Category: Special Events

One of the lessons I learned two years ago was that attending dance workshop blitzes only left me feeling like a zombie, too pooped to enjoy the big dance party on Saturday night.  So, for the past two dance festivals, I just skipped all the torture and just partied at the Saturday night hoopla!

Since the spring tango festival was hosted at a dance studio 30 minutes away from where I live, I was in no danger of attending the long weekend schedule of classes. Instead, I attended the Saturday night milonga, the biggest during the entire festival and the one that featured all the instructors performing.

I surprised myself by arriving early enough to enjoy the first hour of live music, which I had not done in my previous two years of attendance. As a matter of fact, the first time I’d attended this milonga, I’d only been taking tango lessons for two months and didn’t know the three genres of music normally played at a milonga: tango, Argentine waltz (aka “vals”) and milonga.

I equate milonga to merengue since it’s a high-energy dance where you step on every beat. The first time I’d ever heard milonga music was three years ago at the spring tango festival. My partner at the time hadn’t heard of it either and we faked our way through the entire tanda of four songs. Once we sat down, we asked a mutual friend what the hell was that music we’d just danced to.  Of course she laughed at us, told us what it was, and complimented us on faking our way through it.

Thanks to our clueless beginnings, we now have a tradition of dancing one milonga tanda together. This year, however, my usual milonga dance partner was usurped by an extremely sure-footed Argentine gentleman who literally kept my booty shaking throughout the entire tanda. We danced past my usual milonga partner and he was anxious to dance with me, but admired the fact that a highly skilled dancer had beat him to asking me to dance. Nonetheless, when the next milonga tanda came up, my usual partner was still late in asking me to dance, but at least he wasn’t too late!

Even though tango has been the most challenging dance for me to learn, I’ve finally gained subtlety and gracefulness for the basic and intermediate steps. I loved how each dance partner had his own sense of expression and I could follow with my own sense of style. I still have a ways to go until I become one of the most sought after dance partners since I cannot pull off the advance moves.

Last summer, I took a break from tango lessons since I wanted to free up my schedule.  Now, I’m looking forward to dancing tango as much as possible so I can reach the next level.

Nothing like February to bring out the Black History in the States. I used to make a point to read books written by Blacks during this time, but my life has become so complicated with schedules that I’m happy to read a little of everything in my current stack of books and magazines.  I just trust an article or two must have been written by a Black person.

Nonetheless, I especially take advantage of the events that happen to fit into my schedule such as the Black History program that took place at my school this past Thursday. There are seemingly only a handful of Black students at my high school; so I wanted the few who did attend to see that there are Black teachers at the school. Moreover, I made a point to shake hands with the school’s namesake. He didn’t remember meeting me previously, but I can forgive the only Black man who has a school named after him in my district.

I enjoyed the dancing, singing and stepping, but I was quite surprised when one of my students recited a poem from “For Color Girls Who Have Considered Suicide when the Rainbow Is Enuf.” I was planning to see that Ntozake Shange play on the following Saturday. The next day I had that student in class, I told her where “For Colored Girls” was playing and I proudly let her know that I was in one of Shange’s one-act plays although I could not remember the name of it.  I described it to her and she recalled reading about it.

As a watched the play with a friend, who had never previously heard about it, we both  related and empathized with the seven women on stage who had various challenges with their relationships with men. Although the music selection contained current songs, one thing that struck me as “dated” was the fact that none of the characters were gay.  Certainly if Ms. Shange had updated this play, one of the characters would most certainly have to be gay.

I also thought about three girlfriends and I going to an event next Saturday. Each one of us could be considered a mixture of the seven women from “For Colored Girls,” which is the power behind the piece.

The strategies that we employ to survive in order to face our adversities and deal with our vulnerabilities reflect a vital part of who we are. Sometimes, it’s so easy to watch a presenation objectively. Every now and again, a piece makes one reflect about past personal choices.

Afterwards, I went to a milonga. Normally, I would have gone home since I was in such a pensive head space, but this particular milonga was to honor a fellow tanguero who had recently past away. I had casually known him through dancing, but I never knew that he had been chronically ill. On some level, I’m sure his loved ones are relieved that he’s finally resting in peace. Yet, what an inspiration he was. Everytime I saw him, I recall that he always had a smile on his face and appeared to be happy.

