Ameera, Unveiled (9 page)
I wasn’t sure what everyone else in Charleston was doing, but odds were they weren’t shopping for gypsy skirts or giving up a Saturday morning to watch belly dancing.
Since seeing Saturday’s Day of Dance, I’d been answering queries from friends and family about how the belly dancers looked at the mall. Tirelessly, I’d recalled the amazing costumes and described the synchronization of glittery skirts to the forward motion of their dance. The dancers had opened the performance adorned with veils, finger cymbals, and Isis wings. Each presented a prop to eager, anticipating eyes. They free-styled, whetting the audience’s appetite for what was to come. By the end of their performance, I could no longer deny that my heart wanted to be a part of it.
I’d reluctantly embraced the idea of tryouts—of developing a solo and committing to my song, “Drama Queen.” I needed to challenge Ameera, who’d hidden for too long behind dutiful personae outside the spotlight. I vowed that I’d let her be the goddess she needed to be. A two-minute solo scared the hell out of me, but I hoped the time would fly by.
For three days, in an effort to alleviate my fear, I’d searched the Internet for videos of belly dance performances. Most of the posts I found showed young girls who’d obviously been exposed to dance since potty training. But they’d stirred the virginal choreography juices awakened in my neglected dance veins. I’d listened to my solo song in my car, at my house, and in my private dance space in the poolroom. I’d looked for moves online and offline. I’d counted eight counts.
So now I’d thrown my dance journal and veil in the practice bag to share my solo ideas with Sybil during our private class on Valentine’s Day.
Walking with newfound courage as I rounded the corner to the studio, I heard the Gypsy music. Approaching the glass door, I saw Sybil practicing a dance alone, smiling at herself in the mirrored closet doors.
I paused before entering. I knew the end of the song was near. Our semiprivate class hadn’t gotten quite this far yet, but I was thrilled to anticipate the next move. Sybil twirled and swished her skirt to the final pose. I gently opened the back door.
“Morning, Sybil,” I said, heading to drop my dance bag. “I’m impressed with your Gypsy dance.”
Sybil lost her gypsy persona and became my instructor. She peeled off the gypsy skirt and stopped the CD player. “Hey, Kat, got your skirt yet?”
“Not yet. I’m having a time with the skirt you lent me though,” I replied, changing shoes. “I’m short, but I’ve got long legs and arms. I can’t raise the skirt over my head on some of the moves, but I fixed the drawstring.”
“Search the Internet for a twenty-five-yard skirt . . . they’re fuller,” Sybil said, hanging the black gypsy skirt in the closet.
So it wasn’t a lack of skill but a legitimate wardrobe malfunction that was frustrating my attempts. I was glad I hadn’t wasted money on skirt homework in light of the fact I wouldn’t have been able to properly use it.
“Awesome! I’ll look for one tonight,” I promised and dug into my dance bag for my solo music and dance journal.
She looked over her shoulder. I think she’d spied my hot-pink veil and realized that I’d decided on a prop for my solo. I was desperately trying to embrace that phrase “my solo.” Since I couldn’t hide behind Polly or Cheryl, maybe the veil would suffice. On the other hand, a prop could go the other way . . . if I failed to properly partner with it.
“Let’s hear your solo song,” she said, motioning for me to sit and stretch hamstrings. I’d prepared myself for The Inquisition.
Picking up the “Bellydance Superstar” CD beside me, I explained again, “Ameera means queen, so she wants a queen song . . . ‘Drama Queen’ by Sahar.”
Sybil averted her eyes as though she were suppressing a smile. “Let’s listen to it,” she said. “I assume you’ve counted the eight counts and decided where you wanna fade a two-minute solo?”
I grabbed my glasses and fiddled with Sybil’s CD player. Eventually, the song started correctly. I returned to the floor and continued warming up.
“I keep trying to find a fading place, but there’re so many transitions in the music. I’m not sure there is one,” I said. “Plus, I think I’d like to use my veil?” I showed my insecurity by lifting my voice in a question.
