En español | When my friend Grazia and I decided to explore the sole belly-dancing class at the Y — on the off chance it would become a way to get in shape that we didn’t dread, ending up as part of a troupe whose name includes the phrase “moon goddesses” was so far from my mind that I’m having a hard time describing it. The probability of seeing a fairy in my garden was at least a conversation I had had with my 6-year-old daughter a time or two. Belly dancing in public at 48? Ha! But in that first class, our instructor, Terry, told us the group was getting ready to create a new choreography for a belly-dance convention six weeks away, and invited us to join. Horrified, I was ready to flee when I heard Grazia say, “I’ll be in Italy, but she can go,” pointing at me. With Grazia’s and Terry’s encouragement (“It’ll be fun!”), I agreed.
You might think this was a beginner’s class to ease into the intricacies of belly dance. It was more like bungee jumping — dive into the void and at some point, you’ll bounce back. The group already knew most of the moves, and I had to hurry and catch up. Almost immediately, I was learning the difference between a shimmy and a maya, how to undulate across the dance floor, the trick to twirling a veil without (mostly) getting tangled in it, and doing chest circles isolating muscles I didn’t know I could move.
My learning curve was steep but manageable. My confidence, however, started to plunge at around the third week, after I had committed to the performance and purchased the bare necessities of harem pants, belly-baring choli top, coin hip scarf, and veil. I could do most of the steps reasonably OK (#goals), but in spite of us having extended rehearsals to twice a week I wasn’t remembering the choreography and couldn’t pick up the music cues. Disheartened, I berated myself for blindly agreeing to dance and plotted how to remove myself from the group.
What I hadn’t counted on was the unwavering support of my fellow dancers. I’m not sure what I expected when I first went to the class, but in the back of my mind I thought I was going to find a bunch of 20-year-old Salomes. Instead, I found women … like me. Over 40, facing our changing bodies, and enjoying the ride. They generously shared their knowledge, celebrated when I learned a move, encouraged me to continue, and — although they have been dancing together for years — never made me feel like they were wondering how this newbie had landed in their midst. June, Veronica, Amy, Dory, Virginia and Terry are true moon goddesses.
My family’s reaction to the news that I’d soon be belly dancing before an audience was so … them. My husband laughed in surprise that I was willing to do such a thing, but, always supportive, said I’d do great no matter what. My mom said that with a Middle Eastern name like Jamillah, she should have guessed that I would eventually end up belly dancing. My daughter just wanted to wear the coin scarf at all times. They soon grew disgruntled, however, when I forbade them from attending the performance. I could not bear the stress of knowing they’d be there. As for my friends, I only told the ones who live out of town.
The six weeks that seemed like an eternity in May turned into early July at an alarming rate, and performance day arrived. Do I need to tell you that I had never been to a belly-dance convention before? I was dazzled by the colorful outfits, jewelry, makeup, hair and tattoos many of the performers and vendors sported. To my delight, I saw that belly dance is full of humor. For the showcase, I again thought stereotypically and was expecting young, statuesque dancers. There were some of those, yes, but there were also dancers in their 50s, 60s and 70s, with what some would call “imperfect” bodies but perfect grace and joy. My favorite was a dancer whose hair is, like mine, half gray and half whatever color she dyed it last. I found out that people belly dance to country music, techno, ’60s psychedelic rock and, most memorably, “Eye of the Tiger” — shimmying punches included. Best of all, I encountered a tight-knit community where no dance is a bad dance. I know because we botched the first of our two routines, and I panicked, started to sweat and then got the giggles while, of course, getting tangled in my veil. And when it was over, the audience clapped warmly, oblivious to — or because of — our mistakes. The second dance went without a hitch, and that got even more applause and congratulations; one woman told Terry she wanted to join the troupe. The best compliment came from Terry’s husband, Fred, who asked me how long I had been in the group. When I told him a month and a half, he answered, “You can’t tell!”
The beauty of the YMCA is that all classes are ongoing, and you join as you can for as long as you want. A few days after the show, Terry told us that the Zumba instructor had invited us to perform during her class (at 8 a.m. on a Saturday, I might add), as about half of us are her students. I cringed but said yes, a bit concerned that I actually knew people there. By the time I arrived at the Y to get ready, my “bit” of concern had become full-on stage fright. I sang in a choir for 15 years and I was never as terrified before a performance as I was that morning. Luckily my nerves abated once we started the routine, it went well, and the Zumba class danced with us and cheered wildly when we finished.
At the beginning of all this I would jokingly tell friends and family that I had become an accidental belly dancer, and was the first to laugh at myself. But I hadn’t yet discovered that by taking a risk, what I truly had done was join a sisterhood. I have much to learn, but I’m shimmying on.
