JUDGMENTAL EM

I am judgmental. Wow. am I?

I think of myself as a non-conforming, liberal person, and I joke with JC -- in a sassy way -- using some of the forbidden words to shock him, shock myself, with my pronouncing them.

So -- here -- off the top of my head -- "nigger, jigaboo, bitch, spook, nappy" -- words that recently got some well-known guys into trouble. Here are the words that got me into trouble -- "queer, faggot, fairy, queen."

They're slang words -- i.e. words that are more common in speech than in writing. Slang that refers to homosexuals fits in with other "bad" or "dirty" words used to refer to sex parts of the body, and various sexual practices.

List them? You know them. They're used frequently to shock us into attention. They're in movies, television, magazines, and books. They're not "bad" or "dirty" (to my ear, my tender heart), but it bothers me, upsets me seriously, when every other word in a movie is f- - -, and characters refer to Blacks as "Niggers" and call Jews and Latinos, kikes and spics.

(Oh boy, the flood of race prejudice that's escalating -- I'm judgmental about that ... the birthers, the senator shouting "You lieE!" at the President, a tea party person calling Obama a Hitler; and now, a poll on Facebook, "Should we kill Obama?" That is a whole other post, but it's on my mind as I write about some wrong words I have been using. )

I was taken aback, surprised when Fran, my blog coach, told me a sentence I wrote in one of my recent posts, sounded "homophobic, judgmental."

I was talk-writing in my usual style, about driving in the snow, on the way to morning assembly in Oskaloosa, Iowa -- "The chains were on, I was driving. Bill the stage manager was sleeping off his night of debauchery. He had a talent for finding a local closet queen after every show."

Gee, I didn't want to change it. Bill's nightly romancing was so typical -- the handsome, tall male dancers I hired were often homosexuals and most of them "cruised," looked for young boys, potential converts everywhere.

As for the girl dancers -- it never occurred to me to wonder about their sexuality. They were there, pitching in and helpful when I needed them, the boy dancers were not.

I was constantly aware of my male dancers' femaleness -- their taking on and imitating the repulsive characteristics of the American female "princess" -- the banal babble, flamboyant manners, the faint lisp (a sibilant "S"), the arched, flipped wrist, squeamishness, unreliability, the selfish, self-aggrandizing need for you to love, adore, and pay attention to them.

Anyway, back to that snowy morning. I rewrote my post: (See "Butternut Truck". 9/13) In it you'll read -- "The chains were on. I was driving. Bill the stage manager was sleeping off his busy night -- after every show he fell in love with someone new in every town we visited."

Okay, what was published isn't as interesting as what I'd written originally. But now I see that my "homophobic" prejudice, which I can explain and justify, based on my experience with homosexuals (queers, fairies, faggots, queens in and out of the closet) is harmful like race prejudice is harmful.

These men danced well, but they failed me -- I couldn't depend upon them, yet I needed them, and hired them. The "niggers" negros, darkies" in the south were and still are hurt, harmed, disrespected, deprived of many, many things because of people's experiences with them -- experiences, ideas and attitudes that are handed down from one generation to the next.

But who am I hurting, if in my private thoughts I'm thinking of them as queers, queens, faggots, etc.? Who are the tea partyiers hurting? Not President Obama per se, but all blacks (and me, and all of us who voted for him). The tea partyiers are expressing old prejudices, and not allowing other new, different experiences with blacks, to reach, touch, or affect them. And it's escalating, spreading, becoming an mind-set -- that poll in Facebook -- it's threatening what we believe in, what we stand for as Americans.

So my attitude toward homosexuals is a form of race prejudice? Yes.
So I have to change? Yes.
Gee -- even in my private thoughts, that's tricky, maybe impossible.

Well, if I censor and practice, the inner becomes the outer, outer becomes the inner. It's time for EM to change -- for me to change even in my private innermost thoughts.

DON'T READ YOUR REVIEWS

John's show, "August, Osage County." has been revving up for a new opening night. The critics are coming. They're replacing the star with Phylicia Rashad (Bill Cosby's wife in his wonderful TV show), taking new photos, planning the party.

