl who is incredibly talented (we found out later that those kids were actually from the American Ballet School or someplace that grows talented children in petri dishes until they are needed on public television.
I? Am not Asian. Am not gifted with the dance. A major part of why I had to drop gymnastics was because they made me take ballet twice a week. Ick.
Five-year-old me was not informed of this, however, and, dammit, she would DANCE. I did the little running under the table move, the knee thing, the counter thing. ALL OF IT.
Fifteen years later, my mom is still laughing at the memory of my uncoordinated white self doing the peanut dance.