Adventures of a tribal dancer...

This past weekend was wonderful fun. Gen and I head up to Chilliwack, BC to teach a weekend chock full of dancing goodness.

We got stopped for a full search at the border which was scary. I mean, had I brought a ton of stuff to sell at the workshops as I usually do, we would have been in a very awkward position, surely. But we didn't, so the car search didn't implicate us in any way. And the immigration guy was so very nice, and we chatted him up a little bit about bellydance and the workshops we were going to... Puts the fear o' god in ya, lemmie tell ya.

Every single time I visit Canada I am struck by how very very nice they all are (except for the border guards, who seem very rude by contrast, but it's kinda part of their job to be intimidating). I feel like I am coming home to old friends, even in a room of strangers. They are so open, and so giving. We were showered with a small flood of gifts right from our arrival in the form of a gift basket, complete with home-crafted bath salts, scented spray, and lotions; a package of digestives; home-canned peaches; and two mugs and a selection of teas and hot chocolate!

We tried to spend some time assembling our performance set for the following night, but kept getting stuck, so we struck out for dinner. Latitude 47 was down the street, and we got a hearty meal and a bottle of yummy wine. The "I love you man's" started pretty early this trip, and we talked about dance and our troupe and wodnerfulness around all that. We chilled back at the room, and chatted late in the dark. The morning came too fast and we were tired, but off we went!

The workshops went well. The group was pretty beginner level across the board, so we didn't get as many concepts covered as I usually get to. I hadn't realized how few of them had any tribal experience, so the movements and stylings felt very foreign to them and were a struggle on some of the rudimentary concepts. When I discovered that many of them were under the impression that a shimmy was pumping your knees, and they didn't know there even was any other kind of shimmy, I had my work cut out for me. But that was good news--I was thrilled to be able to bring some general technique and theory to them, and they were so eager and so wonderful throughout, working hard and laughing along with us. I know I had fun, and they seemed to as well.

Back at the room, we set back to assembling a couple sets for the hafla that evening. We finally settled on a two-song first set featuring the skirtwork they had learned, and a three-song second set showcasing the bhangra they would be learning the next day. The first set was a surprise--we decided last minute to add an additional set, so we weren't on the schedule. We just came slinking up the aisle when they thought the intermission was about to begin, and they erupted into applause. That was fun. :)

I always love dancing with Gen (Hell, which of my sisters don't I love dancing with?!). We definitely have a great rapport onstage, and our comparable height and shape makes us appear even more in-synch. And Gen is great at eye contact and vamping it up with me! LOL SASSSSSSSSY GENEVIEVE!! And it is a rare treat to get to do duets in our group, since we work in trios mostly, and duets tend to be very limited in use. So getting to really connect just the two of us was a treat.

Afterward, we felt like superstars. Folks heaping on praise, taking photos with us, and each of us given a bottle of wine by the beautiful and fun Amy who we became friends with at Kamloops. We felt really good about the performance. Everyone then changed and head out to dinner at a restaurant just a block away, where we stuffed ourselves, drank wine, and then sleepily head back to the room...where we ate cheetos and drank more wine, and again talked way too late.

Morning came too fast, and we had to pack up and load the car to be able to head home right after the workshops were over. We started with some drills, introducing some basics isolation concepts and introducing different shimmies, which had their eyes wide and smiles beaming at something so new and different. I love that! Their enthusiasm feeds me, and I had much fun jamming alongside Gen as my stellar assistant. We finished with Bhangra, which tapered off a bit near the end, as the students lost steam in their 8th hour of workshops in one weekend. It was hard to keep them moving near the end, which was too bad since bhangra is usually such a complete adrenaline kick! But some of them just plain gave up, and I couldn't get them to push through it. :(

We ended with a nice long yoga cool-down, and brought the workshops to a close. I packed up what was left of my vending, which wasn't much, changed into fresh clothes, made our goodbyes with kisses and hugs, and hit the road. The drive is just so easy, especially compared to the Kamloops drive which felt like ages comparatively (well it was over twice as long!). I was welcomed to Seattle by a hailstorm and grey grey pounding rain, and no hubby...puppies, but no hubby. Because he was off in Burbank, CA drinking the Disney Kool-Aid!

