Six of the women dancers are not just old, they are quite elderly, and the men dancing with them are young. “I wish I knew the meaning of this dance.”
“Look at that.” Katherine gestures toward a wrinkled, profoundly hunch-backed woman who suddenly straightens and ties her kerchief more tightly around her head. She then takes the colonel’s hand, who appears out of nowhere, and twirls him into an embrace.
“Just like a seasoned ballerina,” Katherine notes happily. The women’s skirts rise as their kicks become higher and higher, their bodies move sensually, arching and dipping, joined by the men whose hips circle around and around, creating an almost dizzying effect.
Or maybe it’s the white rum.
There is more fiddling, more rum, more dancing with high kicks, backbends, and rum. Time passes, and the lines blur between the set dance and the dancing villagers. We stay until the end, exhausted, slightly drunk, and wearing broad smiles.
As Tully and I bid farewell to Katherine and Othella, Katherineturns to me, her breath sweet with the scent of rum. “As you said, this is only the beginning.” She heads into her living quarters, barking instructions to Othella about writing down everything she remembers before she falls asleep. Nothing must be lost. Nothing.
CHAPTER 30
OTHELLA
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Week Two
Iimpressed Katherine Dunham. I could absolutely squeal with delight!
After the set dance, I wrote down everything I observed, as she ordered, recalling the smallest details from when the music began to the dancers’ clothing, hairstyles and, in that case, the white kerchiefs. I noted what they wore when they lifted the hem of their skirts, sashaying their hips all around the pavilion. When I showed her my journal, she said I was a natural, not just because I had this photographic memory but because I saw dance and dancers and translated movement, passion, and exuberance—her words—in such a way and with such thoroughness that she almost didn’t need her notation system. She quickly admitted that the last part was a bit of a stretch. “My notation system is unique, and you will learn it flawlessly, but you’ve already demonstrated your talent in this area.”
I’m accustomed to swinging, bobbing, and shaking my tail feathers—not evoking the spirits of the African ancestors. Ofcourse I don’t say this. I just nod my head, look at the diagram, and act as if I know what all the symbols mean. It’s just that she trusts me to learn it. My skills of observation—that’s what she calls them—and my natural talent for dance make my job totally doable. That and this photographic memory she keeps beaming about.
This is great news, but I am secretly thanking my lucky stars that Tully documents everything with his camera or motion picture machine. So, even though she acts like I’m the only one to rely on, I’m not.
“The notation system is a way to record dance movements through symbols or written instructions,” she says, explaining it for the umpteenth time since she showed it to me. “Dance is essential to the Maroon culture, and I intend to capture footwork, gestures, and torso isolations, which are central to Afro-Caribbean dance traditions, without losing authenticity. It also documents the timing and rhythm, along with drumming and oral chants, and even symbolic gestures that hold spiritual or ancestral meanings. Researchers and future generations will be able to re-create these dances accurately.”
I ponder this for a long moment. “Is it similar to sheet music for a jazz band?”
“Exactly, Othella.” She hands me another journal. “We’re going to work very well together.”
A week later, Katherine Dunham puts me to work. “I’m trusting you. You’re responsible for the notation system.” She might rethink that trust if she knew my only responsibility for as long as I can remember has simply been to survive.
“Every breath I take is influenced by movement and sound. Whenever I’m onstage or in a dance studio, I become immersed in the rhythms of the music and the breath of sound, feeling more alive than ever,” Katherine says one morning as we walk toward the silk cotton tree and the market.
“I understand what you mean,” I tell her. “I feel the same way when I dance. It’s as if nothing else matters except my body and the music.”
“Dance is always present,” Katherine continues, “whether or not a musical instrument is playing.”
Katherine Dunham loves to dance, and I could listen to her talk about it for ages. The sparkle in her eyes and the words flowing from her mouth take my breath away.
“You’re a quick study, too. Over the past few weeks, you’ve picked up some movements from the African dances demonstrated by the Maroon people.” She pats me on the shoulder. “I’ve seen you practicing.”
“Oh, you have,” I reply shyly yet proudly. “These dances are quite different from the ones I performed at the Savoy Ballroom. None of them resembles the Lindy Hop, the foxtrot, or the shimmy.” I pause. “Okay, maybe the shimmy.”
Katherine nods in agreement. “You’re right about that.”
The market isn’t large, but it offers fruits, vegetables, and cloth wraps that can be fashioned into dresses. I’m pleased that Katherine seems tired of wearing riding pants and shirts every day. “You know what?”
“What, ma’am?” I ask politely.
“You have what it takes, Othella, a flexible torso, spine, and pelvis, and can isolate your limbs. You’re talented,” Katherine says, looking deeply into my eyes. “When we return to Chicago, I want you to take dance classes with me.”
“Are you serious?” I exclaim. “Oh my. I would love that. Thank you, ma’am. I will, I swear I will.”
I feel like floating across the sky and dancing on Lake Michigan without a boat. My chest swells with delight, and I wish my jubilation could last forever. But it can’t—I told Katherine a lie. I will never take a dance lesson with her, for I will never return to Chicago.
CHAPTER 31
