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~ And you are? ~

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When I tell people I’m a dancer, the general reaction is something like, “Wow! Really? That’s cool!” Followed by something along the lines of, “Must be nice doing what you love for a living!” Followed by something like, “I love Dancing with the Stars/So You Think You Can Dance!” Then there are those who immediately picture a G-string and a pole, like border crossing agents, M (when we first met), and other guys, in general.

It is cool being a dancer. I mean, how many dancers does the average person know? And how many of those dancers are contemporary dancers? To put things in perspective, if I draw a Dancer Pyramid based on income, it typically goes ballet dancers at the top, then commercial dancers (commercials, music videos), then contemporary dancers, then dirt. Broad generalizations, but you get the picture.

I’m always surprised when someone shows no reaction to, or interest in, the fact that I’m a dancer, which, in my opinion, reveals more about them than me. Humph, I think to myself, one of those! Or I’ll get the hairy-eyeball, and quickly add, “Oh, I don’t perform anymore,” to somehow justify my non-dancer physique. Sometimes I’ll also get a whiff of sarcastic resentment like, “Must be nice doing what you love for a living.” To which I want to reply, “You don’t have to judge me. I’m a dancer. I can judge myself!”

About this judgement thing…

I really envy people who manage to do things – without embarrassment, excuses or apologies – because they want to or need to, or simply because they’re curious. Whether it’s transitioning to another career, going back to school, travelling, adding a part-time job, taking time off, getting help, trying something new or making the most of what they have.

A year ago, I started filling my downtime with catering gigs. I can talk about my curiosities in event planning, the food and beverage industry, running my own business, etc., but mostly it was a convenient way to bump up my income, while accommodating my dance schedule and taking care of my dad.

I consider myself lucky to have begun my dance career in the late 80s, when contemporary dance was thriving in Canada. I’ve travelled across the country, toured the States and Scotland, danced in grand and not-so-grand theatres, and had profound experiences performing with, and for, some of the country’s most prolific dance makers and artists. Some people think I was a damn fine dancer! I’m also lucky, because I was able to sustain a performing career without relying on other jobs. Most contemporary dancers can no longer do that, nor can those of us working freelance in non-performing dance activities – like teaching, choreographing or rehearsal directing – especially if we also want/need dedicated time with family and life, in general.

It’s been an interesting journey into the food/event service industry where, for the most part, my experiences with clients, chefs, co-workers and guests have been pleasant. There have been some incidents but certainly nothing crazier than what I’ve experienced in the dance world. Egos, entitlement and unpleasantness exist in all industries, and I definitely learn a lot about people in this one. I did have a couple of encounters recently that inspired me to write this post.

I was at a catering gig, standing in the lobby awaiting guests. Suddenly, a guy and gal I went to grade school and junior-high with walked through the door. They weren’t together, they just randomly walked in at the same time! What are the odds? I’d always wondered what it would feel like if I had to serve people I knew, and I was about to find out. I approached the gal, who immediately lit up and called out my name as we gave each other a hug. She asked me how I was doing, if I was still dancing and writing. I asked her what she was doing these days etc. – all good, nothing weird at all. The guy had disappeared and when I saw him again, I was standing in front of him with a tray of appetizers. He went in for a double air kiss and after an initial, “Oh my God! How are you?” and some blah, blah, blah, we were done.

Afterwards, I was a little jarred from the encounters, wondering what my former schoolmates were thinking of me, serving them food at a reception all these decades later. But then I realized I was the one who was judging me. But why? After a lifetime of trying to explain what I do for a living, I know full well how impossible it is to encapsulate it all in the span of a double air kiss and a few niceties. And if someone thinks they know me, based only on an apron and a platter of sliders, again, doesn’t that say more about them than me? Why should I sweat it? I’m still me doing all of the things I do – some I love, some I want and some I need to do.

So, it really wasn’t the worse thing that could happen. A worse thing would be the experience of the 80-something year-old gentleman I met at a Bar Mitzvah on the weekend, who was imprisoned in an Auschwitz death camp at age 11. He somehow survived that horror and, following the liberation, moved to Israel and then to Toronto, where he’s lived for more than 45 years raising children and grand-children, and eventually writing a book about his story.

