Ameera, Unveiled by Kathleen Varn Page A

of little stick people. Some had bent arms or legs. Words like sailor boy and washing machine labeled them. “Hip lift with leg, hip lift without leg.” Sybil had often referred to a belly dance move as a letter and combining several moves as a word. Her curriculum was materializing on the mirror. We weren’t singing our ABCs anymore. A spelling bee lay in my future.
    It reminded me of high school, where there were classes for college-bound students and classes for average students. I wondered whether I was in the wrong room.
    Cheryl stared at the figures, looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged her shoulders. Her unspoken body language came across loud and clear: What the fudge ?
    Polly stretched her back and legs as she sat on the cold parquet floor. “Sybil, are those drawings something we need to copy?” she asked, hands reaching for pointed toes.
    “I’ll explain after we warm up,” Sybil brushed Polly’s question aside. “So happy new year, ladies. Hope you’re ready to work!”
    After a brief warm-up, we lined up facing the mirror, waiting for the explanations of sailor boy and all his friends on the mirrored doors.
    “Since you’ve had a few weeks off, let’s refresh. Three zones: one, two, and three.” Sybil pointed to her head, chest, and hips. “Three planes: A, B, and C. Remember, they can be used on chest and hips.” She pushed her hip forward, out, and back. “I’ll be drilling you to isolate using those cues. Entering a performance requires a confident walk. It’s all about attitude and posture. Let’s do that now. Start from this side of the room and give me a confident walk. I’ll demonstrate.”
    We quickly formed a confident-walk pecking order: Polly, Cheryl, and me at the rear. Sybil glided across the parquet, hands framing her hips, chin confidently leading each softly placed pointed foot, grinning at the mirrored doors as if they were a live audience. She oozed confidence and commanded attention.
    “Polly . . .” Sybil invited her to cross the room.
    Polly grinned and strutted confidently across the room.
    “Take your time,” Sybil advised and motioned to Cheryl next.
    Cheryl pulled her shoulders back and exhaled. She shuffled more than floated. I admired her bravado.
    “Practice at home. Focus on lifting your feet and looking ahead, not at the floor.”
    Sybil then turned and motioned for me to take what felt to me like a walk of shame.
    I mustered every ounce of composure and tried to imitate Sybil, framing my hips with what felt like pretty, posed hands. I could feel Sybil’s stare on my back as I passed her.
    “Work on your posture. Pull those shoulders back and relax your face. No one wants to see you thinking. Dance,” Sybil said. She then addressed the group, “I want all of you to work on that at home. Let’s move on.”
    So we retreated to our corners to follow Sybil’s lead. Between journal entries and body executions, we soaked it all in. Watching myself in the mirror, I didn’t see anything resembling a “washing-machine” move. Before I’d barely figured out what the little stick figure was doing, Sybil had elevated the new move to a traveling one. I hoped I’d be able to keep up the pace.

    After a couple of semiprivate lessons with my classmates, it was clear that I couldn’t keep up. I needed a tutor. I hadn’t even heard of muscle memory until I’d started taking belly dancing classes. For years, my muscle memory had been restricted to peering wistfully through the window of a dance room.
    After dumping the contents of my bag, I found Sybil’s business card in a side pocket. As I scrutinized the contact options, I pep talked myself into not being intimidated by asking for help. Okay, Ameera, we’ve started a bit late in life and I wanna give you every chance to keep up with Cheryl and Polly. We’re gonna ask Sybil what we need to do for extra instruction time. Bet she’s got some ideas. I dialed Sybil’s work number. The phone rang twice