A Journey Through Dance

I've been told that I have a face that encourages people to talk to me.  In fact, it encourages people to spill their guts to me.  So I've been told. And so I've experienced.  Today was one of those experiences.  My dance instructor spilled her life story into my lap.  I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.

She is a presence, a whirlwind of a presence.  She flies into class all decked out for belly dancing: two piece outfits with form-fitting bras and flowy harem pants, scarves, jewelry, a jingly coin belt,  full make up, exotic perfume.  She speaks quickly, promising to tone our lady parts,  slim our torsos, and strengthen our cores.  Turning the music up loudly enough to irritate the class next door, we dance.  In fact, we dance so enthusiastically as we follow her lead, that one of the ladies flipped herself smack onto the floor today.  (She's fine.)  The whole time the teacher encourages us to smile, to feel the music, to express the joy and the freedom of the dance.

She's talking to me, an arthritic old fat lady in shorts and a t-shirt, like I'm the next Shakira.

She believes in us.  She loves shaking us up, literally and figuratively.  Because she knows where she came from, and now so do I.

R. was a chef in Singapore at the Hilton Hotel.  I remember being in Singapore, and indeed, that was a very prestigious hotel and she must have been a very important person.  Maybe so, she said, but she was miserable, depressed and hated her life.  This little woman I now know was once 300 pounds.  Every movement was a chore.  All day on her feet was torture.  She was the brunt of every joke ever told in that kitchen and in her social life.  Being overweight in America is difficult enough.  But to be that obese in an Asian country where small is the norm, she was an oddity and people did not hide their comments and contempt.  Every day brought new humiliation, and she could not stand her life.  So, she decided to end it.

When she's teaching us a stomach roll, I stare at R's belly to understand the move.  She has an ugly scar that is exposed by the outfits she wears.  I assumed she'd had surgery.  No.  That's a self-inflicted wound.  In a rage, in a fit of anger and hatred for herself, she began stabbing at her ugly body, determined to kill the ugliness she believed was her. By the time she was taken to the hospital, she had torn the body she hated into pieces and was on the verge of death.

R. will tell you she saw God.  He told her that her life wasn't over.  She had more to do on this Earth and He was sending her back to do it. After thirty days in the hospital she was released to nothing. No job. No friends. Nothing but the determination to figure out how to live and do what God had planned for her.

R. found a job in a small café and began to work on herself.  She studied dance.  She studied the body and how it worked.  She became certified to teach dance, and she took her skills to other women who needed to learn to free their bodies through dance.  She ate a strict vegetarian diet.  She rented time at a dance studio where she worked out her frustrations and practiced rebuilding her life.  She traveled to other countries to study dance, Cuba being one of them (she'd noticed my Havana t-shirt that day).  Women around the world were changed as she taught them the freedom of dance. It took her four years, but she lost the extra weight.  She has a body that is imperfect enough that we oldsters are able to trust her to teach us, but it is healthy and just perfect for R.  She married a military man who brought her to America and to us.

Belly dancing class is on hiatus until January. If you'd like to join the winter Belly Fit class, registration at the Senior Center is open until December 22.


Dance is for everybody. I believe that the dance came from the people and that it should always be delivered back to the people
Alvin Ailey


If we danced and shared music, we’d be too busy en-joy-in’ life to start a war.
E.A. Bucchianer

What makes me smile

Lately, all I've written about is what makes me sad.  Today I realized I was smiling as I drove to cardio class. Smiling on the way to torture class?  What was that all about?

I love sunny days, and we have experienced a crisp autumn full of them.  The leaves have changed slowly, and they were gorgeous this year.  I love the bright yellow and red leaves as they shimmer in the sky.  This season seemed like payback for a skimpy spring when my flowering trees were severely damaged by a late freeze that left them unable to fully blossom.  In fact, the dogwood seems to barely be hanging on.  But I'm raking up the leaves as they finally fall, and it's the kind of exercise I don't mind.  For a little while.  Before I get too cold or I step in poop as I rake. Or it's time for "The Young and the Restless."

