NOV 2023 - Not Too Old

I was 26 when I chose to stop performing as a dancer. Too many experiences of being told I was too short, too heavy, too slow, too difficult . . . To earn a salary I taught dance, and on occasion choreographed dance programs, but I never felt fulfilled. Then, I started a children’s theatre company in a settlement house in a poor section of town. I earned an MA in theatre and began teaching movement and nonverbal communication for actors in a university theatre program, which I loved. I found a way to love moving that was not dancing.

More than twenty years later, I was using a Raven tale from the Indigenous Peoples of the Northwest as the basis for students to improvise. The story is full of action as Raven is called upon by the community to defeat Evil. I told them to let the story resonate within, to think about characters and energy and what motivated their movement. As they began, my students invited me to join them, which I sometimes did, to provide inspiration and challenge. It was utter chaos in the beginning with no specific instruction, just the story living inside each of us. We moved as we felt, sometimes interacting, sometimes bumping and falling over one another. As we moved something shifted. Our movements became less chaotic. We started paying attention to one another. I called out some of the key words in the story. Students responded by echoing my words. 

Unbeknownst to me, the dance teacher, checking on noise he heard in the dance studio, came in and watched. When we stopped moving, he applauded. “I want you to make what you just did into a piece for the dance concert,” he said to me.

“That’s up to the students. It’s their class and their work,” I responded. 

“No,” he said, “I want you to create the piece and dance it. I’ve been watching you move. You’re mesmerizing. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

I laughed. “I’m 46. It’s been more than 25 years since I last danced and I don’t miss it.” 

Before I could say any more, my students joined in, like a Greek chorus. “Great idea. Let’s do it.”

Seeing my discombobulation, the dance teacher said, “If it makes you feel better, we’ll call it a movement piece and all of you movers rather than dancers.” As he left the room, my students let me know they were ready to begin working on the piece.

At the start of our next class one of the students brought his drum, another brought her flute. I suggested one person read the text and the rest of us would move according to how we responded to the words and music. “We need to cast the story,” said a student. “I think you should be Raven.” I disagreed. The class agreed. I was Raven. They chose their characters; most wanted to be villagers. Two volunteered to be Evil. After a short discussion, the two students agreed to work together as one since Evil was so powerful. 

I decided to begin rehearsals as we had moved the first time, with no instruction, just improvisation, to see what ideas would emerge since we had two months to work on the piece before the concert. At first there was the usual chaos. People bumped into each other. Students lifted me up to counter Evil and I fell backward. Luckily two students saw and caught me. I felt awkward and uncomfortable about being the main character. When I suggested a student take my place the class answered as one. “No!” You need to be Raven.” Oy!

The night of the first performance I was so anxious one of my students laughed and said, “Professor King, you’re making us nervous. Calm down.” Laughter helps. 

All too quickly it was our turn. The lights went out. We took our places. The beat of the drum set an ominous tone. The flute countered. The lights came on. The villagers surrounded me as Raven and the two students portraying Evil. I stepped out of the circle, shaking, unable to find my center. Wobbling when I tried to balance. Then, Evil pounced—two students in one costume. 

Something shifted inside me. Memories of abuse, of feeling hopeless and alone. I could feel the villagers moving behind me. I was tired of feeling helpless, tired of not speaking out for myself. I suddenly felt a surge of energy, of power I didn’t know I had. Moving with strength and balance conviction, I countered Evil as the drum beat echoed my movement., the flute encouraging me to keep going. We moved against and with each other, vying for victory. I felt the villagers encouragement even though I couldn’t see their movement. Finally, with a decisive thrust, using my whole body, I forced Evil to the floor and stood on top of the horizontal bodies. Evil lost all energy. Evil had been defeated. 

Without having deciding to do so ahead of time, we formed a circle and bowed our heads. The flute stopped. The drumming stopped. The piece was finished.

There was silence. No applause. I felt bad for my students. I knew I was too old to perform. I should have refused. Suddenly, to my astonishment, the audience stood up. Cheering. Clapping. Whistling. My students, including Evil (who moved out of their joint costume) and the musicians surrounded me, pushing me out in front of them to bow separately before bowing with the cast.

One of my students whispered, “See, we told you. You’re not too old to dance or move or whatever you want to call it.”

How old is old?

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World tale: The Dancing granny

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