In the first phase of my life, elementary school to high school, if you asked anyone about me in my school or neighborhood how to describe me or my interests, after reporting that I was one of a handful of black (now African-American) kids, they would tell you that I loved to dance. Danced all the time. Ballet, tap, jazz, Russian character, the hustle, the bump, whatever 70s and 80s style dances were available to watch on Soul Train, I was about it. I didn't just love it, I was good at it. Enough that my dance teacher asked my parents to come in and speak with her one afternoon to tell them that she could set up some appointments for me in the city with a couple of dance schools/companies, should I (they) be interested. They assured her (and me) that I (they) were not. I'd convinced myself that there could be no life for me in dance. That dancers could not make a living, that I was smart and should do something that smart people do like go to college and study and write papers and get a good job that paid good money which is what a contributor to society did. I always felt that I gave in too eagerly and too quickly. I'd given up something that I loved more than I'd loved anything because I was afraid. Because I was doubtful that I could ever be that good at anything.
The dance school was small time, but we lived big in our dreams. We watched endless ballets, studied choreography. Michael Jackson's Beat It, which finally had its chance on MTV, just blew my mind open. Seeing all those dancers, not just ballerinas, but dancers with all different body types, strong men and women, combining their training with improvised street styles moving in all kinds of way to different rhythms and using their bodies like instruments of sound and movement got me so wound up I often moved my body in my sleep. I danced all night in my dreams. I cannot say, really, with any certainty that I would have made a great professional dancer, but I did love it and before I found my voice, which happened in my late teens and early twenties, I felt that dance was one of the only ways for me to communicate in a way that was honest and real and true.
Then came college and a strict education in visual arts--drawing, painting, studio techniques, sculpture, ceramics, anatomy, printmaking--and a life of movement seemed worlds away. I have not been good at allowing myself the space to work in all media at once. Some call if focused, others obsessive, but I have a hard time switching from one area to the next, feeling that I am not committing enough to just one discipline. It was the same trying to learn Spanish after learning passable French. I just could not separate the two languages and ultimately had to give up one. I gave up French to learn Spanish and then when I met my French hubby, gave up Spanish to relearn French.
Once a dancer, always a dancer. I love to move. Watching dancers, I sit up high in my seat moving along with them, marking their movements and feeling the music inside of me as though I were actually moving. I love the freedom that movement gives my spirit and have found that in the greatest moments of depression, I hold myself rigidly so as not to let that freedom enter my heart. It's that overwhelming. I am that sure of it's power to release my hold and control on myself. As I have been finding my way back to myself, dancing has somehow found its way to me too. First, taking the girls to class has reminded me of my time as a student. Then, I took a Cardio Jams class which was a parent/child class that had bits of dance, yoga, exercise, and stretching that left me over the moon and talking non-stop. My husband was worn down by the constant chatter that had started as a flutter in my tummy and rose to my heart and then to the purest joy. I was dancing again!
Today, I took another class with Lily at a fundraiser for the school district. Because I am a crazy, paranoid freak, I was sure that we needed to arrive early to secure our place. We were there in time to see the adult class ending. I had my face pressed against the window which was wet with sweat drops dripping down from the windows as the dancers, moms and other women of my community, got their dance on. They were great, the choreography exciting, and the energy electric. I promised myself I would be in that class as soon as I could.
I was right about the Cardio Jams. The place was packed. Lily and I had a fantastic time together and when I danced in the middle of a circle, letting the music just course through me, Lily looked at me as though she'd never seen me before. She said, "Mommy, I didn't know you could do that!" And I told her,"Baby, I think Mommy had forgotten." I want to remember. I want to return to dance for my exercise, for my freedom, for my joy. Being in the class with the other parents and our children, I let go of my hang ups about my body. There were women who were taller, more slender, more fit, beautiful, clean, and glamorous. But I didn't care. I can dance. I dance. I love to dance. And I want it to be part of my life again. When I was young and did not speak, could not express myself, there it was and now, even though I can express myself, maybe even talk too much, the movement might sometimes be all I want to say.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
No comments:
Post a Comment