DANCING QUEEN

The Dancer believes that his art has something to say which cannot be expressed in words or in any other way than by dancing... there are times when the simple dignity of movement can fulfill the function of a volume of words. There are movements which impinge upon the nerves with a strength that is incomparable, for movement has power to stir the senses and emotions, unique in itself. This is the dancer's justification for being, and his reason for searching further for deeper aspects of his art.

~~ Doris Humphrey (acclaimed dancer & choreographer), 1937

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I took dancing when I was a little girl. I remember pouring into my tiny black leotard - a piece of cloth that, now, would be just enough to manufacture a pair of gloves for my hands. Although it barely clung on to my petite frame, that black leotard made me feel special… beautiful… inspired. With ballet slippers and tap shoes in hand, I would mosey off to Ms. Susan’s Dance Studio.

Ms. Susan - a story in herself. A woman legendary for the deep lavender painted home in which she lived; an old goat who years later would make repeated attempts to charm my high school boyfriend (30 years her junior). That’s the lady who taught me how to dance. Although she was a harsher gal who had be-friended the better end of the bottle for some years, she always remained graceful in front of that dance mirror - like a willowy branch on the banks of a river, allowing the breeze from the water to tickle the tips of its leaves. There, through the crack of a door which led into the “big girl” studio, I would watch her, as if my life depended on it. Little blonde curls and big blue eyes exploding with all the wonderment a five year old could possess – I watched her. Her pirouettes were perfection and tap precisely polished.

She passed away recently, and although we weren’t close, it still felt like the world had shifted a bit when my mom called to tell me. The fact is, she scared the hell out of me as a child. Even still! It doesn’t take much for my imagination to collect images of her torturing 4-year-old girls across the southern state – her bony little finger pointing, disappointingly, for the misuse of jazz hands and high kicks. Yep, she was frightening all right.

My mom, god love her, had to sit in the studio the whole first year that I practiced. Her departure would bring an immediate swell of tears & terror. Fortunately, total trepidation gave way to slight apprehension which eventually dwindled into the occasional nightmare.

I still have that black leotard in the depths of my parent’s attic back home, tucked neatly beside my tattered pink slippers. I gave up on dancing when I was 13 and still wonder where those feet could have taken me had I continued on...