The mirror needs a good washing. This is usually one of my first thoughts upon entering the dance studio. I sit in my usual spot just near the door on the left and begin stretching. I am normally a mirror avoider- a behavior I am working at changing in an attempt to increase my presence- but the studio is dark and small light filtering in through the windows highlights the smudges covering the mirror. I fight an urge to rub it clean with my pagne.
I am always the first person there, followed by the musicians. Finally, the teacher and other students wander in and eventually we begin the class. There is a new group of dancers and drummers who have arrived from somewhere outside the capital. I still haven't gotten the basics on from where or how people get added to the school but the process seems to be in full effect.
I'd had an informal Q&A session with one of the managers about the children. There are a billion children roaming around the grounds. Some of them are the children of the grown dancers/drummers but others have been presented by their families or other person to live and study at the school. Long ago "the state" used to provide funding for the cultural edification of Ivorians but that has since dried up, another result of the conflicts. They are not taking new recruits, prefering to get this generation steadily on its way first.
But the older people, they offer an exchange. They work in the school's dance company and perform frequently around the city. They give the classes and generally bring up the youth in a world of music, dance and art. I fall in love every time I think of it. Their day is scheduled with classes twice in the morning and twice after the midday meal. Saturdays are also filled with rehearsals. I'm not sure how many choose to spend their time off, but there are painters and costume designers and probably lots of resting to be done.
When you walk into the school, there is a large parking area covered in grass and pebbles. To the right, construction has begun on an outdoor ampitheater, though how long ago it began and if it will ever be finished is anyone's guess. I have yet to see any work actually taking place. To the left and across a small field are a series of round huts with conical thatched roofs that reach into the sky. There is a long cement building with a porch over there as well and I guess it serves as dormitory housing for the younger students. Clothes constantly hang on bushes and lines in attempt to dry them (surely impossible in this rainy season when, even though the skies may be dry, the air is so heavy with mist that the flowers hold huge drops of dew who refuse to evaporate.)
The school itself greets you head on and is a large building with high ceilings and long hallways. There are a number of studios inside and secret doors I've never been past. The huge doors are always open and the hallways form a cross, allowing for a soothing breeze to be constantly passing through. It has certainly seen better days and I can only imagine the responsibility of caring for such a large building. I spend the first ten minutes of my arrival waiting in the hallway, sitting in a plastic chair being overwhelemed by the vastness of the place.
Various people can be found, watching a small tv set in an alcove, playing a game of dam on a checkerboard placed atop their knees, streetstyle or just walking through on their way to someplace else. The front porch area is littered with flip flops in all sizes and a random school bag or sweater can be found laying against the wall here and there. I enjoy the cozy comfort despite the reaching ceilings and dim hallways.
On this Saturday I am the only paying adult. There are three young girls who've come from outside and then the smattering of students who live at the school. We are doing a new rhythm (for me) though, as usual, I feel a sense of deja vu with the dance steps. Sometimes I will get the hang of one particularly well as I've performed it, or something similar, before. It's like meeting an old friend when that happens and I especially enjoy the ability to lose myself in greeting the movement. There is nothing quite like the euphoria of dance step and drum beat synchronising. It is similar to the satisfaction of one color juxtaposed pleasingly against its compliment or the sensuous curve of a line made in perfection. It's the hook that brings you back time and again- searching, hoping, craving that moment when creativity and skill collide in a frenzy of energy and emotion.
Several of the movements have brought me to this place today. Others have left me crinkling up my nose (that must be where Mbalia gets her cute smile from....though on me I am sure it is less enchanting) wondering why I can't get my feet to move in time to the music. After a few turns across the floor, the instructor calls us to spread out so we can perfect the steps in front of the mirror. I'm not the only one struggling, though the steps I need to work on are in direct contrast to the ones perplexing the Ivorian students.
We go through the dance several times before she admonishes one of the younger dancers. "Even the white has gotten it better than you and you are not ashamed," she says. She's using me as the insult and, contrary to the title of this post, I'm not sure what to do or how to take it. I want to let her know it is quite possible I have been dancing longer than he has been walking (the boy might be 15, then again he might be 20. Age is so impossible for me to discern among dancers.) I don't think that will help soften the blow to him or me and so I say nothing. There is nothing to say. We're the victim of skin color and cliches. White people can't dance and Africans can.
I mention my horror to Mohamed later on as we were in the taxi on the way to our cinema evening out. He recalls similar experiences from school. "Sometimes, if I get an answer right and one of the other students in class get it wrong, the teacher will try to shame him by saying 'Even the white boy can do this. But you? You can't?'"
We shared reactions of puzzlement about how best to handle this and why it even had to come up. Neither of us reached a conclusion, but at least we could laugh at ourselves. Perhaps that's the answer to the title. When you're the insult in the room, there is nothing to do but grin and bear it. And keep dancing.
