#48: Watch an Alvin Ailey Dance Production

The college kid in baggy trousers pulled out his BlackBerry at intermission, in the lush box tier section of the Kennedy Center Opera House, and tapped out a message to a friend: "I'm at a stupid concert. I know the game is on..."

It's funny, the different ways we experience life. 

The kid and I sat next to each other in the dark concert hall as the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre weaved wordless stories on the stage below us. He kicked back at times, rested his head on his chair and shut his eyes to grab snatches of sleep. I scooted to the edge of my own chair, leaned over the balcony's edge and stared awestruck at bodies more chiseled and athletic than any I've seen. 

He seemed the reluctant third wheel of his parents. I was fulfilling a dream, ticking #48 off my life list. 

The kid didn't want to be there. I didn't want to be anywhere else. 

I can't recall the first time I heard about the Alvin Ailey dance company. The Charlie Rose show, perhaps. I know he's a fan. Or maybe it wasn't until I started watching So You Think You Can Dance. Members of the renowned dance company have appeared on the show from time to time. 

Whichever, I was intrigued enough to make seeing them myself a part of my life list. The power of the life list is not just that it compels you to live life more fully, but that when you share it, others help make your dreams happen as well. And so, two months ago, I was surprised to see a message in my email box with the simple subject: Life List. 

"Hi Dana!," it read. "I've been fascinated by your blog for some time now, and I was marveling at your life list. One in particular caught my eye - your desire to see an Alvin Ailey dance show."

The message was from a parent at the kids' preschool, a woman I don't know well whom I had no idea even read my blog. 

"They're coming to the Kennedy Center in February and the tickets went on sale this morning! Consider going - they're incredible."

Without that email, without her help, it's likely I never would have known the dancers were appearing a short drive from our house. 

The show opened with a piece called "Streams" that I found disappointing and dispassionate, though my God, I thought, the bodies! I couldn't get over the musculature on display, the raw strength, even if the dancers seemed to just be executing steps. I worried the night would be too complicated for someone like me - a neophyte with no dance background - to penetrate. 

After a pause, though, the curtain pulled back to reveal tables and chairs, two door frames. "Props!" I whispered, with excitement. Like the table Twitch and Sasha tangoed on this past season of SYTYCD and the door frame Twitch and Katee fought through years ago. 

They called the production "Urban Folk Dance" and it was a steamy tale of relationships, infidelities, passions lost and rekindled, an obvious inspiration for the Twitch/Sasha "Misty Blue" piece. I was on the edge of my seat. The kid next to me? I was too engrossed to notice. 

After the intermission, the dancers joined en masse for an electric production of "Minus 16" that sounded, at times, to pulse to the music of Ravi Shankar. Listen, I don't know how to describe this piece other than bodies possessed by a spirit. They threw shoes, stripped off clothes, fell to the ground, stomped chairs and whiplashed  backwards. It was mesmerizing. But even more stunning was later when the dancers fanned out among the seats and picked audience members to join them in joyous improvisation on stage. 

I died with fright -- and envy too. Had they picked me, I would have stood mortified on stage, paralyzed by my own inhibitions. I envied the people they chose, their freedom and playfulness. And wished it could have been me. I watched them and wished I could have been that brave. That alive. 

Because that's what dance does, right? Emboldens and frees you. If you're lucky. If you allow it. 

By the end of the show, the disinterested kid next to me borrowed his mother's binoculars to better watch the dancers and I felt overwhelmed by several of the spirituals in the closing production of "Revelations."  The music, the dance, they transported me back to the wooden pew in Raleigh where every Sunday I'd shut my eyes and cry as the choir shook the church with their gospel hymns. 

Thank you, Emily, for turning me on to the show. Thank you so so much!

Raising Readers

We went to a neighbor's house this past weekend to help their daughter celebrate her 4th birthday. The kids played with legos and dolls and whatever else littered the well-stocked playroom. But after a spell, Desmond wandered into the dining room where the adults were sitting. 

"Do you have any books?" he asked.

Did you see the piece in the Wall Street Journal about French parents and why they're better than American ones? Remember the buzz about Tiger Moms and how their strict, demanding style makes most Western parents seem indulgent and lazy? 

There are so many stories and reports and "experts" who remind me I'm doing it wrong. I don't fret over them for the most part because I do a bang-up job of badgering myself already. I'm well aware that I'm too often short-tempered and impatient, that I'm overwhelmed by the noise, especially when I'm distracted by words and stories in my head. I don't volunteer enough, and we simply can't afford the array of activities that no doubt would enrich the kids lives. 

The only thing I can do is redouble efforts every day to dig deeper for patience and focus and compassion, and pray hard that the kids forget, or eventually forgive, the anger. 

Every so often, though, I get a glimpse like this past weekend that we're doing at least a few things right by our kids. Desmond wasn't interested in the toys; he wanted to read! I would have high-fived Kent right there in our friends' dining room if he'd been at the party.

And on Friday, Esme brought home her report card. Tucked inside was a handwritten note from her teacher who complimented Esme on her strong reading and writing skills. "She's devouring books right here in my classroom," her teacher wrote. "I honestly delight in her writing. Oh my, keep her at it!"

Small victories, they're what keep me going.

The Tipping Point

He put his drink down when he looked into the bloodshot eyes of the man he knew a lifetime and realized he was staring back at himself.

A bloated, middle-aged man who squinted to stop the room from spinning sat slumped over a card game in the middle of the night and pretended no one noticed the slurred words as they spilled from his mouth like wet dough. 

His brother wobbled and knocked a beer across the table; he never picked up another. 

_______

Another weekend assignment for Trifecta Writing Challenge. The task: write a story in three sentences.

Om

A lot of talk about the end times lately, what with the trippy weather and Newt Gingrich's resurgence. I say we all follow Desmond's lead and chill out.

When Words Fail

Black characters spill onto the stark white screen and chase a blinking cursor:

Rat a tat tat tat,

The sound of lovers leg-locked and lusty,

Until the tat tat tats taper and...

Stop. 

_____

This was submitted for the new weekend edition of the Trifecta Writing Challenge. The prompt: Write a love story in 33 words. I'm fairly certain my story of a failed love affair with words and writing will be one of the more unusual takes on the prompt, but it's where my head (and heart) are right now.