Jan 6, 2010
In the UK the word “just” is flung with the kind of casual ease that shrinks the importance of even things that contain lots.
“Oh yeah, you're still fine with the little performance thing we're going to have you do on Wednesday for the kids right? It's just so that they can see you dance. You can do anything really, it doesn't matter.”
But when the better portion of a lunch talk was devoted to details like the feasibility of the stage surface with no marley, the lighting design__
“I'm sorry the lighting design?” I asked. “This won't be a houselights only situation?”
“Oh, well, we'll still throw some lights on you, something simple. What are you wearing?”
I wondered if the appropriate answer was full hair and make-up and a $2,000 costume. But instead I told Christie I could just throw on a pair of white linen pants and call it a day.
When Kyle (my assistant and adopted little brother) and I made it to what ended up a tech rehearsal, the degree of dupe tracked better. Still it wasn't until the actual performance, when I noticed that nestled cozy in the auditorium was the entire population of high school girls, along with a healthy number of faculty members, it rose to full-scale bamboozlement.
For sure though, it was picking up the microphone and asking the very quiet crowd of mostly young ladies at this exclusive all-girls academy if there were questions__this is when my facial features got shuffled. I'd just danced a solo to an a capella sound byte of Barack Obama discussing the treatment of war veterans in this country. Yet no arms flew upward.
“No questions?”
“Jammaal__” And at this point one of the teachers directed my focus to the aisles that split the middle section of kids. Standing on either side of it was a microphone with its own cue.
This was a symposium, screw a small lec-dem.
I would be whupping my friend's behind when this was over.
The young ladies proceeded to ask questions as if someone had trained them in the art of interview. Was there anyone who pushed you to dance? Do you plan to eventually start your own company? What are the difficulties you find in dancing to spoken word? How did this piece with Obama's voice get created? What is your book about? What do you think about when you're dancing?
This last question caught me on the soft part of my skull. I explained to her that the objective is to get as far away from the cognitive part as possible and engage in the practice of transcending, that the thinking part happens in the rehearsal. The young lady wasn't satisfied with this answer.
“What makes you want to dance?”
It invited a more personal answer rooted in spirituality. They weren't done with me.
Someone asked where have I always wanted to dance and why. Someone else asked the name of my favorite piece to perform and favorite location.
Spain and Italy for sure. It occurred to me to do the prudent thing and ask if anyone had been to Europe. When I did, 90% of the people in the room raised their hands. I had forgotten where I was.
After it was over and I waited backstage, Christie came in and offered in the same casual tone with which she downplayed the entire event, “Good job. I think that went over really well, huh?”
Before I could say anything, another gentleman, probably the director of the high school walked in. He said this:
“I have a compliment. Robbie George, director of the philosophical law from Princeton came and spoke to them and this was better. You blew it out of the water.”
I was relieved, both to have not known sooner the act I was to follow, and that I stood up to that standard, let alone surpassed it.
But it got even better. After I'd changed clothes and Kyle reiterated (as only a little brother can) how proud he is to know me and how tear-jerking the entire hour was for him, we ran into a stately, coiffed blonde with a bubbly spirit. Christie introduced her as the person who funded my being here.
“Hi! It's so nice to meet you. I missed the performance but I heard the talk-back. Great job. My daughter has been enjoying your classes so much.”
I had been debriefed before the week began that the mother of one of the kids put up the ten grand personally. I ended up using her as one of the featured girls in the piece not because she was the best, but because she looked woeful and innocent in what ended up a romp of social commentary about what happens when the mainstream overtake the unique.
“Thank you so much. I'm glad you enjoyed it.”
“I want you to know I have always been such a firm believer that art is the connective tissue that transcends race, creed, gender differences. Of course my daughter is a huge Obama fan so when I walked in she looked over at me as if to say, 'See, this is what it's about!'”
“You sound like you're very involved in the arts. As a patron?”
“Well that too. I was the ambassador for the arts in France under President Bush.”
Blood exited my whole cranium.
Later I would be told that there are copious pictures of her with the Bushes. Did Alanis not include this in “Ironic,” the part about dancing to Obama in the big-haired Texas South where the other side still reigns and just pays your salary? Hm.
I had to thank God in stereo for not letting this be disastrous.
Yes I thanked Christie too. Eventually.