It won't affect JC. He'll just do his work, won't stay up till 1.A.M. and huddle with everyone to read what the critics said, even though it will affect the life and death of the show, and possibly affect JC's reputation. It's a family tradition.

Similarly, when I was on tour, I didn't read what the local critics said, and when I performed in New York, I didn't read what the critics said till months later.

JD, our son, read reviews at first, but gradually realized our tradition was practical, artistically sensible. What's been said about you, bad or good, stays with you for the next performance, and the next. It will very likely stay with you for the run of the show.

This started with "Shenandoah" in Boston, when the Herald's famous critic praised JC, and mentioned his "stride." Did the critic say "cowboy?" I don't remember actually, but it stayed with JC, has never left him, made him aware of NOT using that stride, unless he's playing a farmer, or wants to exaggerate his toughness.

More than compliments, negative remarks can haunt you. When JC and I did "Kings" on Broadway; we closed the show with a touching duet based on Mary Renault's story about Theseus and Hippolita, an Amazon Queen. The Times dance critic, praising us, mentioned Frankel's "trembling" extension -- referring briefly to me recovering from an accident, suggested I wasn't yet in "shape."

Oh my God! My goodness! Good Lord! The trembling extension was a penché arabesque (back leg extended, torso arched, dipped toward the ground so that the arabesque is a split.) Oh, yes indeed -- I was back in shape, stretching, making certain that I could do a split arabesque as well as one of the acrobatically endowed Balanchine Ballerinas! (Dumb me, competitive me -- straining myself, recovering from a broken back that had been fused at the waist, making that arabesque particularly difficult.) I'd made it a shivering "trembling" arabesque for a dramatic reason.

I didn't read that review till almost a year after we'd done the show. Even now, it rings in my mind.

All this week I've been aware of "stats" on TheReadery, measuring how many people are looking at my website, and the "stats" that count how many are reading my blog. All week I've been commanding myself, in our family tradition, not to count, not to base my enthusiasms, joy, or despair on critics, or statistics that measure my success.

You'd have to be me, or someone who's in the public eye, publishing a book that could be a bestseller but isn't, or be an ex dancer who's revered by people who know the art, but doesn't have the clout, the glamor, the aura of ________ you fill in the name.

I'm saying it loud and clear: Counting the number of your fans is as sinful, defeating of one's art, one's work, as throwing out, drowning out, dismissing your own voice that keeps you creating, and tells you who and what you are.

REVENGE

Someone, when I was studying dance with Carmelita Maracci in California, put pins, slender straight pins in my brassiere.

I didn't put it on, didn't get hurt, but it was chilling.

Something like what happened to me when the dance company, (my first job as a dancer) told Charles that if he didn't fire me, they we quitting.

... It was more than chilling ...

Charles called me into the studio. Everyone was assembled. Each of them had a complaint S. said: She's rude, and aggressive."

... I'd worn her rehearsal skirt ... it was hanging with all the others, I didn't know it was reserved ...

B. said: "We think she's the one who's been stealing."

Personal things quite often disappeared from the bags and purses that dancers left on the seat, during class. A watch, some bracelets, coins. B. mentioned a silver hair clip.

... She'd shared her sandwich with me, given me half of a bar of candy, lent me a dime for a phone call yesterday, which I hadn't paid back. I didn't have much money, but I certainly wasn't a thief ...

P. and her husband, J. complained about my bitten nails, about me bragging, about the slave girl solo which Charles had given me. They said: "She's too wild. The way she's doing it, It's not dancing, It's hokey, melodramatic."

Everyone found something awful to say. Ten dancers. They were united: I was immoral, pushy, a show off, thief, liar, an unprofessional untalented dancer.

I wanted to run away and never come back, I didn't want to show up for the next day's rehearsal. I desperately wanted to quit. It was my first job paying job as a dancer. I'd told my parents, I'd already borrowed a suitcase.

A week later, I was on tour with the company . Nobody wanted to room with me. Single rooms in the hotels were very costly. I got the names of cheaper places, from desk clerks, and stayed in tourist homes. Sat by myself on the bus. Dined by myself on groceries that I bought at local supermarkets. Did my warmups, always in a corner. But, I still had my solo.

