Farewell, Miss Betty

When I was a child, Betty Tillotson’s Kansas City Tap and Musical Comedy Dance Company (say that three times fast) was nestled in the back of a strip mall, with a Chinese restaurant directly in front of it, and a tire shop down the row. I can still to this day hear the pull of the door to the studio when it opened, as it tended to stick a bit. We danced on concrete floors covered in vinyl tiles, something for which my knees are still not forgiving. Most days I would come home smelling like sweat and fried foods. Betty Tillotson was my dance teacher, but she was so much more than that.

My big sister took tap dance classes at Betty’s when she was little, and my mom would haul me with her to the studio each week. I wanted so badly to dance and to take classes, but I was still in diapers. I’ve always been told that taking tap dancing classes with Miss Betty was what sped up my potty training. I don’t know if that’s the true story, but it’s always made me laugh. I danced with Betty from the age of two and a half until I was 18, and then my children danced with her. Not only was she a huge part of my upbringing, my girls have the most fond memories of spending their time in her studio and on the big stage at the Folly Theater in Kansas City. Betty passed away yesterday. She had to be nearing 100 years old.

I think the thing that strikes me about Betty when I think back on the years and years and hours and minutes that I spent in her studio was how far ahead of her time she was. A single, never married woman opened a dance studio in the 1950s. By herself. She maintained this business, which was not only thriving, but a pillar for others in the Waldo community, for decades. Let me repeat that – she did all of this by herself. At a time when other women were staying home and having children, Betty created a tiny dance empire in this city. By herself. I don’t think I really thought about how ahead of her time she was until now.

Betty expected grace. She didn’t expect that you’d be the most amazing dancer in the room, but she expected that you’d have the stage presence and the smile to hide your flaws. It was always an unspoken rule that you were polite and courteous around Betty, and though she loved a good joke, you had to pick your timing. I know this might come as a shock, but I’ve always been a little loud, and I love to laugh and sometimes I would say things at the wrong time that would make Betty say, “weeeelllllll, Kate!!” in only the way she could. If you knew Betty, you’re hearing this in your head. I learned to stand up tall from Betty. To keep my chin up and my shoulders back. I learned the value of a well-placed variation kick line. I danced competitively for years, and I traveled all over the country – and even across the world to Seville, Spain with Betty. I learned from her to be gracious when you don’t win, and to keep smiling and keep dancing even when your hat falls off, or you fall flat on your face. Both of which happened to me on more than one occasion. Honestly that’s probably a good metaphor for how to do life.

Betty was an enormous part of my upbringing. She taught me as much about how to be a kind and gracious human as she did about doing a double time step or a pull back. Betty introduced me to Broadway musicals, to vaudeville, and to the amazing Arthur Duncan, who was a dear friend of hers. Arthur taught many a class at Betty’s studio and just last week I was sharing video of him from Lawrence Welk with my girls. Betty had an affinity for a simpler time. She chose music for us from the 1940s and 50s even though we were dancing in the 1980s and 90s. We thought it was sometimes a little strange. She didn’t like costumes that were too showy, or music that was too loud. I think we taught Betty some about things she wasn’t comfortable with, too.

When I think about Betty and the legacy she leaves in Kansas City, I can’t help but to think about the hundreds if not thousands of little girls who passed through her studio over the last several decades. If you danced in this city, even if you didn’t take classes from her, you knew Betty. The amount of people she connected with along her journey is incredible, and such a tribute to who she was. Who can ask for more than a very long life full of smiles and dance? I’m certain that Betty arrived in heaven yesterday to be greeted by her parents and her best friend (also Betty). I hope that she drank a Manhattan, and then strapped on her high heeled tap shoes and began to teach time steps to a new group of friends.

Quarantine Quinceanera

Dear Lucy,

I had no idea when I wrote your sister’s birthday letter just over a month ago, that we’d still be hunkered down here at home in late May. I had no idea that you wouldn’t get to finish your freshman year with your friends, and that we would be celebrating yet another “quaranteen” birthday at home. In a lot of ways, this time together has been good for us. You have slept more than you ever would have if school was in session and you were leaving the house at 6:45am! We’ve watched movies, you helped me with clearing out the basement and painting it. Well…you helped a little with that stuff! You’ve had time to work on school stuff and have not been on a strict schedule. You’ve played video games, worked on wigs for HOURS at a time, and even had Zoom calls with your friends. Isn’t it weird to think that we’d barely even heard of Zoom a few months ago? Does it suck to not be able to see your friends and hang out, and do regular end-of-school stuff? Of course. But you, my dear, not surprisingly, have taken this all in stride. 

At fifteen, you are at once a complete grown up, and still my sweet little girl. I’m sure that’s likely embarrassing to hear, but there are times that I look at you and I can still see the curly haired, lisping child you once were. Some nights you still climb into my bed and we laugh and talk. I am so thankful for those moments. Maybe you don’t know how much that time helps my heart, but it does. On the other hand, sometimes I see you and I hardly recognize the woman you’ve become. You are nearly as tall as I am, and you have a poise and togetherness about you that I do not recall possessing at fifteen. I’m not even sure I possess it now, at almost 45. I have loved watching you navigate your freshman year at Lincoln. I know it’s not ending in the way you’d have liked, but it’s made me incredibly proud that you’re doing so well there and you seem to be learning the important things that only an education at Lincoln could teach you: equity, making friends with an incredible variety of people, and accepting people who don’t look like you or come from the same place you do. To me, all the academic stuff comes in a close second to the life lessons I’m watching you learn there.

This year has come with an abundance of change for you: new school, new house, new blended family, and that was all before this global pandemic came and put our lives to a screeching halt. I’m so proud of the ways that you’ve handled all of this. It’s not that it hasn’t come with it’s fair share of crap – it has. And I know that stuff isn’t always as easy as you make it look. But you’re willing to talk about it, and open up about it, and you’re willing to ask for help when you need it. I hope you can hold onto that as you get older. There is nothing at all wrong with asking for help or admitting when you’re overwhelmed. It took me a very long time to learn that, and I STILL have trouble asking for help. It’s not a weakness to ask. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

This year has also maybe been the hardest for me in terms of parenting the two of you girls. You’re both teenagers now, and there’s a funny dance that I’ve found myself doing with the two of you – and more often with you, because you’re just that much older. It’s the little two step of sharing my opinions with you, but also shutting my mouth enough to let you form your own opinions. It is the constant pull of loving someone so much that you could literally eat them up, but also letting go enough so that you may grow into your own person. It’s biting my tongue and letting you figure things out on your own, and that is so hard for me sometimes. I want to give you the things that I didn’t have as a teen with my mom. I want us to have the kind of relationship where you can tell me anything at all, but also where you don’t NEED to tell me things, if that makes sense. I want to be the mom who you want to come talk to late at night, but I don’t want that to ever feel forced or not genuine. I want to have the kind of mother daughter relationship with you that continues into your adulthood – and doesn’t just stop when you’re 18 because you’re suddenly grown up, which is how mothering was done to me. I want to continue celebrating year after beautiful, hard, lovely year with you because I am just so very proud to be your mom. Happy birthday, little Lucy B. I sure do love you.