family livejournal travel

My Mom journaled

by Shay Moore The TribalDancer Monday, March 12, 2007

So today as I was searching for my copy of the Artist's Way (which some of my troupemates and I are going to be doing together (again for some of us)), I walked past the stack of plastic boxes which had been passed on to me from my Mom on our last visit. In our family, we didn't have scrapbooks or anything so organized. We had "memory boxes". Basically, everyone had a cardboard box where anything you achieved was thrown into. Report cards, certificates of achievement, essays, birthday cards, pictures you drew, notes, photographs... They all would get crumpled and torn over the years, but that didn't seem to be an issue when considering changing systems.

So I opened mine. Or what was mostly mine. Over time, looks like a lot of cross-pollination took place, and there were some memorabilia from all my siblings in there along with my stuff. And then I came across some cards from my Dad to my Mom. And I found some notes that seemed to be pieces of a scavenger hunt my Dad had assembled for my Mom at some time, and a little handmade heart with a promise for a backrub from Mom to Dad. I felt like I was peering in on something intensely private, and at the same time, sad that my Mom wanted to throw all of this "out" by tossing it into my memory box and pushing it off onto me.

One discovery made me take pause, and is ringing in my mind right now. My father's handwriting is just as distinct as my Mother's, and completely the opposite. While my Mom has swirling script, my Father always wrote in all-caps. Precise, boxy lettering. And he never wrote much. Even in anniversary cards, he never wrote more than "Love, Me" at the bottom. No extra note. And he always signed it "Me". So it was surprising to find a small notecard--the kind that accompanies flower arrangements--written in his stilted unpracticed cursive, which he almost never used. It read, "Honey, You deserve so much more. Me."

My mind races. What circumstance inspired him to write such a self-deprecating note? What was he apologizing for? What had he done? Or not done? What had she said? Imagining my Father in some emotional state where he believed himself to be unworthy of my Mother, or somehow incapable of giving her the life he (or she?) felt she deserved...it breaks me heart. And felt like some kind of insight into his suicide all those years later... but maybe I am reading too much into one little note. I just know it made me well up with tears as I studied it, and makes my chest feel tight to picture it now in my mind's eye...

And then I realize that maybe the card meant "You deserve so much more (than just these flowers)". And the tightness doesn't go away. Because I realize that his suicide has made me approach every piece of memorabilia with the eye of some kind of detective. I am filled with a degree melancholy and suspicion as I dig through these memories, as if searching for a clue to the mystery. I read into everything. The tiniest notes make me feel connected to him, and at the same time remind me that I didn't really ever know what was in his heart and he feels even further away than you believe even death could carry someone...

I also found some "journals" of my Mom's. I had no idea she ever journaled anything. But here they were, funny little spiral-bound memo books with her clean cursive writing I recognize anyplace. And the entries are very short, and mostly matter-of-fact.

"Oct 11th
Left this morning for Honolulu. G&G came out to the airport--so did Daddy on his way to Newark. Arrived Honolulu at 12:30. Went to Holiday Inn. Kids swam in the afternoon, ate at the hotel restaurant. Didn't attempt to make flight as TE-11 was canceled. No room for us."

I continued reading, and found this was an account of the month-long trip she took me and brother on to New Zealand when I was about 7 years old. The entries were brief throughout, a few days apart throughout the trip. Now, I know for a fact that my Mom was completely harassed by the husband of a friend we went to stay with at one point during our trip. Sicker still, it was when his wife was in the hospital giving birth to their third child, and my Mom was helping take care of the kids and house while she was away. But the short little entries reveal nothing. Sure, they relate, in two sentences, how we went to see the Queen Mother walk down Queens Way, and that the Prince himself walked right up and touched my hand and smiled at me while I waved my New Zealand flag with zeal. She shares a couple lines about our walks to the bakery each morning, and our long day on One Tree Hill, playing in the park. How Brian and I were loving tea every day, and out on the farm how we loved the fresh milk and butter. But she was nearly attacked by her friend's husband, and she doesn't note it anywhere?

