"Recalling unforgettable moments in my illustrious dance career, as seen through the murky fog of my emotions."
Can I forget? Do I want to forget those special moments of insult and bad human behavior that all performers face? Should I forget them? I will present here a series of vignettes of incidents (some small and some more stultifying). My purpose is to drag them out of the murky past and see if I cannot diffuse some of the hurt I have carried while, at the same time, also warning young dancers that, as lovely as the experiences of performers can be, the performer makes herself vulnerable to the very public she attempts to entertain. Not all of the public is worthy of an open heart, and I think that may be why so many celebrities end up taking harmful drugs to stop the pain of unwarranted criticism and comment from those who (it appears) have never accomplished anything of artistic import.
Following are my little stories, and they are related to you in no particular order except that they flow into my mind one-after-the-other:
I have finished my second dance of the evening. I am giddy with joy because I have danced to new music in a new costume and am gratified by the applause, smiles, tips, and requests for lessons from the restaurant patrons. An older, gray-haired gentleman in a suit strides across the room and in a loud voice says, "Not bad for an old broad!"
I am performing in a folkdance taverna and a woman at the front table roughly grabs my wrist and pulls me toward her yelling, "Young lady, does your mother know where you are this evening and what you are doing?" I reply, no, that I hardly phone home at the age of 32 to tell my Mommy what I am doing each night. "Oh, she says in a low-level sheepish voice, I thought you were under 18."
It is a special birthday banquet, I over-hear one woman say to another, "Well, I don’t care what you say, I say she has to be at least 35!" ( My true age at that time was 48.)
Part of my job description at this restaurant is to get as many people up to dance as possible, because in the truest sense of things, people are more entertained by their own actions and the actions of those close to them than by any "dancing girl" no matter how well she looks and with what great skill she dances. A man holds his hand out to me and his wife comments, "Don’t touch her, John, you don’t know where she’s been!" I smile at him and say, "Have a nice evening," and move on.
I am dancing at a pre-wedding party where I have been assured that both women and men will be present. They have lied through omission: The women are all partying in the garage while I am expected to dance for the men. I comment to one young man, "touch me again and the dance is finished!" He says, " Nice Jewish star you are wearing, Little Girl." "Thanks," I comment, it was given to me by someone who says I am a star, but it only has five points, I believe a Jewish star has six."
I am dancing in San Francisco at a famous restaurant honoring the birthday of Senator J. U. (long since dead, now). He grabs my skirt, pulls it up and tries to grab at my under-pants. I exit up-and-over a table and end the dance. I learn instantaneously to make better eye-contact with the public for reasons of dignity preservation.
I am just thrilled to dance at Greek Orthodox Church fundraiser. The state governor (not my state) is in attendance. I am approached by a governor’s aide who pleads with me not to dance anywhere near Governor [Greek name] because it would be political mayhem for him to be photographed with me. I promise, but the truth is, I am from California and wouldn’t recognize him if he were squarely in front of me.
I attend a family reunion of my father’s family. I am introduced as "Evelyn’s daughter, the kutch dancer--you know, the hootchy koutchy?" Mental note to self: Someday I will print up business cards that say, "Najia, Evelyn’s daughter the Kutch dancer". I will give them out to everyone proudly.
Holly is a blond. We are both in Bert Balladine’s dance class together. She follows me into my dressing room and inquires, "Where is the loft?--I hear your boss lives here in the restaurant. I point, "Up there." She scrambles up the ladder and peers down at me through her lovely, curly blond tresses and announces, "I am going to sleep with him and get your job." I tisk and tell her, "Be my guest!" I ask the boss the following week, "Has Holly got my dance job?" He laughs, "Is that what that was about? Nope. I want class in my taverna--you dance--she can play in the loft." That was the last I ever saw of Holly.