The belly dancing class I'm taking could be called belly laughing.  The teacher comes to class dressed in character, dangling earrings, bracelets, coin belts, I Dream of Jeanie pants, and her velvet bras.  I wear sweats and baggy t-shirts around which I tie my bedraggled coin belt.  Over my ragged breathing, I'm supposed to hear it jingle when I shake my hips.  Rose's movements are flowing, graceful, and straight out of Bollywood.  We mimic our teacher and feel like goddesses.  I can see what my classmates really look like, and I can only imagine how ridiculous I look, so I smile and laugh for the whole hour. I love these ladies with their beet red faces.  Afterwards, a hot shower feels therapeutic as every muscle in my body aches from the exertion. I can imagine, dear reader, that you too are smiling as you picture a bunch of arthritic sixty years olds in sweatpants wiggling their flabby hips and jelly bellies in time to exotic music. Laugh all you want, but as the teacher says, we are keeping our lady parts vibrant! Ha! Can you say the same?

I love my trivia team.  Once a week we meet in Port and set out to beat Trainwreck. We'd like to beat everybody, but they have been our friendly rivals since the good old casino days, so beating them is especially gratifying.   We are one of the smaller teams, but we are probably the loudest, and maybe even the most obnoxious.  Every time I think I'm saying 'Oh shit' to myself, I just have to look at Trainwreck staring at us to see I've yelled again.  We argue over everything.  Because I sit across from her, I've come to recognize that Clare gets a certain look on her face when she's disgusted with us, but she's going to let us give our dumb answer. We have developed "the Pose" for members whose right answers were rejected by the team.  Someone strikes the pose by leaning back in their chair, folding their arms in front of them, and sneering, sneering, sneering. I like to use the word "Wanamakers" when I  strike the pose. (Team L&B, you know why.) We cheer over everything we answer correctly.  We have no humility.  I absolutely love my teammates and my Wednesdays!!!  The fact that we are on the fast track to semi-finals is pretty exhilarating, too.

St. John's Food Cupboard also makes me really happy.  Times right now in our country are hard, hard, hard.  I make no bones about it; I despise our so-called president and question the motives of the  repubs trying to pass legislation that screws the common person. But every time we open our doors and share food and friendship with our clients, I feel like we are positively impacting our crazy world.  I'm the greeter, the attendance taker, the Paperwork Bitch, the sympathetic listener, and the first friend. I sympathize with their tales of woe, I worry when a regular misses a week, I rejoice when something has gone right for one of them, and I flatter them by remembering their names.  In a world that sometimes feels hopeless, I feel hopeful when I see myself and my church friends making a real difference. They care about me too.  They're concerned that I need to set up shop outside in order to do my job correctly. Sometimes it's melting hot; lately it has been freezing cold. One of my ladies told me last Friday that if I don't start wearing a hat she'd going to bring me earmuffs because she worries about me being cold.  She worries about me....  I love "my peeps."

Realizing that the holiday season is upon us and has been upon us since early October, I smile knowing I am soon going to start saying  "Happy Holidays" just because this snowflake can!!!  Take that,  Faux News!

Autumn

This time of the year always evokes memories and emotions in me. 

It used to be Back to School time!  Fifteen years a student.  One year a teacher's aide.  Thirty years a teacher. That's a lot of new school supplies!  My niece, Billie, recently reminded me of my love for new school supplies because she has the same bug.  As she told me in a text, she was most excited about returning to school because she could use her school supplies. "...they just give off this 'use me' feel."

I loved this season during my school years.  The song "Dancing in the Moonlight" by King Harvest immediately takes me to college: dances, bonfires, parties in the bush, football games, touch football, laughter.  Lots of laughter.  Everything seemed so new and exciting.  Life was a never-ending adventure.  It hit me recently, for forty-six years of my life, September, not January, signaled the REAL new year.  When everything was new and busy and exciting.  No wonder I was so alive during the fall.

So why am I so damn depressed this Autumn? 

I seem to be grieving all over again for my brother.  I didn't understand why at first. He was born in June, died in December.  Why is September giving me such a hard time?  Yesterday it hit me like a ton of bricks. September was the month when I moved to Helen's house to help take care of him.  When I drove him back and forth to chemo, to radiation, to doctor appointments.  When the days were golden and bright, and I was anything but. When the only beauty in the day were the changing colors of the trees we passed daily on our many, many rides. (The symbolism of those leaves and the seasons of life not escaping this poetry teacher's notice.) When I'd sit outside on the deck and hope that the cool crisp Autumn air would blow the hospital stink out of my hair, my clothes, my being. When I knew deep in my heart that we were going to lose him.

