AND WE’RE WALKING

Back in 1972, when I was a college freshman minoring in dance, my aha moment revealed itself when my need to wear a leotard all-day-every-day was nixed by my Quantitative Reasoning, Natural Sciences and Spanish professors. That being the case, I had no choice but to take another course of action by transferring to a university where I could be a DANCE-all-the-time-MAJOR… and wear my Danskins 24/7.

While finishing out that freshman year, I immersed myself in every possible dancing opportunity in order to be ready for the crucial audition enthusiastically anticipated. While counting down the days, I danced to “Nights in White Satin” and “Morning has Broken” and if someone, anyone, needed a dancer I was all oo-oo-pick-me, pick meeeeee!

When audition day arrived I was all leotard-ready-identifying-number-pinned. The room was dizzy with collective jitters buzzing and determination keenly felt; leg warmers, elastic belts and wrap skirts on display. We eyeballed one another while over-stretching and feigning confidence. Dancers psyching out their competition. And there was a LOT of psyching-out going on in that room.

So it began!

With live drums providing our rhythmical pattern… we walked across the floor.

And as the percussive pulse accelerated, our walk increased to match the zippier tempo.

Next…

well… we walked

AGAIN.

JUST MORE S L O W L Y .

And then… get ready for it …we skipped .

NEXT we HOPPED!

And after a skip and a hop, we did a sequence of the ever popular sliding and galloping.

FINALLY,

we SKIPPED,

HOPPED,

GALLOPED,

AND SLID in one very mind-blowing’ combination.

All those years of ballet…

…and we WALKED???!!!

Nevertheless, the acceptance letter arrived (sanctioning my ability to walk-the-walk) and it was official – I was a DANCIN’ MAJOR. My previous dance instructors would surely have had hell to pay if I had been rejected after that sham of an audition!

Then it began.

My semester of theory and composition, in approaching choreography, was wrought with hostility from the get-go.

“you are pointing your toes too much”,

“you are dancing too much”, 

“YOU ARE DOING A MUSICAL?

And my favorite, “but what does it meeeeeean?”

By using the spoken word or movement prompted by an angsty hand… or, you guessed it, WALKING … ones choreography was considered to be full of all that MEEEEANING  they were on the lookout for. Pseudo-intellectual, pedestrian technique was the ticket and scant training was quite advantageous. So I played along.

In cahoots with my non-dance-major roommates I set in motion a cerebral improvisation with the intention of basing my ‘piece’ off of what they quirkily demonstrated. And then I presented  my finished product to my fellow artistes…

Pressed up against the dimpled wall of the buildings’ facade I cautiously crept along its length and breadth.

In my tentative rising and falling I methodically fondled the indentations with my fingertips. And with each undulation I was in symbiosis with my breath.

Suddenly, gasping, I rejected the wall. Lunging away – I laboriously collapsed. And as I reached the terra firma in that expeditious descent I desperately struggled to fortify my distance from the facade with an intricate, elongating arm sequence … outstretching, straining, reaching.

But as hard as I labored to postpone the magnetic pull of the wall, it nevertheless drew me back upon it.

And I audibly murmured, set me free, set me free, set me free…”.

Now THAT is some kind of pseudo meaning… doncha think? Shamelessly, and smugly, I made a show of acknowledging each of the interpretive responses they all claimed to conclude from my solo. IT WAS AMAZING. I duped them all… over and over. And that was my ace-in-the-hole A for the semester.  

Coming from a ballet, jazz, musical theatre background, it didn’t take long for me to recognize that both jazz and musical theatre were not styles to be celebrated, encouraged or, for that matter, sanctioned in any way. So I took it upon myself to sneakily teach a jazz class once a week in a church basement. UNDER AN ASSUMED NAME... which I can’t recall, but might have been Sondra.

And unsurprisingly the dance faculty tried to put the kibosh on my musical theatre endeavors by calling me in for a meeting to ‘plain myself. I showed them a thing or two by using my real name when I performed in both Sweet Charity and Promises, Promises.

When we had been assigned our thrice weekly technique class I may have pledged my first born to secure a spot in a former member of the famed Jose Limons’ Dance Company  – Chester Wolenski (having performed in Camelot on Broadway I thought he might get me). And you know what? He did. And not ONCE did we WALK ACROSS HIS FLOOR.

However the following semester I was taught by she-who-shall-not-be-named. It did not go well. SHE did not get me. AT ALL.

Strutting, NOT WALKING,  my way into the command center of our dance department, I pleaded with the departments’ grand poobah to allow a switcheroo back to dear Chester’s class. His response? No way, not in this lifetime, not gonna happen.

So I did what any self-respecting fed up chorus girl would do – I excited stage left, gave the entire department the ‘one finger salute’, hightailed it over to my rightful studio, spent the rest of the semester with dear Wolenski and received a failing grade in that other class – my triumphant F! (U).

By this time it was quite apparent that my time in this disapproving dancing department needed to come to an end. GET ME OUT OF HERE was the undercurrent of every improvisation. And that’s when I showed them all some irrefutable “MEEEEANING”.

I hoofed it on back to professor poobah, declared my withdrawal and conveyed my desire to pursue a career in jazz dance and musical theatre… hello jazz hands, hello Broadway! He coolly wished me well while also equating a career outside of the walking-skipping-sliding dancer with that of a stripper. Which is a complete slap in the face for all strippers.

Out of that office… head held high, certain of my decision…. I performed the most contented and self-possessed

Soaring of a SKIP,

Satisfying of a SLIDE,

Gratifying of a GALLOP,

Winning of a WALK ever witnessed within the confines of that particular Center for the Performing Arts.

I kissed that place goodbye!

I flaunted my MEANING all right. So-long-farewell, so long dearie, goodbye old dear, BUH BYE...

...hello love.

~photo: Promises, Promises (“It’s Turkey Lurkey Time”) circa 1974 (that’s me on the left)