and, suddenly, I was asking to speak to Sybil.
“This is Sybil,” a lyrical voice answered.
“Hey, it’s Kat,” I said. “Do you have a minute? Sorry to bother you at work.”
“No, sweetie, go ahead,” she said.
Another quiet gulp and I jumped into my request. “I really appreciate you giving us Monday semiprivate lessons. But you know . . . I don’t have dance experience. I wasn’t even a cheerleader. Moving more than one part of my body, choreography, and transitions aren’t natural for me. Do you have any ideas or referrals to pick up extra classes?”
“I only have Monday mornings. Would that work?” Sybil asked.
I didn’t want to take up too much of Sybil’s time. “Absolutely, what time?” Feeling relieved, I stopped pacing the kitchen floor in front of my calendar.
“Ten thirty? We’ll do thirty minutes, since it’s a private,” she threw out.
“Thanks, Sybil. This coming Monday at your house?” I wrapped up negotiations while I wrote “10:30 a.m., Sybil’s” on my calendar.
The anticipation of resuming private sessions with Sybil lightened my everyday duties. My heart was excited, but my head kept arguing that I wanted to dance too late in life. There’d been so many forbidden zones in my life. Sometimes it felt like a civil war raged inside my brain. My head wanted to keep Ameera indentured to responsibility. My heart wanted Ameera to kick up her heels and fulfill my girly dream of whirling and twirling. Why couldn’t we have both? As I debated internally, a fresh war waged between North and South.
“Ameera’s suffered oppression all her life. She wasn’t born to a life of duty,” the North said.
“Nah, Ameera’s a natural at shouldering responsibility,” answered the South, puffing on a cigar. “Look at her. Her hands are tough. She can lift at least fifty pounds without assistance!”
In fact, Ameera drooped between the two. She was tired of too much responsibility. The South was right. She could tote, sweep, repair, mother, support family matters, handle finances, and all other duties dealt to her. She’d borne children, quilted, and canned and did beautiful French hand sewing. She wore modest attire that often was handed down from friends and family.
The North was right too. Ameera had always wanted to dance—to twirl, skip, and bend gracefully with pretty hands like she’d seen in movies, plays, and dance performances. The joy of dancing with her sisters was branded in her memory—the unfettered joy and laughter of little girls unaware of adult responsibilities and duties.
As I pulled into Sybil’s driveway, I muted the internal dance debate. The sun was filtering through the live oak shading Sybil’s yard, and little oranges used for marmalade were peeking out from a large bush. Semiprivate lessons were attended at night, in the shadows. This was a new and brighter view. I felt exposed.
Sybil wasn’t in the studio yet, but she yelled from another room that she knew I was there. I dropped my bag in its usual spot. It looked lonely. The mirrors still had notes from our last class. Our dance names were at the top, and the little stick figures and instructions were staring at me. As I tied my hip scarf, I turned to the hallway door and there was Pappy, trying to sneak in and force a petting.
Pappy . . . he was so oblivious to daily stresses and just lived life vicariously through Sybil. His long bangs hung over his eyes, just like Sybil’s. He was all about the energy of Sybil’s world. The tinkling Arabic music in the room behind the house was accepted as normal. No barks from him, just a wagging tail and stolen attention.
“Pappy-whappy . . . you know better. Back to the living room,” Sybil said as she joined me. “Hey, Kat, let’s chat as we warm up.” With her blonde hair hiding her face, she asked, “So are you enjoying belly dancing? I’m glad you agreed to continue.”
“I’m trying,” I answered honestly. “I’ve wanted to dance
“This is Sybil,” a lyrical voice answered.
“Hey, it’s Kat,” I said. “Do you have a minute? Sorry to bother you at work.”
“No, sweetie, go ahead,” she said.
Another quiet gulp and I jumped into my request. “I really appreciate you giving us Monday semiprivate lessons. But you know . . . I don’t have dance experience. I wasn’t even a cheerleader. Moving more than one part of my body, choreography, and transitions aren’t natural for me. Do you have any ideas or referrals to pick up extra classes?”
“I only have Monday mornings. Would that work?” Sybil asked.
I didn’t want to take up too much of Sybil’s time. “Absolutely, what time?” Feeling relieved, I stopped pacing the kitchen floor in front of my calendar.
“Ten thirty? We’ll do thirty minutes, since it’s a private,” she threw out.
“Thanks, Sybil. This coming Monday at your house?” I wrapped up negotiations while I wrote “10:30 a.m., Sybil’s” on my calendar.
The anticipation of resuming private sessions with Sybil lightened my everyday duties. My heart was excited, but my head kept arguing that I wanted to dance too late in life. There’d been so many forbidden zones in my life. Sometimes it felt like a civil war raged inside my brain. My head wanted to keep Ameera indentured to responsibility. My heart wanted Ameera to kick up her heels and fulfill my girly dream of whirling and twirling. Why couldn’t we have both? As I debated internally, a fresh war waged between North and South.
“Ameera’s suffered oppression all her life. She wasn’t born to a life of duty,” the North said.
“Nah, Ameera’s a natural at shouldering responsibility,” answered the South, puffing on a cigar. “Look at her. Her hands are tough. She can lift at least fifty pounds without assistance!”
In fact, Ameera drooped between the two. She was tired of too much responsibility. The South was right. She could tote, sweep, repair, mother, support family matters, handle finances, and all other duties dealt to her. She’d borne children, quilted, and canned and did beautiful French hand sewing. She wore modest attire that often was handed down from friends and family.
The North was right too. Ameera had always wanted to dance—to twirl, skip, and bend gracefully with pretty hands like she’d seen in movies, plays, and dance performances. The joy of dancing with her sisters was branded in her memory—the unfettered joy and laughter of little girls unaware of adult responsibilities and duties.
As I pulled into Sybil’s driveway, I muted the internal dance debate. The sun was filtering through the live oak shading Sybil’s yard, and little oranges used for marmalade were peeking out from a large bush. Semiprivate lessons were attended at night, in the shadows. This was a new and brighter view. I felt exposed.
Sybil wasn’t in the studio yet, but she yelled from another room that she knew I was there. I dropped my bag in its usual spot. It looked lonely. The mirrors still had notes from our last class. Our dance names were at the top, and the little stick figures and instructions were staring at me. As I tied my hip scarf, I turned to the hallway door and there was Pappy, trying to sneak in and force a petting.
Pappy . . . he was so oblivious to daily stresses and just lived life vicariously through Sybil. His long bangs hung over his eyes, just like Sybil’s. He was all about the energy of Sybil’s world. The tinkling Arabic music in the room behind the house was accepted as normal. No barks from him, just a wagging tail and stolen attention.
“Pappy-whappy . . . you know better. Back to the living room,” Sybil said as she joined me. “Hey, Kat, let’s chat as we warm up.” With her blonde hair hiding her face, she asked, “So are you enjoying belly dancing? I’m glad you agreed to continue.”
“I’m trying,” I answered honestly. “I’ve wanted to dance
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