CHAPTER ONE A dancer, more than any other human being, dies two deaths: the first, the physical when the powerfully trained body will no longer respond as you would wish. -MARTHA GRAHAM THIS is what it comes down to. The sweat. The blisters on your feet. The aching of your arms from practicing the skirtwork. The hours and hours rehearsing the same song until the music buries itself so deeply in your brain you hear it even in your sleep. The constant need to coax your body to move past the hurt, the frustration, the exhaustion, and convince it that it can do more . All that is worth this moment.
To be up here onstage, bathed in the red, blue, and yellow stage lights. A thousand eyes look at you, admiring your flawless movements. Your feet seem to float over the floor as you twirl and twirl around and around before jumping into the arms of your partner. Applause erupts out of the darkness, and you close your eyes and listen to it, let it envelop you. It gives you strength. Three seconds to catch your breath before the next polka, "El Circo," begins, and your heart beats hard against your chest, but you can''t hear it above the sounds of the norteño band playing upstage, the musician''s fingers dance over the keys of his accordion as quickly as your feet stomp on the floor. As you and your partner move together, you feel the heat of his body, the intensity of his dancing. You look in his eyes and don''t let him see that despite the adrenaline rushing through you, you''re becoming more aware of the stabbing pain in your knee.
You force yourself to keep smiling. He''ll know for sure you lied-to him, to yourself, thinking that you could perform like this. The stage is a flurry of dancers whirling and stomping. The audience breaks into a rhythmic clapping as they follow the lively song in 2/4 beat. On the fourth spin your knee buckles from under you and suddenly you''re on the floor, the eleven other couples try not to step on you because after all, the dance must go on. You try to get up and continue, but your legs no longer obey. You stare at the audience, yet all you see is darkness. The Exit signs like evil red eyes mock you.
How is this possible? How did it get to this point? Your partner scoops you up into his arms and whisks you off the stage. Despite the pulsing pain in your knee all you can think about is that you''ve ruined the choreography. There will be a gap where there shouldn''t be. The dancers waiting in the wings rush over, looking beautiful in their black Chiapas dresses embroidered with big colorful flowers. You want them to go away, to stop looking at you with pity. You''re used to the awe, the admiration, the envy. But not their pity. "What happened?" they ask.
You take a deep breath, trying to come up with something, anything except the truth. "I''m okay, I''m okay. Don''t worry. I landed on my ankle the wrong way. Now stop fussing over me and go back to your places." "Is it your knee?" your partner asks as he helps you to the dressing room. You shake your head no, glad that your Nuevo Leon skirt is long enough that he can''t see your right knee has swollen to the size of a grapefruit. You find yourself unable to tell him the truth, even if he''s your husband.
Because once you admit it to him, you will have to admit it to yourself as well. The pain will go away. It has to. Yesenia We''ve just finished warm-ups and are now taking a short break before moving on to the Azteca danzas, but I''m at the barre doing tendus. I need to believe warming up longer will help. That and Advil should help me get through practice, but lately that hasn''t been the case. I feel my kneebones grinding against each other, and I''ve started wearing a brace and keep it hidden under my sweatpants-which I''ve been using now instead of my Lycra pants-and although the brace relieves some of the pressure, my right knee still stiffens and swells. My son, Memo, comes to stand by me and stretches as far as he can, yet his fingertips are two inches shy of his toes.
It makes me feel better that at twenty, Memo isn''t that much more flexible than I am. "I''m making chile verde for dinner," I say. "Ah, Mom, I''m going out with my friends tonight." "Where are you going on a Sunday night? Don''t you have school tomorrow?" "To the Arclight. The director is going to be there for a Q and A after the movie. I''ll come straight home afterward. Besides, my first class isn''t until eleven." "You can have the leftovers tomorrow, then.
