This was written during my first tech ever as a choreographer.
It’s Hard to Hear Pride
Lights: yellow, orange and red
Shine on sweat slicked dancers.
Breathing is quick and shallow,
Hearts and pulses pounding.
None pound as hard and quick
As mine.
Music blares from the speakers,
A Latin flavor, but the thump
And rush of my pulse drown out
Its beat.
My eyes are transfixed, glued
To the swaying, stretching bodies.
Whispering is heard, soft and gentle,
To my right. It makes my
Poor heart beat a nervous tattoo against my ribs.
They are there, watching every move
My dancers make,
The judge, jury and executioner.
My classmates are animated
As they watch, their whispers
Increase in dynamic and volume.
She sits there, Sphinx-like and silent,
Legs crossed, foot bobbing absently
To the Latin rhythms.
I try to ignore them, ignore her.
My mouth is dry, breathing and throat
Constricted, hard to breathe and swallow.
My hero, flanked by my fellow classmates,
Silently watching, critiquing and analyzing
My hard work, my brainchild.
The final pose is hit, bam!
The music fades, followed by the lights.
Darkness and silence fill the theatre.
The houselights rise, my dancers
Bow and exit. I am left alone,
My soul naked before the gods.
I feel as though my heart can be
Heard by them all. My work the carcass
Upon which the vultures and hyenas will prey.
I am in Purgatory, awaiting my fate.
Will I find glory in Heaven
Or will I suffer the pains of Hell?
The silence stretches, a whisper is heard.
She starts to motion towards me,
Frantic gestures, a language only those
Around her can understand. I realize she
Means for one of the others to speak.
I swallow hard and wonder what will be said.
“Is this the same piece?” One of them asks.
“It looks so different from Thursday.”
A pause, a beat, my breath hitches.
There’s more they want to say
And I’m in limbo.
When and if will the ax fall?
“It’s so sharp and clean.”
“Much more dynamic.”
“I’m impressed by
The work you did.”
“Yeah, good job.”
Affirmations. I can breath for a moment.
My eyes, seemingly on their own accord
Drift to her with the Sphinx-like visage.
Her face is still and impassive, her foot
Still bobbing to a rhythm that is all her own.
“Cheryl, what do you think? Is it better?”
My voice shakes a bit, breaking
My desire for sangfroid. I fight,
Internally, of course, not wanting
To show how much I value and need her opinion.
I stare at her, and two pairs of brown eyes meet,
One set pleading, the other masked.
An eternity stretches, the theatre
Is completely silent and still.
My hands tremble, my breathing labored.
Answer me, please!
Then, when my body is as taught as a bowstring
And my nerves all on edge,
I see it!
A faint bob of her head,
A twitch of a smile.
For a moment, the mask lifts
And the eyes twinkle.
Then, just as quickly, the mask is replaced.
“Next piece,” she says,
Her voice not reflecting any
Emotion.
I let out the pent up breath
I didn’t realize I was holding.
It’s okay, I’m okay, everything’s okay.
Tech continues, long and arduous,
I sit in my seat, wondering on the smile
And it’s brevity.
I ponder the slight mirth in the eyes.
I realize I hardly know more about
Her reaction to my piece then I did before.
This knowledge gnaws at me.
I bite my inner lip, wondering
How I can approach her, how
I can ask for her honest opinion.
Options come to me,
But I reject them all.
Suddenly she rises
With her dancers
And together, in a fluid
Unified way, they exit the theatre,
Probably to work on her piece.
I am left with a handful of
Choreographers to watch
And comment on tech.
My mind is spinning,
My piece replaying itself constantly.
Did it not improve at all?
The doors reopen, but I don’t turn.
I am too lost in thought,
Contemplating my own work,
Wondering about its flaws.
Shuffling feet move towards me,
Something soft and light touches my shoulder.
I am taken out of my reverie,
Register it’s a hand and look up.
The first thing I see is the blue
Backpack slung over one of her
Shoulders, open and hanging off in a
Precarious position.
She is stooped over so our faces
Are level. I want to jump up
And run.
I want to leave,
Hide or disappear.
The moment of judgment has arrived.
Our eyes lock, hers are filled with—
I can’t believe it!
I don’t want to believe it!
But it’s there, in those brown orbs,
A glimmer of one of the sweetest emotions—
A glimmer of pride.
I swallow but can’t find words to speak.
My own language has deserted me.
I can only sit and stare.
“Good work,” she whispers, smiling and
Squeezing my shoulder ever so slightly.
“Very good work.”
And then she is gone,
left to finish her own choreography,
Leaving me seated in complete disbelief.
The tension suddenly leaves my body
And I go limp,
Throwing my head over the back of the chair.
I can breathe again
And I find myself sighing in relief.
My pulse beats fast, not out
Nerves this time but out of surprise.
My hero is proud of me
And, at that moment, nothing else matters.