Which got me thinking about the nature of journaling, and associated blogging, and wondering "Who is this for?" And if it is for us, how honest are we in our writing, and how much of what we write is revisionist, in that we only write what we want to remember, and avoid writing about the things that we might later be sad about or even ashamed of.

I have stacks of hand-written journals I have kept for years. I no longer write in a hand-written journal, because frankly it is too slow for me. All my life I found it frustrating that my hand couldn't write as fast as thoughts came to me, and my hand would invariably cramp up at some inopportune time. Add to that the fact that with the advent of blogging, my focus in writing changed to be able to not only record my thoughts and experiences for myself, but to share them with friends so we can keep up with one another. Which changes the nature of the writing significantly. I look at some of my handwritten journals, and I cringe at times at some of the harsh honesty and embarrassing details contained therein (I am reminded that my father always told me that if I ever got famous, I should burn my journals. At times, I consider doing it anyway...). And then I look at my fairly sterile-by-comparison LJ, and realize I don't really write for me any more. I do, but it is censored and focused in such a way that it is more revisionist than I may have realized before today...before finding my Mom's journal.

Thing is, I am not sure who my Mom would have been writing her journal for. But I an inclined to believe it was just for herself. And she chose not to tell her own tale honestly. I wonder why...

disney family livejournal

As we speak...

by Shay Moore The TribalDancer Saturday, March 03, 2007

holidays livejournal musings

Why all the hatin?

by Shay Moore The TribalDancer Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Valentine's Day...
I have never understood the amount of negativity people have toward a holiday that is devoted to love. This is not directed at anyone particular, but instead feelings that have long germinated in me over this topic.

"But it's so COMMERCIALIZED..."
You don't have to buy a THING from Hallmark or anyone else to give a gift to someone you love. Draw or paint something for your Mom. Sew up something fun for your best girlfriend. Make a "coupon book" for your boyfriend. Wash your car and go for a day road-trip with your honey, pack a picnic dinner...so many little things you can do for fun.

"I hate feeling like I am OBLIGATED to do something..."
Obligated? How about OPPORTUNITY?! A chance to celebrate the idea of love, in all its forms, with the rest of the country (or world, depending on other countries that celebrate it :). A chance to smile, look someone in the eye, and say "Happy Valentine's Day!" and better yet, follow it up with "I love you!" And from there, it can be as simple or as complex as you want it to be. No obligation. Just a chance to do something a little special and different from last Tuesday...

"Why just ONE day? I mean, we should be loving to each other EVERY day."
Right, and every day should be your birthday, because you are valuable and special every day? And it should be Christmas every day because we should celebrate good will toward men every day. And it should be Independence Day every day because we should be grateful for all the freedoms our country allows us, and the honor the men and women who fight for those rights and priviledges. And am I only required to not be racist during black history month?

Setting aside one day to especially recognize something important doesn't mean it isn't something that should be valued and practiced the rest of the year. But having one day to really focus on it and share that moment with many other people who are also celebrating and honoring it...it's magical. Give yourself permission to share in it, too!

If you don't want to celebrate it, fine. But the excuses make no sense to me. This holiday, in whatever different form, was around long before commercialism took hold of it. We don't have to be bound by what they say it is. It is what WE make it--a chance to give friends an extra-special gift or write them a note to acknowledgment their value in our lives; a chance to pat ourselves on the back and focus on the love we have for ourselves and maybe treat ourselves to a little indulgence we might not ordinarily; a chance to go out of your way to tell your family how much they mean to you and add a smile to their day; and for some it is just plain permission to say "I love you" to people who on any other day might feel it was overly emotional or out of context--not everyone has open, loving relationships in their lives where they get to say it and hear it every other day of the year. If you are one who does, then you are blessed. If you are not, then don't disparage a holiday and businesses which support the practice so at least one day a year, a woman (or man) gets flowers, candy, and a back rub. :)