The Birth Of A Dance Teacher

Excerpt from memoir - most names changed

With hands on her hips, short in stature, and the perfect face of a doll, she reprimanded me with the words, “You are selfish?” ‘How can I be selfish? I practice Buddhism. I think of others before myself.’ Tierra was from Ecuador and wore her pride like a ballgown. The two standing behind her, both taller, were Hannah, with brown kinky curls and freckles, and Chantal, slim, perfectly quaffed, dressed in designer names. The three had previously approached me separately to ask if I taught Bellydancing.

I declined all of them. I associated teaching dance with teaching the choreography I used to create when I was younger. Twice, I swore off creating choreography again: once when apologizing to the mother of the boy with jet-black hair and again after presenting “Hair” and being asked too many questions. There was no way I would get myself tangled in these problems again. I needed to lay low, do my shows, and avoid trouble and complications.

Apparently, they had each gone over my head and asked Wagdi, the owner of the nightclub, where to take classes, so he introduced them to each other. As a team, this was their second time asking me. I knew this teaching thing could not end well, but I had to prove I was not selfish. Tierra and I eventually became best friends until I did not return from Jordan to be her bridesmaid with less than two weeks’ notice. I do not remember what steered her towards Bellydance.

Hannah was Jewish and madly in love with a Palestinian boy. Their story was the stuff of Romeo and Juliette or Majnun and Layla with both sets of parents forbidding a wedding. Eventually, the boy returned to Palestine, and Hannah followed him to Israel, where their union was illegal and now kept apart by a wall. In the meantime, she wanted to learn Bellydancing to be closer to his culture.

Chantal was from a small French-Canadian town in Quebec. Her mother had taught her that there was only one worthwhile goal in life: to land a rich husband. Becoming a Bellydancer was part of that plan. She would get furious with me when I turned down offers from wealthy men. At the very least, I was to make sure I got expensive jewellery if I wasn’t going to take her advice on how to marry them.

The first performance of the Yasmina Dance Troupe was New Year’s Eve 1985. “Habibi Ya Eini” was the name of the song. It was very popular. Wagdi gave us the stage at Cleopatra nightclub to rehearse, and we worked the choreography to perfection. Costumes were made in pastel satin with opal sequins. Chantal was baby blue, Hannah was pink, and Tierra was lilac. The big night had finally arrived, the nightclub was packed, and I had just finished my first show of the night.

It was 11pm, time for the girls to get in costume for their pre-midnight show, but they had decided unanimously against performing; they were too scared. When I came down from the dressing room to report the news to Wagdi, he blustered, “Get them down here right now.” He put a shot glass full of Triple Sec in front of each girl and demanded they drink up. When all was gulped down, he pointed to the stairs ordering them to go upstairs and get dressed to be on stage in 15 minutes.

Wagdi and I were both at the side of the stage pushing them on at the right moment. The audience erupted in appreciation singing the words to the song and gesturing lovingly. The girls were in shock, but their bodies were on autopilot, executing every step perfectly. They took their bows and exited, just as we had rehearsed. Halfway to the dressing room, they begged me to do it again. Thus began the stress of being a dance teacher, navigating the high-stakes emotion attached to performing.