Ameera, Unveiled (7 page)

As I waited at a stop sign, I felt nudged to talk to the Ghost of My Dancing Past. It seemed appropriate, being Christmas and all. I imagined a glittery cloud transforming into the beautiful Glinda from
The Wizard of Oz
. Instead, when the glitter settled, there on my passenger seat sat a little girl in a pink leotard and ballet slippers, looking up at me with big green eyes.

“I didn’t expect you,” I said. My body was on autopilot. There was a gap in the traffic flow, and I turned right, looking for the cut-through two lights down.

“Why wouldn’t you expect me? You’re still haunted by feeling rejected when you tried ballet at Daddy’s first Naval assignment,” she said, speaking like an old soul in a young body.

“I’m older now. I understand Mom couldn’t give me consistent access to dance development because of all of Daddy’s navy demands and taking care of four girls. We were always moving after he’d been deployed for months,” I argued.

“Pooh!” she dismissed my argument. “I know you remember how that teacher whispered to Mom that we didn’t have any natural talent. She even sucked the joy out of our morning dances with our sisters.”

I approached my left turn and hit the blinker. The light turned yellow then red.

My ghost folded her hands and flexed her toes in their pink leather slippers. “Your heart wants to dance. If you’re willing, I’m still happy to wear the costume.” Then she faded away, leaving me to think about her words.

I decided that the Ghost of the Girl That Was Me was right. Whatever fear my head clung to, my heart wanted to dance.

6

My December attention was focused on two events: Steve’s fiftieth birthday party and the New Year’s family ski trip to Park City, Utah. I’d seen no more ghosts, just experienced plenty of thoughts and dread passing between the dancing devil and angel on my shoulder.

Event planning pulled me further away from my dance class countdown. My efforts to practice were sporadic at best. I’d resigned myself to listening to music to get the musicality down as I fulfilled duties and obligations. The jury was still out on the audition idea.

Two days after Christmas, we celebrated Steve’s birthday. I’d planned a shindig worthy of him in the DoubleTree ballroom. The theme was a presidential election for the Sexy Baby Boomers Club. Tables were loaded with candy, soft drinks, cheap wine, and memorabilia from the 1950s to the 1990s. Guests cast ballots at the front door and left him birthday comments. In lieu of gifts, we accepted donations to the Turtle Hospital at the City Aquarium.

Steve wore a tuxedo, like any presidential candidate, and I was in a beautiful floor-length, black-velvet gown, like any first lady. We looked elegant and slim. As planned, we were fashionably late, so most of the guests were present when Steve arrived and greeted his constituents.

After checking my makeup and dress again in our hotel room, I called to the star of the evening, “Ready to go, Mr. President?” I’d decided to add a little more body glitter to my chest.

Steve checked his bowtie. “Let’s go, Ameera,” he said.

I warmed to the thrill of him using my dance name.

We took the elevator to the ballroom, the band cued, and the new president of the Sexy Baby Boomers Club entered his amazing post-election party. After toasts, Steve took me by the hand and led me to the dance floor. Signaling to the band, he asked me for the spotlight solo. All our friends and family circled us and watched as we merged into a ballroom dance couple.

I felt their eyes following us as we drifted across the dance floor. In spite of my beautiful black dress, “Lady in Red” crooned us along. It felt easy and natural.
Now, why can’t I surrender to the belly dance goddess the same way
? I wondered.

As the song ended, Steve dipped me and whispered, “You’re awesome. Great job on my party.” He kissed me as our guests applauded.

We retired from the dance floor. Why, I wondered again, can I accept a spotlight following Steve’s lead but dread the same proverbial spotlight on an audition solo?

How would I feel on January 8?

At 6:30 p.m. on January 8, 2007, Cheryl, Polly, and I pulled onto Sybil’s residential street. I’d survived 2006—the year in which I’d begun to initiate my change. We parked and gathered our coin scarves. The winter sun was setting as leaves tumbled across the oak-shadowed asphalt road. A cold front was approaching. We shouldered our dance bags and eagerly hugged each other before we opened the backyard gate.

Sybil was drawing stick figures and funny descriptive names on the mirrors as we entered her studio. She brushed a blonde lock of hair from her eye, never letting her attention stray from her drawings. “Hello, ladies!” she called after briefly glancing our way.

As I switched out of my shoes and added coins, my eyes were drawn to hieroglyphics of little stick people. Some had bent arms or legs. Words like sailor boy and washing machine labeled them. “Hip lift with leg, hip lift without leg.” Sybil had often referred to a belly dance move as a letter and combining several moves as a word. Her curriculum was materializing on the mirror. We weren’t singing our ABCs anymore. A spelling bee lay in my future.

It reminded me of high school, where there were classes for college-bound students and classes for average students. I wondered whether I was in the wrong room.

Cheryl stared at the figures, looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged her shoulders. Her unspoken body language came across loud and clear:
What the fudge
?

Polly stretched her back and legs as she sat on the cold parquet floor. “Sybil, are those drawings something we need to copy?” she asked, hands reaching for pointed toes.

“I’ll explain after we warm up,” Sybil brushed Polly’s question aside. “So happy new year, ladies. Hope you’re ready to work!”

