DANCER

“Again” The first time she said it I cried. Thighs quivering, knees aching and my back getting ready to snap in two. The other girls, stone cold faces and postures perfectly erect, didn’t flinch. They just did it again. Most of them had been there a year and all of them were older but that didn’t matter, I thought I could keep up. When my mom picked me up after she asked me what happened and I told her “nothing” then she asked me why I was crying and I said, “because it hurt like hell”. I had never cursed in front of either of my parents, much less raised my voice and when I said it I yelled it at her even though she was just a few feet away from me. My mom didn’t react to the curse or the yelling at all, she just took a breath and sighed. Then she said, “Do you still want to dance?” and I said, “yes” sharply to express my anger at her visible lack of compassion. “Well then the pain will fade in time.”

(pause)

My mother’s mom worked as a gardener for a bunch of rich ladies that lived in the highlands. Every day she’d get up at 5am make breakfast for herself and grandpa, clean up and go off to work at one those houses you see in Sunset magazine. You know the ones where there’s one of those big fold out sections with pictures of these unbelievably beautiful gardens and the lady of the house is pictured amongst the flora and fauna talking about her vision for the “grounds” and how the key to making your garden beautiful was simply to find the right person to help you realize your plan. That person was my grandmother. She loved her work and I don’t think I ever saw her complain, not once in the 10 summers I spent watching her dig, plant, feed and care for some of the most beautiful gardens anyone in my town had ever seen.

(pause)

I’ve heard people say that you can tell everything you need to know about a person from looking at their hands. But I would only add you need to touch them too. My grandmother’s hands were gnarled. They were witch’s hands. You know, like the witches you see in books or movies. When you looked at them from a distance, they were scary but when you got close and touched them they were unforgettable, gentle and soft, but strong enough to pull the invading roots of a tree from one her flower beds. Once when we were weeding together in one of the flower beds I dug up a long tendril that looked like it was from one of the Redwood trees nearby and started pulling hard the way I’d seen her do a thousand times when all of a sudden she reached over and grabbed my hand so hard and quick that it made me jump. “Stop” was all she said. Then she pointed and I could see that the root was actually running toward a small young Japanese maple that had been planted on the edge of one of the beds to provide a little shade for that end of the garden. She looked at me and smiled “It’s good to be strong” was all she said then she placed a little dirt back over where I was digging and moved on.

(pause)

They were all bitches, those ladies that owned the gardens where she worked. They were smart, educated, rich, strong and powerful and I hated them. They didn’t care about my grandmother or her skill and talent, all they cared about was how she made them look. I asked her once how she felt about those ladies and she said “what?” And I said, “you know, how do you make yourself work so hard when they’re so mean to you and say such awful things?” and she said, “this work, you, your mother and grandpa are what I have, it’s a good life.”

(pause)

Yesterday the conservatory called me to tell me I didn’t get in. 16 years working for something that isn’t going to happen and all they could say was, “sorry”. When I woke up this morning I took a shower, got a cup of coffee and sat out on the little porch of my apartment looking at the paper and feeling sorry for myself. I went to my computer and logged on to the university site and started filling out the Med School application. “Screw it” I thought, at least I’ll be helping people. Then I looked out the window and saw the azaleas in my flower box on the window had started to bloom. When I walked over and looked in the box I saw some junk from the city air had drifted into the box. I opened the window and carefully picked out the stuff that didn’t belong, then I picked up some dirt from the box and smelled it. It was quiet and in the silence, I could hear my teacher from years ago say it. “Again”. Then I put on my sweats and came down here.

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