I made a girl cry tonight in my dance class. Her outburst was vague at first, anger in its purest form, and she'd yelled aloud, "It's because I'm fat! I can't breakdance, I'm forty pounds overweight!" Her face ballooned red almost immediately afterwards, as she realized that there were ten other people in the room. She isolated herself to a corner of the studio and stewed.
I stood still by the stereo, with my shoulders squared wide and solid. Confusion set quickly and I felt knee-deep in someone else's emotional cement. What'd happened just a few breaths before just now to push her to tears? I realized that sometime in the last few years, I've hardened from the inside out. I used to be a pushover. I used to be nice. I used to understand. Nowadays, who knows how big of an asshole I'll be when the day breaks.
"Let's talk outside," I tried to ask politely. She shook her head at me, eyes heavy and focused on the parallel wooden lines that made up the dance floor. "Get up now." I ordered. She told me later that night she was scared shitless.
"I thought you were going to hurt me." An honest response from her. It hurt, indeed the truth was a low-blow. I'd never hit a girl; unless by some crazy one-in-a-million chance I knocked her up while we dated happily in high school only to find out she was using me as a ploy to do all her homework in return for occasional oral then the day after graduation she'd inform me that she'd been cheating on me with a guy in a wheelchair who gives her free tattoos then decided that methamphetamines was more important than her baby girl and leaves us both, never to return. Yeah right, like that'd ever happen.
Back to the studio. Shoeless, she walked outside making sure to walk a few steps ahead of me. To get a running start, I suppose.
The night air was thick, congesting my lungs and I cleared my throat. Several people standing outside the Pizza Hut next door eyed us carefully, trying to analyze the situation. Nervously, they scattered back into the store. Had I scared them as well?
"Shelbs, you're not fat. If you were a Pokemon, you'd be Jigglypuff and everybody loves Jigglypuff," I joked, putting my arm around her shoulders.
She stayed silent, tears polluted by her makeup and she sloppily wiped them away with the back of her hand. I talked knowing it was pointless, knowing she didn't care, waiting for the point she'd let me have it. She let me drone on with my bad jokes in rapid succession.
Finally, she said, "Dat, you hurt me all the time." She explained to me that she comes to my breakdance class because she wants to learn. There's passion in her somewhere and why won't I help find it? She wants to do moves, as I constantly say in class, do moves to make you a mover to music that moves you to move others. [Okay, I don't really say that, but hopefully I got someone out there to say it, if only in their head.]
"Give me a hug," I demanded. She cautiously put her arms around my waist. "Don't give me a fake hug okay. I've been married a long time, argued for a majority of it, therefore I know how to tell between a real and a fake hug."
Her arms tugged a bit harder, squeezing from the forearms and there was a decent amount of pressure stemming from the elbows. Close enough to a real one.
I told her, "Shelbs, I don't really know what's happened to me lately. I'm sorry. If I'm rough on you, it has nothing to do with your weight. If you're projecting some crazy, teenager low self-esteem angsty issues on me, it's okay. Go ahead. Moving forward, I will be a better teacher, but I don't think that's what you need."
"What do I need?" She asked.
"Someone to talk to. It's hard out there." She let go of me and declined my offer, probably because she was still scared shitless. Or maybe because I'd myself projected the impression that I didn't give two shits about anyone or anything. I do care. "I do care."
I put my hand on the front door entrance, and for a minute, no, not even a minute, but for a brief second I wondered if people saw my father in the same light as Shelbs saw me. He for damn sure never gave me the impression he cared, and still to this very moment as of this writing, I yearn to talk to him for validation.
He died June 12th of last year. I was in Seattle, winning and winning big, trying to self-validate myself through dance. Epic fail? C'est la vie, ma cherie.
I don't really know why I wrote any of this. The answer flickers here and there, like a burnt light-bulb still trying to thrive on its remaining filaments. Wouldn't it be nice, if once in awhile, I was able to validate someone else before they knew they needed it?
I do say this in class: Less talk, more do. Regarding dance, the motto works perfectly. But this isn't dance, not even close. This is real life where girls have self-image issues to the point of exploitation and wouldn't someone as strong as Dat, as smart as Dat, wouldn't he know how exactly to get past all that bullshit?
The answer: Just project.
Dat
Comments (1)
ahaha its great to see you're still blogging on occasion (somewhat)
Ive always respected your writing man!