Ameera, Unveiled (2 page)
Minutes later, I had become a midlife belly dance student enrolled for lessons at my high school alma mater. I was anxious to meet my fellow adventurers—sisters in dance, perhaps. I’d assumed that each of us would embrace pursuing the art of dance for different reasons. Our only common ground would be a desire to learn to lift, drop, and shimmy . . . all in six weeks.
Now September 12 had arrived and, as I looked out my front door at the wetlands, cradling my first cup of coffee, it felt as though the first day of class had arrived too soon.
Hours later, I stood in front of my mirror for a pre-class fashion check: black yoga pants, colorful T-shirt enhancing my busty sisters, highlighted blonde hair pulled in a ponytail with a hot-pink fabric hairband, and feet grounded by distressed dance shoes. I hoped I was ready as I got into my car.
Even as I wove through traffic, I continued to battle my nerves. I tried to sort through my feelings. As I drove, I drifted back to my earliest dance memory of when the equation—dance-equaled-failure-plus-fear—first took root. In 1963, my mom had enrolled me in ballet class for ages four to five in Newport, Rhode Island. I’d blended into the circle of other timid wannabe ballerinas. With my green eyes wide open and petite arms perched on the wooden bar, I’d imitated my peers. I stretched tendons and muscles while learning foot positions and new words as Madame Levette tapped her stick, counting to eight over and over.
By the end of my second class, my mom and Madame had realized I couldn’t learn quickly.
I’d watched as Madame Levette whispered to my mom, “Your daughter’s very cute, but I suggest she receive tutoring in skipping.”
My mother had nodded. I’d felt like an ugly duckling as I submitted to the offer from Madame’s assistant to stay after class to tutor me in the art of skipping. Oh, the horror! Because I was an obedient oldest daughter, I had attempted to shift my weight and lift each little pink shoe, skipping the perimeter of the room with the encouragement of my teacher. It had been a painful scene: A pink twig of a child jerking to the beat of left, right, left, accompanied by the exchange of cute, pink feet and a little, pink tongue alternating from corner to corner of my uncomplaining lips. After two more classes, my career as a ballerina had ended.
Memories faded as I took a left, ushering myself toward a new opportunity to be one with the music.
Oh, Goddess of Bindis
, I prayed silently as I pulled into the high school parking lot,
be kind and generous. Let the instructor see
hope in my dancing heart.
A pop-up summer thunderstorm made the parking lot steamy. Breathing the muggy air, I headed to my first day of class in thirty-one years. Charleston County had relocated the campus and built a modern facility since my school days. Nowadays, the South Carolina campus included air conditioning. No fighting for the desk near the fan in sixth period!
Tonight’s school supplies consisted of a single chartreuse hip scarf, which I’d stuffed in a small book bag. My nose wasn’t pressed on the glass, watching the mystery of women bonding through synchronized dance movement. Instead, the belly dancing pool was open and I was heading for the diving board! Time for me to jump into my forbidden dance zone.
After opening the Arts Building glass door, I scanned the hallway until I found the drama room. My instructor, dressed in black, looked about my age. She was bent over a CD player amid veils and hip scarves scattered in a corner of the heavily mirrored room. Blonde hair curtained her face until my footsteps alerted her to another presence in the room.
With my bravest voice, I put out my hand. “Are you Sybil Yocum?” I asked. “I’m one of your students . . . Kat Varn.”
She looked up at me, a lock of hair draped over one eye, and reciprocated the hand extension. “Hellllooo! Pat?” she fumbled my name. She was a pretty woman with a sunny smile and a dimple.
Bet her high school memories included cheerleading and homecoming queen crowns. “Kat. Short for Kathleen,” I respectfully corrected her.
“Glad you signed up,” she said. “I’ll warn you—you’re gonna become addicted.”
Smiling, our introduction over, she turned to greet my classmates who had arrived behind me, each jingling hip scarves. There were nine of us; an eclectic mix of curly-haired, tall, short, overweight, ethnic, single professionals, mostly forty-somethings, and mothers.
We circled and listened as Sybil enlightened us on the history and art of belly dancing: Women dancing for women, celebrating fertility and childbearing. Women providing the first pathway to life via the womb. Babies cradled in the belly, listening to the pulsing of a mother’s heartbeat. Twirling, stretching, and spinning before little feet hit terra firma. If I had been born centuries ago, as a little girl I would have undulated and memorized the dance of women before me. No one would have passed judgment on my skipping.
