Free Ameera, Unveiled by Kathleen Varn Page A

realized that I’d decided on a prop for my solo. I was desperately trying to embrace that phrase “my solo.” Since I couldn’t hide behind Polly or Cheryl, maybe the veil would suffice. On the other hand, a prop could go the other way . . . if I failed to properly partner with it.
    “Let’s hear your solo song,” she said, motioning for me to sit and stretch hamstrings. I’d prepared myself for The Inquisition.
    Picking up the “Bellydance Superstar” CD beside me, I explained again, “Ameera means queen, so she wants a queen song . . . ‘Drama Queen’ by Sahar.”
    Sybil averted her eyes as though she were suppressing a smile. “Let’s listen to it,” she said. “I assume you’ve counted the eight counts and decided where you wanna fade a two-minute solo?”
    I grabbed my glasses and fiddled with Sybil’s CD player. Eventually, the song started correctly. I returned to the floor and continued warming up.
    “I keep trying to find a fading place, but there’re so many transitions in the music. I’m not sure there is one,” I said. “Plus, I think I’d like to use my veil?” I showed my insecurity by lifting my voice in a question.
    She didn’t answer. We stretched through the entire four-minute song and, by the time it’d ended, I was finding the lack of response to my question unnerving. Why’d I let the silence feel like a judgment?
    Sybil’s face was unreadable. She looked at my veil in the corner and said, “Show me what you’ve got so far.”
    Gulping and trying not to let Ameera disappear, I grabbed the veil, opened my dance journal, and reviewed my choreography. Sybil moved to the front of the room, preparing to push the play button.
    I placed the veil evenly in my hands, posed with it extended over my head, and said, “I’m ready, but I’ve only got a minute of choreography so far.” I felt a pregnant silence. Then my music started.
    I took my veil and went through sixty seconds of awkwardness. I tried to avoid Sybil’s stare, but it melted my confidence until the veil was more visible than I was.
    “That’s as much as I’ve got,” I said after I’d stopped.
    Sybil paused the music and, with a serious face, delivered her assessment. “Kat, if you’re using a prop, you’ve got to stop accommodating it. Do you understand? We did this in a previous class. Own your prop, don’t let it own you.” She continued, “I want you to do the whole song. I don’t like some of the first part. Do it again.”
    What? I’d painfully put the first minute together over hours and days. I didn’t know enough of the belly dance alphabet to assemble new words for a two-minute dance, let alone for a four-minute dance. What the hell?
    Dejected, I performed it again while Sybil pointed out the parts she didn’t like without offering direction or substitution. I noted it all in my dance journal and put on my gypsy skirt before we moved on. That is, I tried to move on, but the entire time, I was fighting back tears. I’d once again failed to please an instructor.
    “You okay, Kat?” Sybil asked. “You’re quiet.”
    “I’m good,” I said, forcing a smile. I wanted to fuss at myself for not speaking up and telling Sybil how discouraged I was with starting a four-minute challenge. And I wanted to tell her how unfair it was favoring my classmates, who I knew were working on two-minute pieces. My heart hurt. I wanted to throw down my veil and walk off.
    Instead, what came out was, “I’ll work on my changes. Four minutes, though?” I tried to add a little growl to the last question.
    “You can do it,” Sybil said.
    As I turned to head to the door, I took a deep breath and waved. This morning had felt so sunny and airy, an afterglow from watching the troupe on Saturday. Now I headed home with a flat tire in my soul.

    After my subdued exit from my Monday class, I was excited when Jill Bahr, the resident choreographer for the Charleston Ballet, embraced my request to share advice