I know their names and have followed their careers -- their marriages, teaching assignments, in various schools and colleges, two of them went on to choreograph on Broadway and TV, minor shows you've never heard of. Their dreams, Broadway and TV things we had talked about as friends, sharing cokes and coffee, did not come true.

Not one of them came close to achieving what I've achieved. I made it. They didn't.

Wait a minute, why am I writing this ... ? Because I can't e-mail the bad guys? Because I don't feel revengeful -- because I'm feeling a tinge of sadness, that's vanishing like smoke and becoming plain regular breathable air?

I see that posting this is my way of forgiving them.

INSTANTLY OBEY SYNDROME

When Fran, who designed my Website, says DO something, I do it ... maybe mull a bit, argue a bit in my mind or in an email, but I do it.

If my guys, JC or JD give me a criticism, I may squirm, argue, protest, but I pay attention, and even if not immediately, I obey.

Recently Dorothy, our maid who's more like a sister since she's been a part of my life, making my surrounds orderly for years, said -- you need to fix the books. It's a huge pile paperbacks. I've read every book Robert Parker wrote, almost all of Elmore Leonard's books, all of Nelson DeMille's. They're favorite silent friends who keep my night time mind occupied, teach me about plot but give me no orders I'm compelled to obey.

Anyhow, Dorothy's suggestion made me reorganize the baker's rack in our green living room (bright green enamel floor with white wicker furniture so it looks like we're living in the country.) Ever since she gave me the gentle "order" I've been re-doing all the bookshelves, especially every time I order more paperbacks from half.com

Yep, I obey -- employees, independent contractors, lawyers, accountants, salespersons, policemen, doctors, nurses, messengers, doorman, cabbies, chauffeurs, even helpful strangers.

Today, oops, out of the blue, my Internet connection stopped working. All 3 computers wouldn't load. I had a fun few hours 100% obeying, double-checking each step, making sure I did executed each instruction right. It was exciting, fraught with a touch of fear that it wouldn't fix. Hurray. It did.

I obey tech people, assiduously. Assiduously avoid some of my older friends. Also change the subject before my real sister (JB) or relatives butt in. More often than not, their "take a vacation, rest, relax," advice is w r o n g for Calvinistic me, but I allow myself to nod with a pleasant smile and murmur "mm hmm" even when I'm thinking "no way!"

Early on, I didn't really obey my parents, two sisters and brother, I mostly wanted to test the DON'T DO's and secretly rebelled, even when I seemed to be following orders. I was a good little actress.

Taking my first dance classes started me into respecting the Rules. You had to do lst, 2nd, 3rd 4th, 5th positions perfectly. Eventually I did, but never could I master a tap step (a shuffle, step-hop, ball change that a beginner can do) and complicated ballet beats, brisé dessus for instance, defeated me for years. Okay -- I learned that memorizing, repeating a sequence over and over, squinting, blurring small details helps you get a sense of the basic left - right, forward - back, up - down, turn - jump - run steps. Confession: I don't watch, can't watch the dance teams, or dance crews on TV -- I get tied in knots mentally doing their steppy, tricky fancy, wildly acrobatic convolutions.

My near death experience did it. Taught me OBEY.

When I was recovering from partial paraplegia, (car accident--see "Encore," bio about me, or check out Book II, Miranda in "Somebody.") I had to relearn sitting up, turning over, moving my toes, standing, peeing etcetera -- re-train my body to do what it knew instinctively, including dancing.

I had to obey, hear every word, follow each small/medium/ large command. You put your mind on it -- a place on your body, a muscle, a ligament, a bone, a joint. And like a funnel, pour all of your thoughts into the funnel's cone, fill it up till the thoughts slide down, (thank you gravity) and land inside you -- find the spot, tip-touching, tweaking, till you're feeling something. A warmth. A tingle. A twitch. Then, that barely perceptible move transforms into ... movement.

So stay back, friends, relatives, and Fran, Sue, Bethy, Dorothy, JD, JC, Docs, Shareen (amazing daughter-in-law), even Phil the Super who can fix anything. Better not tell me what you think I should do. I obey, slowly, sometimes licketty split.