I am in an Arab-owned restaurant where the dressing room wall does not extend floor-to- ceiling. Patrons cannot peer in, but the dancer inside can hear clearly the conversations at the tables near the dressing room. A visiting dancer tears my dance to shreds for her date. She calls my boss over and says, "Tell the dancer I am here, my name is---------and I am borrowing her costume because I didn’t bring one, and I have to show my guests how I dance." He knocks on the door and inquires, "Did you hear?" "Yes," says I, "Tell her I wouldn’t dream of asking a dancer to loan me her costume that she spent hours designing, beading, and fitting so that I could show off to a date." He dutifully tells her what I said and she exclaims, "She obviously knows nothing about the sisterhood of all dancers! I would never turn down a request of a sister dancer!" As I leave the dressing room I say, "Nice to see you here tonight!" Whatever she mutters, I don’t want to understand it and just keep on walking. At closing time, the boss asks me why I was so uptight about loaning out my costume--"Would you loan someone your underwear to sweat on?" "Oh," says he.
I have been requested to wear street clothing to the dance gig so that the surprise would be complete. I am instructed to use the back bedroom as a dressing room. I begin to lay out my costume, and I hear subdued voices muffled outside the window. I walk to the wall-switch, flick off the light, and dress in total darkness. After the dance, I leave in costume. I reminisce coldly about the P-------- Restaurant where we dancers all knew that there were peep-holes bored into the wall of the dressing room and ladies’ restroom and dispassionately stuffed paper into them before use.
I am booked for a private birthday party dance in a beautiful downtown San Francisco restaurant. I am standing in the foyer across from the entrance, waiting for my cue to enter and begin to dance. A handsome man enters alone and looks across the room at me, somewhat stunned I thought. I feel powerful and .....he steps directly forward into the tiled floor fountain full of water. Poor guy laughs at himself and says, "Well, I was hoping you were real!" The dance goes really well and another party from another dining room of the same restaurant asks me to dance for their party too. I explain that I do not work for the restaurant but if they want to hire me I will dance and give them a price-break since I am already there and already in costume. The price is set, I dance to everyone’s great delight. My manager goes for the money and returns telling me that they want to pay me in person, and I am to meet the lady in the women’s lounge. I go there and she says, "We have decided to pay you with a toot." I am appalled. I explain to her that we agreed on money and that I did not approve of drug use. She turns red and hurls her purse against the plate-glass mirror in the restroom, shattering it into a million pieces. My manager gets the payment from one of her party and the restaurant management bills her for the mirror.
I am just sooo impressed with my ability to get "quality gigs" ! I am dancing for a private party of co-ed Naval officers in San Francisco, but truthfully, one officer in particular is making a horse’s patoot of himself and obstructing my dance and disrespecting me. I ask him three or four time to return to his seat. I dance over to one female officer and request that someone please get this guy under control. She hisses through her teeth whispering, "None of us can do anything; he is the highest ranking officer here!" I tell her, "Please give my regrets to the honoree. I have to end the dance before this gets any more embarrassing than it already is." I receive an apology in the mail a few days later.
No doubt about it. This is the most beautiful music I have ever danced. It just shows how music is connected to the ear of God! It makes me dance, I think to myself, like Hans Christian Andersons’ Red Shoes. Why, I could probably do anything! The lady sitting at a nearby table says to her husband, "Believe me, without drugs she could never dance. She’s completely stoned--you can see it in her eyes!" I am personally shocked because, unlike President Clinton, who smoked but never inhaled, I inhaled the music but never once felt the need to smoke or sniff.
"Young Lady," a red-faced woman snarls at me in the ladies’ restroom, " I just want you to know how disappointed we all are. We drove for an hour and a half to get here to see you because we heard what an unusual and beautiful dance performance you put on. We got here early to sit up front and then you only danced for ten minutes! I am going to complain to your employer!" I am, at first, puzzled. Then I realize that I was dancing to canned music, and I know exactly how long I danced because the routine ran a standard 25 minutes, plus the section during which I had danced in the audience, probably another 5-10 minutes and a finale. I managed to squeeze out through my strangling emotions of defense, "I danced to the tape. The tape lasted over a half hour; I guess I must dance better than I thought if I made time speed up for you...Time flies when you’re having fun." " Can’t be," says she.
Well, yes, there are these experiences and hundreds more--some even more baffling and wierd. I often reflect upon them and ask myself why I wanted so much to be a performer, willing to brave the insults and the risks. The only reasonable answer seem to be that there were thousands more happenings that were heart-warming, up-lifting and sometimes which made me feel I was a positive influence, if however fleeting, upon the world. Sometime I hope to share more of them with you.