Now I wonder if that happiness stemmed from knowing that his days were numbered. All of our days are numbered, but for people who are chronically ill, they know not to take anything for granted.

I find myself becoming complacent about the daily grind of trying to do “everything” and when everything is said and done, I can say that I’m mostly happy with all the choices that I’ve made in my life. I convinced myself nearly 20 years ago that the point of my life is to be happy. Even in times of brief unhappiness, I’ve always dealt with life’s struggles and found a way back to laughter and making new friends.

Several times throughout the play, the actresses talked about reaching the end of one’s rainbow. They never mentioned finding the pot of gold, yet my pot of gold would consist of being thankful for what I have, being mindful of my happiness and being creative in all my endeavors.

I finally got to participate in my very first flash mob, thanks to the Sustainable Food Center.  This past Saturday, Oct. 22 was National Food Day Celebration.  Austin’s already very focused on supporting local businesses; so it’s natural that there’s a huge emphasis on buying organic, local food from our “neighborhood” farmers as well.

One volunteer, Andrea, choreographed a jazz routine to “Yes, We Have No Bananas” and posted it to Youtube.  As soon as I saw the routine, I was pleased that I already knew how to do all the moves, but, as usual for me, I had to work on remembering the sequence–nearly the same challenge I have with capoeira sequences except there are some moves that I’m not sure I’ll ever get the hang of in capoeira!

We started rehearsing it last Saturday and although I kidded myself that I would practice along with the Youtube version at home, I never found the time to do that, but attended the Wednesday rehearsal along with the early Saturday morning rehearsal, an hour before the event.

About 50 or more of us volunteers and vendors participated. We ranged in age from about 4 to “mature, retired adult.” It was an exhilirating experience; so I won’t bother dwelling on the few mistakes I made.  I’m just happy that the small child to my left who I bumped into/stepped on a few times was a real trooper and kept dancing.

Afterwards, another volunteer, who had worked with the children to make flags, passed them out and we had a little parade around the market.  We even had a marching band song playing over the PA system.

That was a fantastic way to start off the day.  I returned home to paint, clean up and attend two hours of tango lessons.  We had a substitute teacher who actually ran the class at a refreshingly brisk pace and introduced us to different beginning and intermediate moves.  In between the beginner’s and intermediate lessons, I went to the bathroom and read on one of the posted flyers that there was a samba de gafieira workshop afterwards. This couple’s style of samba isn’t taught in Austin; so I felt obligated to stay after my three hours of tango lessons.  Besides, samba de gafieira is touted as the samba version of tango.

The Houston-based Brazilian couple were very friendly and patient with us.  My heart went out to them since they had to teach in a foreign language, something I’ve not even done despite the fact that most of my teaching experience has been outside the States. At the 4 1/2 hour mark of dance lessons, I felt that I couldn’t absorb another thing.  My partner, who takes tango lessons, hit the same wall. We’d learned four different moves with the basic step being the most challenging since it involved putting the opposite feet forward and back, compared to other ballroom dances such as salsa.

I crashed out on my bed for a good 40 minutes before tackling my daily fiction writing and a week’s worth of cooking. I’m so glad that I’d had four hours to get those things accomplished and just relax before heading back out to a birthday party that one of my capoeirista friends was celebrating downtown.

I’d never gone to that particular bar before and was rather surprised when the guy working the door asked me if I was there for karaoke or the birthday party.  I immediately said the birthday party since there was no way in hell I was there for karaoke!  As a matter of fact, the last time I went to a karaoke place, a friend had chosen to celebrate his birthday there.

Despite the fact that I was the first capoeirista to show up to the party, I must admit that I was highly impressed at the collection of interesting, friendly people who I did not previously know.  That was the first time in a long time that I had socialized easily with people I didn’t already know.

As a special treat, my friend had sent a shout out to all her favorite DJs to stop by and play for a bit to help her celebrate her birthday.  I had already danced for 5 hours; so I was not at all disappointed that not a single DJ played any salsa, samba or tango.  As a matter of fact, I found it rather pleasant just to talk with people and pass out my business cards.

Around a quarter to two am, my day was finally done.  Not a moment too soon…I still slept well enough to make it to my 10 am bikram yoga class. I feel that I’ve hit another good milestone with my yoga practice since my left lower back didn’t pain me as much.

