The Dancer’s Dance.
It occurred during my youthful age of nineteen. I was a second year student at the New York Theatre Ballet. Right there, on 30 East 31st Street, I felt as if I had finally arrived at a pinnacle of my life; dancing for a nationally known company with a widely seen chamber ballet ensemble.
The burning sensation from the putrid hot bourbon gushing down my parched throat doesn’t make me forget. Her soft lips against mine are something I will always remember. Perhaps it was a dream or even a fantasy or perhaps it was as real as this moment. What I do know is the deep pain of the lost I have for her.
The building was cold, dark, and empty. It was as musty as weathered wood. My footsteps echoed through the vacant halls. After gaining the trust and approval, I often stayed behind and practiced my footing hours after the other students had left. I felt free to run into the air and stretch my arms to the skies. Standing in full view of the mirrors, I stopped and looked at myself. The muscles that extended through my legs and calves were strong and defined. My body was becoming lean with a rippling chest. I had to work on my bulkiness. My movements were still not as graceful as I so desired. Except for the pre-recorded music, there was no other sound. I was alone. Or was I?
One night, while stretching across the bar with my eyes closed, I felt a strange coldness. Immediately, I opened my eyes and glanced around the room. Only my image reflected across the tiled mirrors. Not yet satisfied, I called out into the vastness. No one answered. I shrugged it off. I finished my routine and left.
A few nights later, as I was putting the tape in the player, I began to hear faint music. The sound was coming behind me. I thought I heard the curtains part. I turned to see who had entered but saw no one. Again, I called out and again no one answered. The music gradually grew louder and louder. I recognized the tune; Annabel Lee. Again, I called out and again no one answered. The music stopped as abruptly as it had started. I shrugged it off thinking that someone else had come by, saw me, and had left.
I bent over and pushed the play button. My music began. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on my movements. I stood with my arms extended over my head and as I began to sway sideways, I began to feel a certain warmness that guided my hands upward. The musty odor that had filled the air was replaced with freshness, something that smelled of flowers. I began to shiver as the hairs on my neck rose. My heart began to race. I opened my eyes. I wasn’t alone.
“Ooh, I’m sorry for I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay. You just caught me off guard, that’s all.” I stumbled. I looked into the beautiful warm eyes of a total stranger. I was amazed at her astonishing features. She was far beautiful than anyone I had ever seen. She was petit and delicate with a perfect ballerina figure. She was as fragile as porcelain and as pale. Her skin was almost as pale as the ivory colored blouse that loosely covered her leotards. Her raven hair cascaded down her back.
“I’ve been watching you…you have the will to learn but not yet the grace in your movements.” She circled me as if I was some specimen.
“In time, you will learn…” She leaned forward.
“I’m Grady…do you have a name?”
“Lucia.”
“Well, Lucia, if that is your name, are you a ballerina?” I was testy. She had trespassed into my domain.
“I was, once…” Her voice softened. “Like yourself, I once dreamed of dancing before kings and queens and all the aristocrats of the land. I so wanted to dance to the pleasures of the gods.” The music returned. As if in a trance, she began to dance. Her movements were ever so graceful as if she was suspended in air. Perfect form and posture
Her face was void of any joy.
Then it happened. My wish was finally answered. It was October 22. The moon was full and adorned with scattered clouds. The moon glow shined through the windows of the darkened theatre casting shadows. I turned on a few of the stage lights. I had just kneeled over to push the play button when I started smelling the floral odor. I heard a familiar voice call my name. I smiled and turned around. There she was, standing before me wearing a simple gown. Her dance shoes hung from her right hand by a string tied together. She beckoned me with her left hand. Without a word, I went to her. We embraced. The light around us appeared dimmer. We began to dance.
Our movements were perfect together. She jumped and I jumped. She leaped gracefully into the air and landed in my awaiting arms. Suddenly the music ended. Her hands, silky soft, caressed my face and we kissed. Then she was gone.
The next day seemed like a total fog. Nothing was clear to me. I wandered around in a daze. I felt giddy much like a young boy with the first crush on the teacher. I couldn’t think nor could I concentrate on any of the life around me.
“So, what’s up with you?” Jason asked. “I barely get to see my good old friend anymore.”
“Just chilling…nothing major.” I shrugged. “Actually, I think I have met someone. You ain’t gonna believe how gorgeous she is!”
I turned and looked at the portrait. My breath left me as if I was being bludgeoned to death. My heart began to beat rapidly and hard. I fell against the wall.
It was my Lucia!
“A Beautiful Love”
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My own children hour...
One of my all time favorite classic film is “The Children Hour.” The intimacy between the two women were incredible. It mattered not that it was indeed a one sided love affair, what mattered the most was the probability that this particular romance was even mentioned so many years ago. Is reality ever too far from fantasy?
Recently, while reading a local daily, my eyes stopped at a familiar name listed in the obituaries. No, it wasn’t a celebrity or a recognizable icon within the LGBT community. In fact, it was the exact opposite. It was a former school teacher. Deeper inside her small column, was a faint mention of a “wonderful friend.” I smiled as I closed my eyes and remembered both of these dear women. Their relationship lasted from the late 1970s to 2005. My memories changed from pleasant to remorse. To be truthful, during my own ignorant adolescent years, I remembered how I and other pimpled freckled children behaved towards these women. Although I did not grasp the love they had for each other, I felt there was some form of a close relationship between them. Behind their backs, we sneered and laughed. We taunted these women because they were ‘different’ from us.
Perhaps one of my reasons for writing this piece was for me being apoplectic. Without knowing, I participated in actions of hate and discrimination. Although neither of the teachers committed suicide as one of the characters did in the movie, I was just as guilty as the busy bodies that destroyed their lives in the movie.