Every word watered a goddess seed hiding in my heart’s hope chest.
“Okay, ladies. Let’s warm up.” Sybil shocked me back to the moment. We stretched and warmed up to my first Arabic song. “Find a place in front of the mirrors.”
I took my place near the corner beside a brunette student.
“Belly dancing is a dance of isolations,” Sybil explained.
I understood about isolation. Before I’d ended my first marriage thirteen years earlier, isolation had been the story of my life, but I smiled at the word tonight.
“Module one includes the neck and head. Module two, shoulders, arms to hips. Module three is everyone’s favorite—hips to toes. Let’s try some moves in each zone.” Sybil demonstrated and invited us to imitate her.
As I stared at myself in the tall mirrors, I saw that my movements were short, jerky, and not at all pretty. My extra twelve pounds distracted me as they settled over the hip scarf and curled the waistband. To my right, the brunette’s curvaceous body extenuated her efforts.
As Sybil led us through the module movements, it became obvious that Western civilization didn’t use these moves or muscles. I adjusted my view from the weight issue to exercise. As I continued to stare in the mirror, I fought voices from the past discouraging me and waging war on my belly dance crusade.
“Okay, ladies, I want you in neutral position in a circle,” Sybil ordered, brushing that rogue strand of hair from her eye. “We’ll be traveling in a circle alternating a hip push for eight counts, then alternating a shoulder push. Let’s try it.”
She pushed her remote and Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” blared from the boom box. I tried to comply while fighting reality. My hips fibbed big time, and I didn’t understand the choreography terms.
The song faded and Sybil started a cool down. Again, my head began to argue with my dancing heart. Experience had taught me not to give up after one try. I had five more classes and homework. Sybil busily packed her scarves, CDs, and player. She then sneaked out of the classroom, avoiding post-class fraternization.
My fellow students chattered like blackbirds, jingling hip scarves.
“It’s harder than I thought.”
“I looked like a dork. Isn’t this fun?”
I left the room, ignoring them, and strolled alone to the parking lot. I drove my car on autopilot as my brain continued sifting and filing information. I thanked my inner little girl for taking the plunge into another effort toward dance training.
When I got home and entered the kitchen, stir-fry aromas filled the room.
“Dear, how was class?” my husband Steve asked. “Did you like it? When’s the next one? How many students? By the way, we’re having dinner with Gwen and Alan on Friday. The gym asked how you’ve been.”
I forced a smile. He looked up and caught my cocked eyebrow. I shook my hip scarf and grinned. “It’s hard. I’m stiff and not fluid, but I want to do this. You wouldn’t believe how many diverse women were there, and a lot of them are about my age.”
Steve turned back to his stir-fry. “Can I ask you about your class choice?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Why belly dancing? Why not ballet or ballroom?”
I paused, turning the question over in my head. It sounded like a hard question, but the answer was obvious. “If I took ballet, jazz, or ballroom, what would I do with it? I want to do something for myself. I’ll never be a ballerina or someone’s dance partner. This is for me. I think it’ll challenge me without making me feel left behind. Every time I see a belly dancer on TV, it stirs something inside me—a feeling of wanting to be pretty but strong, like a goddess.”
“Well, my little goddess, go get comfortable. Supper’s almost ready,” he said with a grin.
I inched toward the bedroom to exchange my dance garb for flannels and a T-shirt. I needed a moment to regroup.
In light of my first day of belly dancing class, the unbreakable ties between my past and present had resurrected the old fears I’d felt about freeing my inner butterfly. Steve’s encouragement contrasted vividly with the lack of support I’d received from my ex-husband in my previous life. Isolation, neglect, and restrictions didn’t exist in my new home.
“Did I tell you Sybil said belly dance is all about isolations?” I yelled. As I thought about that word, isolation, and how it contrasted with my present life, I couldn’t help but smile.
I strutted to my second class, my new hip scarf jingling. I tried to ignore loitering students’ gazes, using the walk as an exercise to come out of the closet as a wannabe dancer. But when I passed the last students, my strut wilted to a downcast shuffle as I crept noiselessly into the Arts Building.
In the hall ahead of me, Sybil was struggling with a CD player, a small suitcase, and some music. The CD binder was slipping from under her arm.
