Raw, Ugly, Wrong
"Being good is just a fable"
Have you ever felt raw? Ugly? Wrong?
Think about it. Hold it in your mind. That time when you felt you were raw, or ugly, or wrong.
Do you feel it? Feel it in your fingers. Let your fingers move. Feel it in your toes. Let your toes move. Maybe they scrunch up or spread out. How are your toes moving?
Now feel it in your belly. How does your belly feel? Do you feel sick? Tight? Warm? Cold? Let your body move with that feeling. Maybe you curl up in a tight little ball. Maybe you flail around. Let all that energy out of your belly.
The woman Beatrix thinks of as Dancer — her name is Mary Harold Harker, but she calls herself Mal — spreads out on the marley floor that’s rolled out kind of rumply in part of the gym. A big X on the floor. Ecthroi, she thinks. X me. X X X
Now slowly roll onto your side. Sit up. Sit with those raw, ugly, wrong feelings for a while. Move with them. How are you moving? Maybe you’re rocking back and forth. Maybe you’re pounding the floor with a fist. Or making a fierce face.
Look in the mirror. Has anyone told you that you have to look a certain way to dance? You have to be thin or have long hair? Has anyone told you that you have to be pretty or dainty? If you’re a man, has anyone told you men don’t dance?
Do you believe them?
She sits up and orients herself. Sun on her left shoulder; the big window’s that way. She opens her eyes. Mugging for the mirror, she makes a wild face, as if she’s pulling her mouth open with her hands and clamping it shut again.
She likes how she looks; she doesn’t mind seeing herself in the mirror. That mirror person is clearly superior to the real Mal. But she’s loving this exercise. He’s right, she thinks. Ugly is inside. Ugly is feelings.
Listen: Here, it’s okay to feel ugly. It’s okay to feel like you have the wrong thoughts or the wrong attitude or the wrong body for dancing. All those feelings are real. You can feel them. You can dance them.
Yes, the thinks. Yes.
Dance doesn’t have to be pretty.
The room smells like cold coffee and feet. Her body’s warming up in the chilly air. Blood flows in her fingers and toes.
Are you angry?
Are you sad?
Are you anxious or just tired of taking care of too many people?
Mr. Paul walks through the studio, which is a gymnasium in the old Bible college. Basketball goals, winched high, still hover over the space. Glass has been broken in a few windows. Dust motes hang in the air. Outside, the frosty sun shines blue and gold. Inside, at each end of the gym a cage holds a stopped clock.
You can dance anything you feel.
Mr. Paul has been playing classical guitar music, something slow and springlike, low. Touching his cell phone to control the speaker he brings the volume slightly higher, but still under his voice, which carries effortlessly.
As you come to standing, explore your full range of motion — how high can you raise your arms? How big can you make yourself?
Have you been told you need to be smaller?
Anyone told you that you need to shave your armpits?
A snicker. Some of the girls from the performing arts high school have been told just that; they’re here for something different from ballet and show tunes. The other women, and a few men, range from college kids to old age. Many are mothers taking an hour away from toddlers, enjoying for a few minutes the expressive freedom that was once their daily bread.
You know those are lies. Bring yourself — right now — all that you are — to this dance.
Make a noise if you need to. Holler. Growl.
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. At the other end of the gym, a couple of kids have come in through the open door with their basketball. They’re messing around with the ball while they discuss how to get the goal lowered down. Must be a winch somewhere.
Excuse me. Excuse me. We have this space reserved.
Mr. Paul’s voice really carries now.
Do you mind coming back at 10 a.m.? Thank you. Or you could join class? Do you want to dance with us? — I guess they didn’t want to dance.