And some strange mood has overcome me, but after months of making a small pile of clothes that I can no longer wear, I’m in the mood to go to Goodwill, get the replacements and then the mall for some inexpensive, going out dance shoes.  My cheap pair have seen better days and are in danger of falling apart when I least expect it.  Not that I care too much about looking shabby, I just don’t want anything to cause me to have another fall when I could have prevented it.  Besides, I must live to marathon dance another day!

I don’t often get relatives visiting me here in Austin, but I come from such a big family that I inevitably have distance cousins in every major city.  One such cousin, who I last saw when he was a toddler, is now all grown up and recently graduated from the Austin Police Academy this past Friday.

His parents flew in from Cascade, VA to witness the start of their son’s second career, after successfully completing a stint in the military.  I figured that I could make the ten-minute drive from my apartment to witness his special day, visit with some relatives and that fueled me to sit through three hours of ceremony.

One particularly poignant moment for me was when Austin Chief of Police Art Acevedo gave his advice to the newly graduated police officers.  He warned them not to let “the job” be their entire lives.  They should always make time for family, friends and outside interests or run the risk of being eaten alive.  His exact words were ,”or else this job will eat you alive.”

I’m currently in my third year at my high school and it’s the worst one yet, in terms of the administration.  It’s interesting how my classroom and the interactions with the students have greatly improved over time, but the administration has continued to gather more weapons in their arsenal to use against teachers.

Never have I heard so many teachers complain against a school administration before.  And yet, at this moment, the only thing that’s preventing me from being eaten alive is my sheer determination to fully enjoy my life outside of school.  Every weekend, I’ve planned at least one interesting, enriching thing to help revitalize myself.

I suffered insomnia two weeks in a row and knew that something had to change, either my attitude or my situation.  I chose the former since I’m in control of myself and can take actions to minimize the hostility and stress that the administration is purposely waging against us teachers. I dutifully attend both capoeira and bikram yoga twice a week to keep both my mind and body running well. 

I usually find some cultural fun to take advantage of.  This weekend it was the Mediterranean Festival, where, to my delight, I saw many salseros and tangueros among the crowd of festival goers.  Although none of us knew much about the traditional dances, we did our best.

I refuse to be eaten alive.  I will live life to the fullest and continue to bring as much creative energy to my classroom as I can while the administration, for its part, does everything in its power to prevent me.

There was something magical about this past Saturday that motivated three different organizers to plan all-night-long events. I can only state with certainty that the passing of the fall equinox on Thursday had influenced the date of the water ceremony that I attended–I’m not sure why the organizers of the all-night milonga or the all-night salsa party chose this Saturday.

I’d planned to attend this event nearly two months ago when I met Yvette, our spiritual guide for the ceremony.  I don’t know what her official title was, but she organized a very spiritual, woman-strong event this weekend.

She, along with her helpers, arrived at Alma de Mujer to outline the shape of a turtle with off-white rocks.  Laced around the rocks was string that had red ribbons tied around it.  Outlining the rocks and ribbon was a coarse yellow powder that I suspected to be cornmeal, but I noticed that there were no insects nibbling on it, which led me to believe that an organic insect repellent, such as a plant extract, had been mixed in with the corn meal to keep the insects away.

In the head of the   rocky turtle outline, was a sweet-smelling fire that was carefully attended to by one of Yvette’s helpers at all times.  One woman, in particular, held the position for the majority of the night.

Since water is a feminine entity, which makes up most of the planet, our bodies, and houses our unborn children, this ceremony was exclusively for women. All attendees wore either a skirt or dress, but as the sun went down and the temperature cooled, we all added second and third layers.  Some women, such as myself, were partially emerged in sleeping bags.

But sleep was not on the menu! Each attendant entered after being ritually smoke cleansed with sage and offering a pinch of untreated tobacco to the fire. Four women were the guardians of the cardinal directions and maintained a small fire, incense and prayer in the areas that made up the turtle’s feet. Some indigenous Latinas doubled as singers and dancers and the rest of us sat in two half moon rows, facing the altar, and added to the female energy in collective prayer.