Times are sad for so many.  I have to write out a list of people to pray for because there are so many that I can no longer recall them all without my list.  So many sick.  So many doing the same cancer rides my brother and I did.  So many people breathing in the crisp fall air as they gather their strength and prepare for another desperate day.  Guests to our church's Cupboard whom I hadn't seen in a while sharing the sad reasons for their absences, a wife who passed away, a father gone, a serious hospitalization. Wildfires in the Northwest. Hurricanes in Texas. Hurricanes in Florida.  Total devastation in the Caribbean.  My country torn apart by racism, ignorance, homophobia, and totally incompetent "leadership." Sometimes, it just all seems too much.

I am a strong and stubborn person. I will count my blessings every day, because I do recognize how good I've got it.  I will help those in pain with my words, my prayers, and my actions. I will use the gifts of compassion and empathy God gave me through first hand experience with a grief so deep that it haunts for years afterwards. I may even eventually dance again in the moonlight. 

Suicide, Bullying, and Kids

I've been thinking a lot about a news story I heard today.  A sixth grade girl committed suicide at the end of the school year because of bullying.  Her parents are blaming the school as sole contributor to her suicide, and they are proudly suing the school district because "they should have done something."

Something.  What something? 

When I taught, kids were very careful to keep bullying a secret from the teachers.  I rarely saw it, and when I dealt with what I saw, I was met with opposition.  I called parents who basically didn't believe me but said they would talk to their child. I reported cases to the office, but often the bullied child refused to admit what had happened, so their tormentor went free.  Or even more frustrating was when I was encouraged by administrators not to write up an incident because the bully had an IEP and could not be held responsible for behavior caused by his disability. Yes, you read that correctly. 

Those were the "old days," the days before computer use was commonplace. Cyberbullying, now, is widespread.

Kids have very sophisticated ways to cyberbully other children.  And parents are quick to go to school authorities about what is done on social media. I don't understand why they think the school is responsible for handling what is happening outside of school.  Schools teach kids how to use technology, but a school can't restrict a child's use of his/her home computer.  How are schools entirely responsible for controlling and stopping the bullying?

If it gets so far that a child is suicidal, where are the parents?  Why haven't they taken the technology away from their kid for the kid's own mental well-being?  Why aren't they dealing with the other parents and, if necessary, the police?  Why isn't the kid in counseling? Some bullying could simply be stopped by teaching a child how to handle mean kids.  How does an eleven year old reach that point of no return and nobody intervene before that child commits suicide?

I just don't understand.  There are an awful lot of "bullying" programs worked into school curriculum, but are any of them effective?  Schools proclaim they are anti-bullying, but they consistently do not follow the policies so idealistically established.

What is going on in our world that children are unable to defend themselves or be defended in a mean society? What is going on that leads them to death by their own hands?

Sometimes I wonder if people secretly admire the "mean girls" for their popularity and "leadership" qualities.  Sometimes I wonder if boys are considered more masculine if they torture weaker classmates.  And sometimes I wonder how much of the bullying behavior is actually modeled as normal by the adults in charge of raising the next generation.

When asked what the parents filing the lawsuit hope to accomplish, they claimed they wanted schools to stop sweeping bullying under the rug.  I don't think it's being swept under any rug, but I honestly don't know how much more schools can be expected to handle outside of reading, writing, and arithmetic.

I feel such sorrow for those parents and the parents of other children who have ended their lives.  But, the problem is far more complex than any school's responses to bullying.  I guess the lawsuit will help those parents feel like they are doing "something."  But what?