She didn’t answer. We stretched through the entire four-minute song and, by the time it’d ended, I was finding the lack of response to my question unnerving. Why’d I let the silence feel like a judgment?
Sybil’s face was unreadable. She looked at my veil in the corner and said, “Show me what you’ve got so far.”
Gulping and trying not to let Ameera disappear, I grabbed the veil, opened my dance journal, and reviewed my choreography. Sybil moved to the front of the room, preparing to push the play button.
I placed the veil evenly in my hands, posed with it extended over my head, and said, “I’m ready, but I’ve only got a minute of choreography so far.” I felt a pregnant silence. Then my music started.
I took my veil and went through sixty seconds of awkwardness. I tried to avoid Sybil’s stare, but it melted my confidence until the veil was more visible than I was.
“That’s as much as I’ve got,” I said after I’d stopped.
Sybil paused the music and, with a serious face, delivered her assessment. “Kat, if you’re using a prop, you’ve got to stop accommodating it. Do you understand? We did this in a previous class. Own your prop, don’t let it own you.” She continued, “I want you to do the whole song. I don’t like some of the first part. Do it again.”
What? I’d painfully put the first minute together over hours and days. I didn’t know enough of the belly dance alphabet to assemble new words for a two-minute dance, let alone for a four-minute dance. What the hell?
Dejected, I performed it again while Sybil pointed out the parts she didn’t like without offering direction or substitution. I noted it all in my dance journal and put on my gypsy skirt before we moved on. That is, I tried to move on, but the entire time, I was fighting back tears. I’d once again failed to please an instructor.
“You okay, Kat?” Sybil asked. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m good,” I said, forcing a smile. I wanted to fuss at myself for not speaking up and telling Sybil how discouraged I was with starting a four-minute challenge. And I wanted to tell her how unfair it was favoring my classmates, who I knew were working on two-minute pieces. My heart hurt. I wanted to throw down my veil and walk off.
Instead, what came out was, “I’ll work on my changes. Four minutes, though?” I tried to add a little growl to the last question.
“You can do it,” Sybil said.
As I turned to head to the door, I took a deep breath and waved. This morning had felt so sunny and airy, an afterglow from watching the troupe on Saturday. Now I headed home with a flat tire in my soul.
After my subdued exit from my Monday class, I was excited when Jill Bahr, the resident choreographer for the Charleston Ballet, embraced my request to share advice regarding choreography. Her dance troupe performed and executed original choreographies that she formulated from song inspiration or classic storylines.
As I approached the building, I saw Jill in her office on the phone. I opened the glass door, escaping the chilly wind.
Jill looked over her shoulder as she continued talking on the phone, motioning me to come in. I heard music in the rehearsal room and assumed the dancers were preparing for next week’s performance. Within a minute, she’d ended her call and was walking toward me.
“Kat! How’re you? What can I do for you?” Jill smiled brightly, looking straight into my eyes. “You sounded so stressed and down yesterday.”
“Thanks for meeting with me so last minute,” I said. “I know you’re really busy, but I suck at this solo-choreography assignment for my dance class. I’m so out of my element.”
“Tell me something specific,” she said.
“I understand the elements of what Sybil wants in the dance, but she insists that I do the whole four-minute song,” I said. “The audition’s only two minutes. When I showed her what I’d put together, she just shook her head and told me to change it. I feel like I’m blindfolded and don’t know what I’m swinging at. And . . . I’m trying to use a veil.”
I prayed I didn’t sound whiney or defeated. What was it Sybil saw in me that she kept raising the dance-class stakes?
“Do you know your song?” Jill asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Then let’s put this in three categories: time, energy, and space.” She went on to explain, “You already know your allotted time. Energy involves the quality of your dance movements—for example, soft and smooth or sharp and energetic. Don’t start your dance with your best moves; build and interact with the audience. You’re using a veil. Switch up the accents. Find your character.” As Jill shared, she leaned forward in her chair.
“That’s everything Sybil said,” I agreed, hoping bulbs would pop off in my head.