I enjoyed listening to Yvette explain the different global water challenges from the radioactive waters in Japan to the effects of global warming and the melting ice. She mentioned the killing spree in Norway and how the water retained a memory of that carnage. She then transitioned to how, like the Earth, our bodies are mostly water and how women carry their unborn children in water. Ideally, everytime we drink water, we should say a prayer for where has come from and for where it is going. Fortunately, we all had the opportunity to honor this important nutrient.

One of the items that Yvette asked us to bring was flowers.  I normally don’t buy flowers, but chose some very colorful daisies. I’m so glad I did since during the ceremony, all the flowers were mixed together, but I took pride in seeing mine among the rest.  We were given a bunch of flowers and had to break off the stem so that four inches remained. Some of the flowers were used for the altar. Once there was a sufficient amount of flowers with four-inch stems, two women took cylindrical wooden sticks that were about 3 feet long and started wrapping/tying the flowers to the sticks with string.  All the while we worked with the flowers, songs, mostly in Spanish, were sung.  I could hardly join in the singing, but Yvette encourgaged us to hum and some of the singers shared their rattlers with us. When one song came to an end, the flower work had to stop until a new one had begun.  This strangely reminded me of capoeira’s respect for music. If there’s a pause in music, the capoeiristas circle around until the music starts again.

Yvette explained that the music was a form of prayer that went into the work being done. In the end, those flower sticks were absolutely gorgeous. As soon as the flower sticks had been completed, the singing stopped.  A woman, who was not part of any of the indigenous dance group, let the spirit of the moment guide her dance. We were silent, not even speaking in hushed tones among ourselves. The only sounds that accompanied her dance were the insects, the wind and the rustling leaves. Even the disco that could be faintly heard earlier had ceased. I figured it must have been around two am.

Afterwards, the four guardians were invited to face the altar to pray and speak about their experience. Another woman took the main fire guardian’s place so she too could speak to the group. A woman who had led many of the songs with her powerful voice spoke. Yvette spoke and one of her assistants spoke, mentioning that at last year’s water ceremony, they were at a beach that had been polluted by oil, courtesy of BP.  Two days after the ceremony, BP had finally stemmed the oil leak.

We exited the turtle totem. Most women ate since none of us had eaten since sunset, but I was not hungry at all.  I’d barely drank water, but what I needed the most was sleep.  One of my friends, who was the guardian of the West, invited me to sleep in the room where she and her two daughter were since there was four beds.

On Sunday morning at 7 am, someone came into our room and woke us up by announcing that we were beginning again.  I felt a little groggy, but most importantly, even though I’d forgotten to pack my night guard, I did not have sore jaws. There’s something to be said about the side benefits of healing prayer.

I dutifully reported to the turtle totem, still not having broken my fast.  As much as I love food, I didn’t feel any hunger pains until hours later.  We entered the totem, throwing a pinch of pure tobacco atop the smoldering ashes of last night’s bonfire, but this time, we were cleansed by one of two flower sticks.

As two women knelt side by side facing the altar, two of the older women, each with a flower stick in hand, first laid the flower stick on the top of the kneeler’s head, then ritually placed the stick against various body parts on the front and back. Then two other women, holding a basket of flower petals, gently tossed a handful of petals on one of the kneeler’s heads.

After all women were cleansed with the flower sticks, we walked to a nearby stream to make our flower offering to the water. The dancer/singers and guardians first made their offerings followed by those of us who were mainly strengthening the energy with our presence.

We returned to the totem, but no one entered.  Once the sun was in a certain height in the sky, all the dancers  entered, along with a drum and the drummer led the group in greeting the four cardinal directions, the sky and the earth. Even those of us who were not dancers faced the directions indicated by the drummer. Then women from the different groups (tribes?) led the other dancers in one or two of their own native dances.

The medley of native dances lasted nearly two hours and ended the same way it had begun, acknowledging the six cubic directions. The dancers ate in the totem. Those of us who had not left early, filled up a picnic table that was on the porch of the main lodge since it was pleasant in the shade.

I loved the free-flowing conversations unhindered by male energy. None of us male bashed, but simply spoke of some of our challenges, directly or indirectly related to gender.

Before leaving, I passed out my business card. Whenever I have such a connection with other people, whether I may ever see them again or not, I make a point to pass out my business card.  With these women in particular, we had all bonded in a very spiritual experience.  I especially wanted them to have my contact information.

I’m excited to see the ramifications from the event.