YOLO

I was chatting today with an acquaintance I hadn't seen in twenty some years.  Obviously, we were much older than when we last saw each other, but we were certainly recognizable. Our hair is still brown; maybe hers is natural, but mine comes out of a box.  Her face looked great, skin still as smooth as a peach. I look a little apricoty, if I do say so myself.  One thing we always had in common was our weight, and the never ending battle to keep it under control.  However, she made a comment that bothered me and got me to thinking.  She refuses to wear a bathing suit.  This woman loves the water and spent many, many days sunbathing at the beach.  Now, as our days grow shorter and the time we have left on this earth to do what we enjoy is waning , she is too embarrassed to wear a swimsuit and do what she once enjoyed. (Did I mention we were at a memorial service for a man who would have given anything just to plop his weathered old body into a Speedo and drink his rum and Diet Cokes at Rehoboth Beach one more time?) I hope I got through to her.  Seriously, we look like grandmas.  Who's even paying attention to us at the pool, the beach, the hot tub? Wear that bathing suit, dammit!

We will not live forever.  And even if we do get close to forever, we will probably not have the healthy mobility to do what we want.

I hate the term "bucket list." I don't know why, I just do.  My friend Dottie and I used to call it "The List," and we'd congratulate each other when we checked something off of it.  I recently checked something off my list, a trip to Cuba.

There's a difference between traveling and vacationing.  Traveling can be hard work.  Our first day in Cuba included three tours in 95-100 degree weather with humidity, stifling humidity.  We visited a cemetery known for its white tombs, and the sun that blindingly reflected from them.  I was melting like butter on toast.  But I kept up with them! I was not going to waste the tour cowering under some skinny tree and looking longingly at the air-conditioned bus. Tour Two took us to an art museum.  The guide warned us that the elevator was not working, no surprise in a third world country.  Three of the five in our group opted to stay on the air-conditioned bus.  My friend, Liane, and I trudged the trail until we got to the top of the museum.  Our guide gave us a personal tour and explained the local art.  I am forever thankful for his insight, and the very special opportunity we were given.  Some years ago I weighed more than I do now, and I might not have made it up the various levels.  Some year from now, I may have to be the one who stays on the bus because I just can't do it.  But, I could do it that day, and I did!  That night was our third walking tour.  My legs ached.  My feet were killing me.  But the fresh mojito at Hemingway's favorite bar kept me going.  More walking and climbing the next day, but hey, we saw Hemingway's Havana house!  It was a fabulous trip.

When I got home, I gave in to the sheer exhaustion.  Lots of sleep.  Lots of OTC pain relievers.  Lots of blisters.  My bad knee became gangster naughty, locking up on me, threatening to send me flying across the floor, and causing me to use a cane for a while. ( It's very hard for me to get up when I fall flat on my face. Don't ask me how I know.)  I don't remember being in this much pain when I returned from a three week European tour when I was in my thirties.

It was a short trip, and it took a lot out of me.  But, I will gladly go back and spend more time in that hot humid country if given the chance.  Because I realize, I'm getting older;  good health is no longer something to take for granted, and life is offering more opportunities than I will ever be able to enjoy.  I'll don my ugly walking shoes, wear my goofy sunblocking hat, and push myself as long and hard as I am able.  For I know many who are no longer able, and none of them thought it would happen so soon. You only live once.  Don't let some candles on a cake determine what you can or cannot do.

Take that trip.  March on Washington.  Play that piano. Learn to paint. Take dance lessons. Learn to ride a bike. Wear that bathing suit.

Live!

Marianne

Today I learned of the passing of one of my classmates, Marianne Young.  To say I am sad is both simplistic and completely accurate.  I am sad.

I always envied her hair in high school.  She had long, straight, flowing dark brown hair.  She had the perfect hair for the times.  It was beautiful!! Yet because we were highschoolers, she was teased for her hair.  Certain individuals, my football captain brother included, thought it "funny" to call her Pocahontas. Yet, Marianne took it in stride.  In fact, she actually told me at one of the reunions I attended with my brother as my guest, that all was good between them.  She smiled and said all was forgotten and forgiven, and my brother wasn't a bad guy after all.  And then she laughed.

If you knew Marianne, you knew her laugh.  She laughed, as trump would say, "bigly."  Her laughter filled her body.  Her laughter lit up her face.  Her laughter was contagious, exuberant, and genuine. I am so happy that I was able to laugh with her many, many times.

