The figure in the movie twirled on its head, executed a flip and landed neatly on its feet. That figure was my daughter. I was watching a film at the Museum of Natural History in New York City. My daughter had managed to win a part in the movie, one large enough to earn her mention in the credits.
This film, Pulse: A Stomp Odyssey, was about the magic of sound. My daughter's dancing feet, landing on the hard floor of a subway station, created one of those magical sounds.
"I'm so proud," I gushed after we left the theater. "You were wonderful. I can't believe those moves. I can't believe how you defy gravity. It's amazing."
My daughter looked at me, as I hugged her, and told me something that stopped me in my tracks.
"I remember," she said, "when you would jump up on the table and dance flamenco."
My heavens, it was true. I'd forgotten those days. I'd be alone with the children at home and behind closed doors would give vent to impulse. Music moved me. If I heard a certain beat my feet would respond. I would throw off my shoes, climb up on the long trestle table in the dining room, and tap out the rhythm in my heart. That table was broad and solid, a perfect stage for someone with imagination.
My daughter became a dancer, most likely not because I danced, but because my spark of enthusiasm gave her a template she felt free to act on.
She and her friends were spontaneous dancers. As a teenager she'd come home and look around the house.
"What do you need?" I'd ask.
"Linoleum. Do we have any?"
Yes we did. She would carry off a section, cut from a larger piece, and leave with her friends. As they walked in the streets they'd find a receptive place and throw the linoleum down. Right there, in front of everyone and anyone, they would perform. They would battle. They would hone their dance skills.
The funny thing is, as much as I loved to dance, and responded to music intuitively, I never danced in public.
I remember once, in Spain. My travel companion and I attended a live flamenco performance. I was entranced. Then the spell woven by the dancers was broken. A gentleman approached.
"Would you like to dance?" he asked. I was stunned, tongue-tied. There was no way I was getting up and dancing with that man, in front of other people. But I was unsophisticated and didn't know what to say.
Finally, after an awkward period of silence, he graciously suggested, "You are tired?"
I nodded my head and he went away. I am certain he was chuckling at my lack of poise.
When I danced on my dining room table, I suspected then I might have been the only mother in my neighborhood acting in that way. But front doors are closed for a reason. Behind them people do private things, stuff they wouldn't want anyone to know. I sometimes wondered what little, innocent secrets my neighbors harbored behind their own closed doors.
I like to think my freedom, my spontaneity, helped give my daughter permission to act when the spirit of dance hit. I like to think she didn't know about the other me, the me that wouldn't dance in public. She remembered the unconstrained mother, the mother moved by music who would dance flamenco anywhere, whenever the music moved her.
My daughter eventually had quite a career as a dancer. She didn't pursue the path followed by so many of her suburban classmates. She didn't take a job in a financial firm, or a school. She didn't become a dentist. She traveled the world. She performed on the David Letterman Show. Danced with Missy Elliot, Mariah Carey, Jay-Z. Body doubled for Jennifer Lopez. More important than these accomplishments, she lived her dream, something most people aren't able to do. In her dance community she has been called a legend. Most people certainly don’t have that distinction.
Some might say my daughter missed out on career opportunities. I would say, kudos to that. She lives a sedate life now, with a job and a pension, like most people. But she's not like most people, and never will be. Most of us don't live out our dreams.
As the years have passed I've come to appreciate a privilege conferred by age. I get to choose my memories. I exercise the privilege here as I contemplate the past. I think on an afternoon long ago, of the instant my daughter drew a line between her love of dance and my eccentric flamenco exercise. I cherish the idea that a connection may exist between her early impressions and the miracle of the twirling, graceful figure that animated the movie screen one afternoon at the Museum of Natural History.
Picture credit
I made a collage out of two Pixabay images:
Dancer: Gordon Johnson from Pixabay
Table: Metropolitan Museum of Art on Wikimedia Public domain
I used a Gimp filter to give the spotlight effect.