After a brief warm-up, we lined up facing the mirror, waiting for the explanations of sailor boy and all his friends on the mirrored doors.

“Since you’ve had a few weeks off, let’s refresh. Three zones: one, two, and three.” Sybil pointed to her head, chest, and hips. “Three planes: A, B, and C. Remember, they can be used on chest and hips.” She pushed her hip forward, out, and back. “I’ll be drilling you to isolate using those cues. Entering a performance requires a confident walk. It’s all about attitude and posture. Let’s do that now. Start from this side of the room and give me a confident walk. I’ll demonstrate.”

We quickly formed a confident-walk pecking order: Polly, Cheryl, and me at the rear. Sybil glided across the parquet, hands framing her hips, chin confidently leading each softly placed pointed foot, grinning at the mirrored doors as if they were a live audience. She oozed confidence and commanded attention.

“Polly . . .” Sybil invited her to cross the room.

Polly grinned and strutted confidently across the room.

“Take your time,” Sybil advised and motioned to Cheryl next.

Cheryl pulled her shoulders back and exhaled. She shuffled more than floated. I admired her bravado.

“Practice at home. Focus on lifting your feet and looking ahead, not at the floor.”

Sybil then turned and motioned for me to take what felt to me like a walk of shame.

I mustered every ounce of composure and tried to imitate Sybil, framing my hips with what felt like pretty, posed hands. I could feel Sybil’s stare on my back as I passed her.

“Work on your posture. Pull those shoulders back and relax your face. No one wants to see you thinking. Dance,” Sybil said. She then addressed the group, “I want all of you to work on that at home. Let’s move on.”

So we retreated to our corners to follow Sybil’s lead. Between journal entries and body executions, we soaked it all in. Watching myself in the mirror, I didn’t see anything resembling a “washing-machine” move. Before I’d barely figured out what the little stick figure was doing, Sybil had elevated the new move to a traveling one. I hoped I’d be able to keep up the pace.

After a couple of semiprivate lessons with my classmates, it was clear that I couldn’t keep up. I needed a tutor. I hadn’t even heard of muscle memory until I’d started taking belly dancing classes. For years, my muscle memory had been restricted to peering wistfully through the window of a dance room.

After dumping the contents of my bag, I found Sybil’s business card in a side pocket. As I scrutinized the contact options, I pep talked myself into not being intimidated by asking for help.
Okay, Ameera, we’ve started a bit
late in life and I wanna give you every chance to keep up with Cheryl and
Polly. We’re gonna ask Sybil what we need to do for extra instruction time. Bet
she’s got some ideas.
I dialed Sybil’s work number. The phone rang twice and, suddenly, I was asking to speak to Sybil.

“This is Sybil,” a lyrical voice answered.

“Hey, it’s Kat,” I said. “Do you have a minute? Sorry to bother you at work.”

“No, sweetie, go ahead,” she said.

Another quiet gulp and I jumped into my request. “I really appreciate you giving us Monday semiprivate lessons. But you know . . . I don’t have dance experience. I wasn’t even a cheerleader. Moving more than one part of my body, choreography, and transitions aren’t natural for me. Do you have any ideas or referrals to pick up extra classes?”

“I only have Monday mornings. Would that work?” Sybil asked.

I didn’t want to take up too much of Sybil’s time. “Absolutely, what time?” Feeling relieved, I stopped pacing the kitchen floor in front of my calendar.

“Ten thirty? We’ll do thirty minutes, since it’s a private,” she threw out.

“Thanks, Sybil. This coming Monday at your house?” I wrapped up negotiations while I wrote “10:30 a.m., Sybil’s” on my calendar.

The anticipation of resuming private sessions with Sybil lightened my everyday duties. My heart was excited, but my head kept arguing that I wanted to dance too late in life. There’d been so many forbidden zones in my life. Sometimes it felt like a civil war raged inside my brain. My head wanted to keep Ameera indentured to responsibility. My heart wanted Ameera to kick up her heels and fulfill my girly dream of whirling and twirling. Why couldn’t we have both? As I debated internally, a fresh war waged between North and South.

“Ameera’s suffered oppression all her life. She wasn’t born to a life of duty,” the North said.

“Nah, Ameera’s a natural at shouldering responsibility,” answered the South, puffing on a cigar. “Look at her. Her hands are tough. She can lift at least fifty pounds without assistance!”

In fact, Ameera drooped between the two. She was tired of too much responsibility. The South was right. She could tote, sweep, repair, mother, support family matters, handle finances, and all other duties dealt to her. She’d borne children, quilted, and canned and did beautiful French hand sewing. She wore modest attire that often was handed down from friends and family.

The North was right too. Ameera had always wanted to dance—to twirl, skip, and bend gracefully with pretty hands like she’d seen in movies, plays, and dance performances. The joy of dancing with her sisters was branded in her memory—the unfettered joy and laughter of little girls unaware of adult responsibilities and duties.

As I pulled into Sybil’s driveway, I muted the internal dance debate. The sun was filtering through the live oak shading Sybil’s yard, and little oranges used for marmalade were peeking out from a large bush. Semiprivate lessons were attended at night, in the shadows. This was a new and brighter view. I felt exposed.