the class?”
“On Saturdays.”
“What about my ballet class?”
“What about it?”
“I guess I can go to the Wednesday class. Mom doesn’t teach on Wednesdays.”
The sounds of drums played in my mind; adrenaline flushed in my veins. Something beyond the physical occurred, pressing me to reconnect with the culture that only weeks ago had made me feel so ashamed that I had gotten rid of my mother’s picture, the only physical thing that connected me to my past. The thought of hearing sounds from my childhood in rural Haiti was suddenly like seeing and feeling the sun in the middle of a winter day.
* * *
On the following Saturday, Latham accompanied me to the dance class, a few blocks away from Times Square. As I climbed the wooden stairs leading to the studio that, later I found out, used to be a cosmetics factory. I imagined making Haitian friends who would tell me about Haiti and who would perhaps help bring back memories of a life I once knew.
Latham introduced me to the instructor, a short, dark-skinned man with a thick mustache, who wore a black tank top and a black leotard. “You go stretch now. Class begins in five minutes,” he said with a heavy accent. He then moved on to speak to the drummers. Latham waved goodbye and left me to my fate.
The only Haitians in the dance studio were the three drummers and the instructor, but they offered me no special treatment. As the drums rolled, I timidly began to imitate the instructor’s movements; but when the syncopated rhythm grew louder, a greater force prompted me to dance with surprising confidence. My body moved in an undulating motion, my back moved toward and then away from the unpolished wooden floor. When the drums reached a feverish beat, I entered a state of ecstasy.
* * *
I regularly attended the classes and continued to hope to make Haitian friends. Dancers came and went over the years, but no other Haitian person ever visited the studio. Eager to learn about the Haitian culture that I often heard described as exotic, the dancers who took the class were almost always white women in their twenties and thirties. For me, however, the classes became valuable to my understanding of my heritage, as the instructor introduced me to the richness of Haitian folklore and brought to life the circumstances of the survival of the Ibo, Nago, Congo, and Mandinga traditions on the island. I enjoyed hearing about the important role those dances played in major historical movements such as the slave revolts. I listened to the instructor talk about African spirits, like Ogoun Badagris and Damballah Wedo, who would descend into the soul of their Haitian children all the way from Africa, the magical place that had been an enigma ever since the girl in the cafeteria had said that was where people like me belonged. I began to feel closer to Africa, the place where most Haitian culture originated. When I danced to the rhythms of Africa, my soul found healing in a holistic manner that took me, each time, deeper into a level of consciousness and self-realization. The dance classes triggered an emotional and physical release that uplifted and energized me and allowed me to explore and accept the essence of my being.
One Saturday, something unusual occurred. Something that became vital to bringing me closer to my journey, toward discovering and accepting my past, as it opened doors and connected me to the culture that suddenly seemed more accessible.
“Mademoiselle Iris,” said the dance instructor. It was the first time he addressed me after class, and I was surprised.
“Yes?”
“How old you now?”
“Seventeen.”
“I been watching you dance since you a young girl. I like your energy,” he drawled.
Happy that he had noticed me, I offered a broad smile and thanked him.
“How long have you been dancing with me now?”
“Nine years.”
“You master Dunham’s techniques.” He scratched his head and turned to say goodbye to the drummers who were leaving the studio with their instruments secure in army duffel bags over their shoulders. He turned to me. “Yes, you a good dancer now, old enough to join the company. We rehearse three times a week in Brooklyn. Is that okay?”
Although it sounded like a great opportunity to dance with professionals, I knew my parents would never allow me to join. They always made it clear that dance should just be a hobby and that I needed to focus on my schoolwork, especially since I was in my junior year in high school.
“It sounds really good, but I live in Westchester and I have a lot of homework.”
“Too bad.” He shook his head. “You coming to the meeting?” he asked, as I was about to push open the door to the dressing room.
“What meeting?” I took a few steps toward him.
“You didn’t get the flier I mailed you?”
“No, I didn’t.” I then remembered that Latham had used his address and telephone number when he registered me for the class years ago.
“There are some left in lobby. Try to come, okay?”
I looked through the piles of fliers and advertisements until I found the right one.
* * *
The double-glass door of Dad’s gallery opened to a vast room with a glossy wooden floor. Original paintings by contemporary African-American abstract expressionists Charles Alston, Romare Bearden, and William Johnson hung on the walls alongside works by Haitian artists, who represented a magical, colorful world in the folk art tradition. My attention was drawn to a bronze sculpture by Augusta Savage in the center of the gallery. On the pedestal was the bust of a young black girl with soft and curious eyes.
When he heard me, Latham, wearing a French beret, Levi’s, and a white starched long-sleeve cotton shirt, lifted his head from a Jacob Lawrence print of Toussaint Louverture that he had just framed.
“How was class?”
“We had a visiting master drummer today.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“Can you come to a meeting with me this evening?” I asked, watching him spraying and wiping the foam off the glass frame.
“What meeting?”
“A meeting about Haitian refugees.” I showed him the flier and told him about my conversation with the dance instructor.
“The flier may be in my mailbox. I haven’t opened it in almost a week.”
“Why not?”
“All I ever get is bills.”
We took the number 4 train to Utica Avenue in Brooklyn. Approaching an old Gothic church, we saw hundreds of Haitians gathered on Eastern Parkway. A sea of black faces carried the original red and blue flag of Haiti in the chilly autumn air. “Hey, hey, USA! Stop supporting Duvalier!” they shouted. Drummers from my dance class joined by others were in the front row. They nodded and smiled when they saw me. The electricity of the booming sounds of their instruments intensified.
A