“Third element: space. That’s the area the dancer performs in. Space has levels: low floor moves, medium standing moves, and high leaping and lifting moves,” Jill said. “It also refers to how a dancer moves through an area. Direction of movement can be straight, curved, diagonal, or changing. Does your song have a chorus?”
She reminded me of the Energizer Bunny, firing off information as if she’d known the questions in advance. My head was swimming. I realized I should’ve brought my dance journal with me to take notes. “Yes,” I said.
“You can repeat a dance sequence with the repeated chorus,” she tutored me. “Don’t be afraid to interact with your audience. Find your ham.”
She stood and motioned for me to follow her to the rehearsal room. We stood to one side to watch the dancers practice a scene for an upcoming ballet. Jill waited until they repeated the same dance scene and pointed out all the elements she’d laid out in her office.
“Watch Melissa,” Jill advised. “See if you can identify the use of those dance elements.”
Melissa was one of my favorites. I watched Jill’s choreography flow as she’d broken it down with me in her office. Melissa was in character, even in rehearsal. At the end of practice, she ran up giggling and gave me a hug.
“Hey, Kat, what’re you doing here?” Melissa asked. Her practice leotard hid very little. Her body fat was nonexistent.
“Jill’s helping me with choreography basics so I can knock out an audition solo,” I said, smiling and raising my eyebrows.
“Still belly dancing?” Melissa asked. “Awesome! I need to get back to practice. You’re coming Saturday night, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” I replied.
Jill and I went back out to the lobby. I knew I needed to let her focus on the thousand details on her plate.
“You can do it, Kat,” she encouraged me. “Feel free to get one of the dancers to help you.”
“I’ve gotta knock this out,” I said, staring through the glass doors at a newspaper tumbling down the street.
“We’re here to help in whatever way we can,” Jill promised, giving me her reassuring smile.
“Kisses, Jill,” I said. “I’ll figure it out.” Waving at the receptionist, I passed through the glass doors, zipped up my hoodie, and headed back to my car. I felt encouraged that dances—from ballet to belly dancing—had a universal language. The common denominator in my solo choreography fiasco was me, but my meeting with Jill had reduced the audition problem.
As I left the parking garage, I decided to grab my veil and find a way to open more slowly and travel with it. I still had four days to revamp my opening and I was feeling a glittery shot of determination.
“How’s my new top look?” I asked Chaz and Melkey, who were watching me change clothes for my Monday night class. “It matches my veil.” They just stared. “I’ll take your silence as approval.” I turned sideways to check on any weight loss. Maybe I just wanted to believe it, but the muffin tops seemed smaller.
The weight distraction aside, I focused on matching an outfit with the veil. I thought Pink and I’d been getting along better and seemed to be partnering on a more even dance floor. I slipped into my jazz shoes, grabbed my dance bag, and headed for Sybil’s. I felt bright and, for some intangible reason, didn’t feel intimidated to show Sybil what I’d done with my solo. This would be my last semiprivate lesson before I left on a week-long dive trip with my husband.
As I drove up the highway, evidence of seasonal changes was everywhere. Azaleas budded and the afternoon light grew longer. I noticed the live oaks were ready to pollinate—dusting cars and homes in yellow powder—as I drove by a clutch of them near a church.
I found favor with the red lights and steadily made my way to Sybil’s. I was tired of listening to “Drama Queen” and opted to rock with radio station 104.5. The Eagles sang about a hot, tanned girl strolling on the beach in “Boys of Summer.” Singing out loud as I turned into Sybil’s neighborhood, I was the last to park.
As I locked my car door and headed to the gate, Charleston’s demonic gnats swarmed me. Not that I could see them—that was why the vicious little beasts were called “no-see-ums.” If I were in a crowd, biting insects would choose me first. And my body reacted in welts and bumps. As I passed a row of fuchsia azaleas, I thought of a metaphor that would summarize the manifestation of spring in Charleston: Beautiful azaleas versus nasty no-see-ums. One didn’t happen without the other. For me, it was kind of like dancing. The beauty of performing versus those little, vicious insecurities that kept popping up and were hard to see coming.
