It was a pop-up performance, outside, in a courtyard at a hotel in Phoenix. I was dancing by myself that Saturday. The piece started in silence but moved into music. Guerilla style, I brought my own stereo, I had no sound person. Nor did I have childcare. On top of all this, my dad had died the Tuesday before this Saturday performance, losing his four-year battle with cancer.
I originally choreographed the solo, “Ojos Negros,” in 2013 as an ode to my great-grandmother who passed away two days shy of her 101st birthday. The piece used a voice recording of her talking about death. The recording was from an oral history I did with my great-grandmother thirteen years earlier as research for a senior project that later evolved into my master’s thesis. In 2015, knowing that my dad was nearing the end, I dusted off the piece and prepared to perform it again. I wanted to hear my great grandmother’s voice and her wisdom about death as I said goodbye to my dad. I wanted her strength and the strength of my ancestors to get me through this time of transition and letting go.
There I was under the bright desert sky with wispy white clouds, dancing outside, my preferred stage, looking up for my dad, missing him, scattering the holy dirt of my homeland all over the flagstone of a hotel in the Valley of the Sun. Buddy was with me, just seven years old, and he was the one who ran the music for me that day. I trained him before the performance, during all those days when I would bring him to rehearsals with me, no childcare. He started and ended my music right on cue. When the piece was over, he joined me on “stage,” grabbed my hand, and together we bowed.
It was the first time I shared a stage with my son, performing a piece honoring our ancestors, a piece saying goodbye to my dad, his Grampy. And it was the best performance of that piece to date.
* photo by the Arizona Dance Coalition