I rushed forward to offer assistance. “Can I help?” I asked.
“Sure,” Sybil said, handing me the CD player. “How was your week? Did you practice?”
“I’m trying to, but I don’t have a huge dance background,” I answered. “You make it look so easy in class, but when I stand in front of my mirror at home, it’s discouraging. I’m so stiff.” I didn’t want to sound like a whiner. “I practiced isolating the three regions of my body though.”
“That’s typical,” Sybil said. “Just keep practicing so you’ve got a good base. When we work on transitions from chest to hip, head to hands, undulations on various level changes, you’ll see the payoff.”
Transitions? I was still learning my alphabet. We headed into the drama room. Sybil and I dropped what we were carrying on the wooden floor.
I saw my dance neighbor, the brunette from the first class, chatting with a young ethnic woman who looked as if she’d been born to belly dance. Not a hair out of place, she exuded confidence . . . and the tiny dancer in me cringed. Tying my hip scarf, I scooted closer to them.
“I’m so excited about this class, but it’s harder than it looks,” the brunette said. “But it’s good. I’m challenged.”
“It’s hard, but I love watching belly dancers,” the exotic one remarked. “Sybil belongs to a belly dance troupe. Can you imagine?”
Before I could add my own glittery story, Sybil had us form a circle. “Let’s review what you learned last week,” she said. “Grab one of my veils. I’m showing you the beginning of a dance to a Shakira song.” She reached into her suitcase and pulled out a stack of paper. “Take one and pass it around.”
I looked at the words. They might’ve been English, but my brain saw hieroglyphics as I read, “Pose for eight counts, veils tucked in hip. Hip lift A/B/C (right). Repeat left.” I looked at my neighbors, who were laughing at the idea of learning a dance.
In less than an hour—following week two’s round robin, reviewing modules and isolations, introducing the first half of the choreography, and cooling down for a quick two minutes—Sybil slipped away. My hips were facing some serious homework.
“We’re learning choreography?” I asked, my heart banging at the thought. “I can’t believe she’ll move us this fast.”
“Hey, my name’s Polly Taylor,” the brunette said.
“I’m Kat Varn,” I answered.
“I’m Cheryl Curcio,” the exotic one informed us. “And we’re supposed to bring three yards of material for a veil?”
“I guess there isn’t a belly-dance store in Charleston,” Polly said, chuckling.
“I loved the tie-dyed veil that Sybil’s letting me use,” I said. “I guess she wants us to have something at home to practice with.”
As we walked together to the parking lot, I learned that Polly and Cheryl worked at the Medical University of South Carolina, or “MUSC,” as they called it.
Introductions aside, we stopped to synopsize our lives by Polly’s car.
I went first. “I retired after working twenty-three years for an attorney. Spent last year homeschooling my son. He finished his senior year here and graduated this past summer. Taking this class was kinda my reward.”
“I’m single but dating a doctor from our pathology department,” Cheryl said next, beaming. “I saw the ad for this class in the local community paper.”
“I’m fifty-two and single—not looking for anything serious,” Polly volunteered last. She looked at Cheryl. “I saw the same ad! My life slowed down a little when my son went off to college. I love dancing and working out. Doesn’t belly dancing sound like an adventure?”
We all nodded, three dissimilar women from ages ranging in the late twenties to fifty connected by one ad.
Streetlights flickered overhead, reminding us to get home to evening routines that didn’t involve hip scarves.
“Y’all, the gnats are biting,” I said. “See you next Monday—with three yards of material.”
As I pulled out of the parking lot, my heart felt lighter. That brief conversation with my dance mates reminded me how blessed I was to be retired from my legal assistant work with Thomas Rawlins Calhoun, a Charleston blue-blood attorney branded by his ancestors.
Mr. Calhoun was a Confederate, and I was a Virgo. I’d juggled all my plates and his . . . too well. Each morning, I knew I’d find a flustered boss rifling through well-ordered drawers. I’d join him beside a file cabinet, resigned to the fact that I’d eventually fetch a mysteriously missing file. As he’d step aside, I’d go to the “S” tab, find the “Smith” file, and pluck at a manila folder like a captured mouse with my thumb and pointer finger. He’d shake his head and chuckle before he’d saunter off without so much as a thank you. I’d fake indifference.