As we stood in the middle of the boisterous and extravagantly decorated hall, he easily welled up and told me his name and the title of his book, before being whisked away by the mother of the Bar Mitzvah boy. He made such an impact on me that I googled him when I got home, and ever since then I’ve been thinking about the people we meet, and how we meet, and our stories, our victories and failures, our encounters, the stuff we endure, the stuff we can’t even imagine and on and on.

I suppose I could have met this man under different circumstances, but as it was there we were, at a coming of age celebration, a Holocaust survivor and a dancer/writer/server, chatting by the salads and cold cuts, on an otherwise uneventful Saturday afternoon.

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~ in a nutshell ~

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Another thing about getting older is how much easier it is to laugh at myself and own up to things. In my younger years, I spent so much time and energy wanting to look, or be perceived, a certain way it’s amazing I even knew myself at all. I think one of the more attractive qualities about a person is when they are who they are, even when they’re trying to be someone else. Self-awareness, self-deprecation, accountability for their actions—how people deal with the choices they make is hugely revealing, isn’t it? And when they can call themselves out on own their shit? What’s more endearing than that?

Inevitably, when I’m packing to go somewhere, I’ll try on different outfits that I never wear in everyday life, because I think I’ll want to wear them somewhere else. Like somehow I’ll be a different person just because I’m drinking different water and saying, “Excuse me, where’s the restroom?” in a different language. Curiously, I’m still me anywhere I go, and I end up looking the same as I usually do. I do have a photo of myself wearing a particular outfit that I never wore before or again after. I look like an idiot.

During my “New Wave” years, I was all about being edgy and a bit mysterious in an I’m-not-trying-this-is-just-the-way-I-am kind of way. My entire closet was black and mostly second-hand, and I tended towards accents like skull and cross bone earrings, buckles, zippers, safety pins, and shearing the hair on the sides of my head. I suppose I wanted to come across as a tough, urban chick who hung out in seedy downtown clubs with nefarious characters. While there was a degree of that behaviour, I was ultimately still a suburban girl, whose dad left money on the stairs by the door, to pay for my cab fare home from the subway.

Before my “Black Period” were my early dancer years. I loved walking around the halls of my performing arts high school in my dancer persona—ripped, off-the-shoulder t-shirts à la Flashdance, tights, oversized slouchy bag and, of course, leg warmers. Once, I had a huge zit in the middle of my forehead, so I wore a sparkly headband for a week as camouflage. Hey, it was the early 80’s! I was young, doing exactly what I wanted to do with my life, and I wanted everyone to know it. Oh, how I adore that kind of clarity and confidence!

Movies, books and other interests contributed to my “Contemporary Dancer” vibe. I’d read an artsy book like Milan Kundera’s Immortality when I was around dancers, so I’d look, well, artsy. If pressed, I wouldn’t have denied that I also read US Weekly magazine, I’d simply have enjoyed it later. TV shows seemed especially shallow and not befitting of my serious artist persona, especially when talking with dancers who didn’t watch TV. I’d instead engage in furrowed-brow discussions about this art-house film or that new art exhibition, totally aware that Melrose Place was starting in an hour.

For me, the freeing thing about getting older is that I’m more transparent about who I am, and what I like and don’t. It has something to do with being less patient, wanting to be more efficient… oh hell, I just don’t fucking care as much what people think.

Amongst so many other things, I like art galleries and sports and cooking shows and 9-hour theatrical events and love stories and movies that are so bad they’re good and music that gets under my skin and poetic things that make me cry and reality TV and gathering with a bunch of people to cheer on our team and gorgeous dancing and playing charades and thinking about why people are the way they are and why stuff is and being with people who make me laugh and eating potato chips and drinking big bold red wine and oohing and awing at fireworks and travelling to places I’ve never been and being home.

My friend, S, once freely admitted that when he was travelling in Europe, he slung a guitar across his shoulder because he liked the way it made him look. He doesn’t play guitar. I love him for that.

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