That is, if your father and I don''t eat it all." Memo laughs and runs his fingers through his long hair. I brush it off his forehead, wishing he would cut it. He won''t, though, no matter how much I complain that it doesn''t look good onstage. The audience could think he''s a girl dressed up in men''s clothes. "Guess what?" Adriana, one of my dancers, says as she joins us at the barre. "I got a job!" "Great!" I say, suppressing a sigh of relief. Finally, Adriana will start paying her dues and stop begging her sister for rent money.
"How about I take you to La Perla to celebrate?" My husband, Eduardo, picks up the atecocolli and brings it to his lips. When he blows into the shell the dancers peel themselves off the walls or get on their feet and head to the floor. "Tomorrow after work, okay?" I say to Adriana. As Eduardo pounds on his drum, the studio comes alive with movement. Memo remains by my side, and as we dance I can''t help but remember the child he once was. Three years old, and already he had learned to do a zapateado. And now, he dances flawlessly. Gives in to the music of his ancestors, and when he turns to me and smiles, I feel a rush of pride.
This tall young man is my little boy, whom I taught to walk, to dance, to love Folklorico. I look at the dancers around me. In the row in front of me is Stephanie, who at seventeen is the youngest in the professional group. In the row behind me is Olivia, who at thirty-six is the second-oldest dancer, six years younger than me. The women always leave. Start getting married. Having children. Pursuing a career.
Little by little letting go of their passion for Folklorico. I''ve been the co-director of my own dance group for nine years. Eduardo and I have worked so hard to get it where it is now. There are about a hundred Folklorico groups in Los Angeles, and Grupo Folklorico Alegria is one of the best. We have forty-five dancers, and in every one of our big shows there are always at least twelve couples on the stage. When we finish practicing the Azteca danzas, I put on my dance shoes and my red practice skirt, which is made of fourteen yards of poplin and falls right below my ankles. Lately, whenever it''s my turn to teach I focus on the skirtwork even more than the footwork because it gives me a chance to rest my knee. "You hold up your skirt like this," I say, standing before the female dancers, my back to the mirrors.
"Stop holding it as if it were a rag you clean your kitchen counter with! Veracruz is supposed to be danced with grace. You hold up the skirt delicately, as if it were sea foam, light in your hands. But your feet are fast, like the current." Even though our next performance isn''t one of our big shows but rather an adult school assembly, I won''t let the dancers go until I''m pleased with what I see. "This isn''t the time to learn but to perfect," I say. "Last year we gave an excellent show at this school and this year I want it to be even better." We do another run-through of the Veracruz Cuadro Eduardo and I choreographed, except I don''t finish the suite. At the beginning of "Coco," the last song of the cuadro, I step to the side and pretend my skirt has become loose.
I wrap one strap around my waist, and then the other, slowly, breathing in and out. Eduardo glances at me, and so does Memo, the same worried look on their faces. I stand on the side and watch the dancers do the complex combination of steps. Sweating bodies flow in graceful rhythms, turning and turning, feet tapping faster and faster. I listen to the joyful music: the harp playing the melody, the jarana marking the rhythm, the requinto providing the counterpoint. To hell with my rebellious knee! I quickly pick up the sides of my skirt and join the dancers again. But by the end of the song, my feet hardly move. I do the skirt movements and hope no one can tell I''m only marking the steps the way some of the lazy dancers do, the way Adriana is doing now.
How often have I told her she must dance at practice the way she would dance onstage? I don''t correct her today. How can I? My feet aren''t as fast as the current anymore. After practice I go home and head straight to the freezer; I sit on the recliner with an ice pack on my knee. Eduardo comes out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. At forty-two he still has the body of a young dancer, slender and agile, so much like Memo''s. I''ve always been jealous that he can eat anything he wants without gaining weight. Unlike me, who puts on pounds just by looking at food. "I''m worried about you, Yessy," he says.
He isn''t a tall man; at five feet five he stands two inches shorter than me, and his thin body makes me feel like a beluga whale when standing next to him, but his deep, booming voice makes him seem larger than life. His poise conveys confidence, power. That''s what attracted me to him the first time we met.