Another reason I wanted to point out was to show how a small portion of our lives have changed with our society becoming slightly tolerant. Days later, two other obituaries appeared with a similar sound but with an altogether less than passive tone. One listed her ‘loving life partner of ten years while the other noted her mate as being her ‘caregiver, companion and partner.’ Finally, what the majority has taken for granted since the beginning of time is recognizing their spouses or mates; we are finally given the opportunity. Countless times I have read with disdain of friends’ obituaries mentioning all the lost family members without any regards given to their actual partners. The actual person that stayed at the bedside as Death approached. Where is their recognition? The satellite station LOGO has been broadcasting “First Come Love.” Young same sex couples are confessing their everlasting love as family and friends witness. Although our holy matrimonial vows are not acknowledged by mainstream America, we continue to strive to make our marriage a reality. When that day happens, we should give sincere thanks to the older generations for breaking the ground for this change. Instead of taunting others that are different from us, perhaps we should embrace their particulars.
The initial couple mentioned in this article has lived their lives in total obscurity. I will not tread upon their silence. I can only hope that my favorite English teacher will forgive me. ________________________________________________
In Remembrance of a friend.
As I prepared to write this column, several random thoughts crossed my mind. February is now known for Black History Month whereas black individuals throughout history are being celebrated for their advancement and contribution to society as a whole. The Human Rights Campaign on a national level is producing segments portraying individuals that have made a difference.
Considering this act a bit trite and being the militant I am, I chose not to write on the merits of blacks advancing. Militant because I think this should be an ongoing celebration year round and not just for one month especially the shortest month.
I also gave a brief nod in the direction of actor Isaiah Washington of the Grey’s Anatomy fame making his ill-mannered remark of his co-star being a faggot. Supposedly, Washington is receiving some form of treatment at a residential treatment facility to deal with this ignorance. What irked me was hearing of his defense by other blacks after he was publicly admonished by GLAAD, a gay rights advocacy group. Because a group albeit predominately white in membership, confronted Washington about his homophobic slur, this group was labeled as the “gay mafia”. Has the main issue been tossed out with the day old garbage? Okay, Washington did portray a positive gay character in Spike Lee’s Get on the Bus. Does this give him the right to publicly insult or denounce someone’s character merely because that person is gay?
Remember that a rose is a rose is a rose? Well, hate is hate is hate… Ignorance is certainly not blissful.
Instead, I chose to write about something that touched me deeply. What I perceived as beautiful love between two people. Recently, a co-worker lost her battle with cancer. She may have lost the fight but never ever lost the will to live.
I will call her Star. From the very first day of work, this particular nurse appeared leery of me. I was from the outside versus someone climbing the ranks internally. She even gave me a moniker; night flight. Night flight was someone that wasn’t going to stay long and would soon leave possibly due to the perceived stressful environment. Four years later, I’m still around.
Star had a radiant personality that demanded to be acknowledged and respected. Much as myself, she was quite territorial of the staff she supervised. Her every other word often began with the letter “F”. Often our heads butted and we would have to return to our corner of the ring to cool off momentarily. As years progressed, we established a bit of a love/hate relationship. I totally respected her because I always knew where I stood with her.
Star genuinely loved taking care of people. Beyond her sharp tongue and behind her starry blue eyes, she had a tremendous heart. If you had needs, she found you relief. You were not allowed to give up in her presence. She loved life and wanted others around her to do the same. After being diagnosed, she remained confident. Not in denial that she had a life threatening disease but confident that she would die when she was ready. She continued working even as the cancerous cell moved swiftly through her body.
Many years previously, she and her two children found someone that would become her partner. A partner who was very set in her own life had no idea that she would find a soul mate in someone she would describe as being fat and with children. Although Star may have had the girth of a full body, she had an enormous heart that soon captivated her partner’s love.
Decades later and the children raised, Star and her partner’s love grew ever stronger. Stronger than most of the fearless waves that washed upon the numerous cruise ships they traveled on. Stronger than the homophobic hatred and ignorance that they endured for being together.
One recent Saturday morning, Star awoke and asked for strawberries. She appeared tired but continued to ask for the strawberries. Her partner delicately fed her the berries. As evening drew near, family members, Star’s best friend, and her partner stood close by her bed, Star closed her eyes for the last time. Words failed to describe the void felt in each of her loved ones’ heart. Tears fell into silence.
A few days later, I attended a celebration of her life. Pictures adorned pedestals with smiles of happier times. Whether the pictures were of the trip to Disney World or on one of the many cruises or even at home, she always wore a smile accentuated by her dimple. The atmosphere was nowhere near sad but of joy. On the altar were her urn gently placed between two vases of yellow roses from her best friend.
As we were being seated, the music began to rise in volume. A recording of Celine Dion’ “Because You Love Me” serenaded the room. As it ended, a woman stood in the middle of the aisles and began to speak. This minister spoke of Star as being a real person with passion and great love for others. We were reminded of familiar anecdotes and escapades. She didn’t try to place Star on some pedestal far reach from reality but someone that has walked with us. Star had a knack for bringing people without families home for the holidays. Whenever she or anyone else she knew was having a bad day, Star would bring home a birthday cake. Star had a knack for taking life’s cherry pits and turning the pits into a feast.
I once wrote an article about two former school teachers from my past. Although they had loved each other for many years, they were not able to share their secret to the world even after one had died. Fortunately, this wasn’t the case with Star and her partner; the partner was mentioned in the obituary.
At the close of Star’s celebration, the minister uncovered a birthday cake. Candles were lit. Amidst tears and laughter, we celebrated the life of not only a true friend but someone who found everlasting love with her mate. This is indeed what true love is all about.