As happens with high school friends, we went our separate ways and only saw each other at reunions.  I am a lucky person to be a member of the Class of 1971, Upper Merion High School.  We have a committee that regularly throws a reunion every five years.  I always felt a bit anxious as I sent in my check.  Who would I know?  Will we have anything to talk about?  Will Marianne be there?  Because, I always sat with Marianne.  I enjoyed talking to her and catching up on local stories (aka:gossip) because she had stayed local and knew it all.  She greeted me like the long-lost friend I was, and we had such a good time!!  Marianne loved to dance, and rarely let any of us at the table remain seated.  And when she danced, her long hair flowed, her smile glowed, and her joy showed.

Our last reunion was in October.  Marianne wasn't the same gregarious person she'd always been.  She was shaken by my brother's death from pancreatic cancer.  As we talked, the  big laughs weren't happening.  We both had tears in our eyes.  Then she told me how sick she had been recently.  I could see the toll of her illness, her hair had turned grey, her skin was pale, her eyes weren't smiling.  She told me that she'd been sick enough to be scared. And she still was.  But, as the crowd grew and as friends joyfully greeted her, she radiated joy and laughed grandly.  She outlasted me.  When I left, she was laughing and dancing.  "See you in five years," I said.

Godspeed Marianne.  I know how much you've missed your mother.  Hopefully, the two of you are laughing and dancing in this next phase of life.  I will miss you.

Why I Will March on Washington This Saturday

There's a big happening this weekend; and I am not referring to the inauguration, but to the day after.  Arriving from all parts of the country, women will converge on Washington DC and raise an angry fist to the incoming and current government. The Women's March on Washington plans to send a message of solidarity to our elected officials. We intend to be heard.  We intend to remind them that we will not stand by and watch our civil rights be eroded.  We will unite in our expectation that our government protect its citizens, all of its citizens, all of its men, women and children. We will demand better of them. And I plan to be there.

I did not make this decision lightly.  This March will be no picnic.  I am not comfortable in crowds, and I usually plan my events to avoid them.  I have very bad knees.  They buckle on me, and they ache.  My back hurts.  I have crappy balance.  And I'm short so I take really small steps.  I feel like I may have to run the course of the March trying to keep up with some of my sister marchers, many of whom are far closer to six feet than five. (And we all know that won't be happening.) My bladder worries me.  When I have to go, I HAVE to go.  Yea, yea I know how that female astronaut traveled cross country to attack her nemesis, gross....  My bladder is about as sturdy as a deflated dollar store balloon.  Yet, I will march because I think it is the right thing to do.

Already Congress is voting to repeal the ACA.  They are absolutely gleeful as they perform this Obama exorcism.  But, they have no replacement, no fix, no suggestions at the ready.  Thousands (if not more) of Americans will be left with no health insurance.  But who will not be left holding an empty enema bag....our Congress!  They have the Cadillac of plans.  Forever.  This is wrong!  This is dangerous!  And the public needs to inform Congress that we're mad as hell and we're not going to take it anymore. Our elected Congress has made it difficult to get the message to them.  A Republican congressman from Colorado actually snuck out the backdoor of a town meeting regarding the loss of health care benefits because he'd just had enough.  Paul Ryan has shut down his official telephone and email so he doesn't have to hear Americans complain.  He has slammed his office door to personal visitors armed with petitions and documents protesting the loss of health care.  Who is he to do that?  These elitists were elected to act in the best interests of their constituents, not their lobbyists, and certainly not their buddy party members. Who better to remind them of their obligations than angry women?

For that reason and many more, I choose to March on Washington and be heard. 

But, I'm more than a little bit afraid.  It seems like any time Americans gather in huge groups, they are at risk of attack. Since our president-elect has chosen his inauguration day to be the day the DC head of the National Guard gets the "You're Fired!" treatment, DC security will be weakened.  What will that mean for the safety of the marchers in Washington?  Where are the statements from America's elected president promising the marchers that they will be protected?  We've seen the attacks - in Boston, Florida, and so on and so on.  This gathering of women, unofficially disdained by President he-who-shall-not-be-named, is the perfect target for an attack. I can only hope and pray the worst doesn't happen.

Because I plan to March on Washington. Because I want to come home to my friends, my family, and my dog to watch our country answer the call of its citizens. Because as Rosie the Riveter said, "We can do it!"