I
apologize to anyone who feels diminished and tarnished by Western
appropriation of their cultural heritage turning its labels
on them. I cannot speak for anyone else female or male. This
is how I feel:
“Fine, call
me a belly dancer, but put a capital letter to it!
I am a woman
of European heritage.
Even though it feels like these movements have been in me forever,
I have no cultural heritage to defend or worry about representing
when I dance. I am what you see; I take no other name, I can
make no pretence at authenticity.
I honour the wisdom and teaching of those traditions from which
I learn.
I dance with respect for these cultures, their movements and
techniques. They have awoken a response in me that has nothing
to do with race or culture.
Please do not patronize me with false modesties. I dance with
joy and dignity.
Call me
a Belly dancer; after all, it’s what you came to see.
Sharp and
sensuous hips, arms hypnotic or precise, the richly decorated
costume of earthly delights; these may stir you.
Yet it’s those sinuous torso moves that make me extra-ordinary!
Ultimate, mesmerizing control of muscle and form rippling in
waves, descending in pops – these fascinate you and define me
for you.
Of course that’s not all there is, and sometimes it’s never
seen – but why should you know that? It is your box, not mine;
I do not have to walk meekly into it.
You may
call me a Belly dancer, I know what I am.
Out of all
dance forms, that is what makes me unique. I proudly display,
covered or free, that rounded chamber of womanhood. I am mystery
made flesh demure or of awesome size. If I were a man you would
marvel at my skill, my toned muscles, my connection with my
body. (Oh, boy! Who is a stereotyped as a sex-object now?)
Male or female, this dance is a primeval display of virility/fertility
and power. I aspire to this control. It does not come easily.
I do not want to show off, but to isolate, integrate, worship
and play.
I do not claim authenticity; I claim love, enchantment, challenge
and joy.
So call
me a Belly dancer!
My family
shuffled awkwardly only at weddings, or attempted a couple of
ballroom numbers at best. I grew up without an appreciation
of any type of music – my cultural heritage or not.
As a child, my energy, my desire to move was channeled into
the circumscription of ballet. Performing was “showing-off”.
There was no sharing of dance histories or experiences, joining
the generations at family get-togethers.
My grandmother may have danced the Charleston; not because she
approved of cultural appropriation, but simply because movement
felt joyful and good.
Thank you, for all your rich traditions willingly shared, which
have opened me personally and spiritually.
Call me
a Belly dancer; it’s a start.
Art does
not need an audience, but performers do.
We can happily dance for ourselves, for friends, for family.
So does dancing for money cheapen professional dancers?
Is their beauty and skill devalued by the use of one sticky
little word, especially if it is not in their cultural background?
They put their reputations and that of their dance on the line
for love and money. Of course we all worry about what people
think.
You and I can never control the thoughts in someone else’s head,
the contexts of their associations with our dance. We can only
give them something to take way in their hearts.
So when
you call me a Belly dancer, remember:
It is a
label that focuses on so little, but opens the windows of experience
to so much.
From the technically brilliant to the artistically limited,
audiences respond to dancers when they show passion, inhabiting
the dance, intuiting the music, projecting their love.
What you call me does not change the scared dedication of my
dancing.
I try to absorb and project the essence of my original influences.
My connection with the music and the audience and the Spirit
tickles at the unconscious of the unaware.
You may have come to see the exotic, erotic, gratuitous dancer,
but what matters is what adjectives you have on your tongue
for me when you leave.
Call me
the inspiring, amazing, unexpected Belly dancer!
Have you
named it Danse Oriental, Danse du Ventre,
Raks Sharki, Arabic, Persian, Egyptian, Turkish, Greek,
Balkan, Tribal, Fusion, holy, unholy, lewd, refined, Hollywood,
or folkloric?
Call me Belly dancer because it sends countless conflicting
images spinning through your head.
Call me what you will because it will not change the light in
my eyes and my pleasure in moving in ancient echoes of all our
pasts.
So,
call me Belly dancer, sit back, and watch with an open heart.”
While
we are on the subject of calling names, here is a sister poem
that evolved from the above:
“Call me
Xena: I am a strong, fearless woman.
Call me Salome; I was a dangerous child.
Call me Jezebel, Zenobia, Cleopatra; I hear you calling me “powerful
queen”.
Call me Lilith, Isis, Ishtar: I honour the Divine in all things.
Call me Scarlet Woman because you fear me when I bleed without
dying
Call me Painted Woman; I only wear the glamour of beauty. Truth
is on the inside.
Call me any name you choose. You only link me to every woman
who ever lived.”
