Transcriber: Paul Campen Reviewer: David DeRuwe
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I was diagnosed with Ewing Sarcoma, a deadly form of bone cancer,
when I was five years old.
At the time, I was just beginning my dance journey.
I went from the sounds of classical piano while I pliéd at the bar
to the sounds of irritating beeps
and authoritative voices telling me to be a good patient.
I was not a good patient. I ran away from my hospital bed often.
It took 10 doctors and nurses just to hold me down to give me a shot.
Eventually, they had to put me in a crib with a net over it.
Even then, I think I was already dancing flamenco.
This was my first soleá,
the part of the flamenco dance where the individual dancer
expresses their joys and sorrows.
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Flamenco is both the national dance of Spain
and the “up yours” dance of the Roma people.
The Roma people were a persecuted people.
They migrated from India over a thousand years ago and settled all over the world,
but especially in Spain.
Both the Spanish government and the Catholic Church
did not look too kindly on flamenco dance until well into the 20th century.
Just like anyone who feels different, separate, or marginalized,
like a five-year-old girl with cancer.
flamenco is about owning one’s identity.
(Foot stomp)
The first time I met a flamenco dancer,
she came in the form of a doll called Miss Spain.
From her long ruffled skirt to her lace top and the red rose in her hair,
I was smitten.
She went through a lot during my childhood.
Her clothing became tattered and torn. My brothers tried to behead her.
Eventually, a leg went missing, but I loved her.
She was my favorite doll, and she survived well into my adulthood.
Over the years, the chemotherapy and radiation
that had saved my life kept me from living.
I tried to dance, but it was getting harder.
One day my doctor told me my bone cancer had returned.
He extended my left leg and placed his hand karate-chop-style below my knee.
(Drumbeat)
Within a week, I was an amputee.
(Foot stomps)
I survived, in case you hadn’t noticed. I eventually learned how to walk again.
But visibility was scary.
I retreated into academia where I had great success.
I lived all over Europe. I learned new languages. I had lots of romances.
This was the time of my paseo or passage,
a time when I felt excited and hopeful about my future,
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But I sensed.
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something
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was coming.
I was 33.
I was living in Switzerland,
working at the United Nations when I fell ill.
I was hospitalized and diagnosed with acute kidney failure.
Just like my five-year-old rebellious self,
I ran away from the hospital and found myself standing
next to a field of sunflowers.
Bulerías.
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I asked myself, “Do I want to stay? Do I want to live?”
I returned to the hospital, the doctors and nurses were furious with me,
but I was proud.
(Foot stomp)
After a few weeks recovering in the Swiss hospital,
I was forced to come back to the United States,
where I continued my dialysis treatment for 11 years.
I became one of the first amputee yoga teachers in the United States,
I wrote lots of books and articles about yoga,
I got married and divorced,
and eventually received my beloved kidney transplant.
I had survived, and I needed to dance flamenco again.
Guajíras.
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I dance flamenco for hours each week.
It is where I go, my sacred time to express all the hidden layers
of joy and sorrow that are part of my story.
I dance flamenco to prove that I am alive,
that I have survived, and that joy is my birthright.
Just like the Roma people who created this dance,
I stake my claim
(Foot stomp)
and demand my right to be here.
This is my story. This is my dance.
This is my soléa.
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(Applause)