In high school I played volleyball.
Our team was good, though I wasn’t any good at setting or spiking. (I spiked us
out of bounds to end our BC Provincial Championship run during the
semi-finals.)
Since Grade 6, OTOH, I'd been great at
the Bump (my coach called it the "McGovern Flick"; a carefully
controlled reception of the ball coming from any direction, sent to our setter
for someone else to spike).
And I was particularly good at
serving. Those tennis lessons in short white skirts and frilly white underwear
had paid off in my overhead volleyball serve which almost always glanced over
the net before curving unexpectedly, leaving the other team's defense
scrambling, usually unsuccessfully, to return the ball. Games could march on,
one trickster serve after another, until I hit the net.
After 10 or so years without, I took
up playing "recreational" volleyball with some friends. They hadn't
been volleyball players but were super competitive sports people (even at
croquet!) so expectations were high. But I'd lost my serve. No matter how hard
I tried: to concentrate, to not think, to rediscover the zone; I never did.
At the time, losing my volleyball
serve seemed like such a big deal.
Saint Louis du Senegal is a small city
but with a rich cultural heritage. Nov. 29th to Dec. 1st was no exception with
the Festival Métissons - a hybridization of French and African, white and
black, music.
The opening night concert was by far
the closest one gets to diversity in this society:
- a dapper older white man in burnt
sienna linen jacket and avocado pants, photographing the scene while remaining
a part of it;
- intervals of older Senegalese men owning the dance floor;
- loads of local Boytown hipsters (check-down pants off their butts) and even some
girls (besides the usual white-man hunting lycra-dressed young ladies);
- three white girls with their hair in prim
buns: American visiting University students, straight from the Bible Belt
chattering in American with Peace Corp volunteers (with their enviable fluency
in local languages);
- a clique of resident parents with
their stunning mixed race kids;
- dreads and traditional tresses
checkered on black and white heads;
- a couple of French Cougars, each
with her mari d'hiver
- a middle aged Senegalese woman in
traditional "wax" print cotton boubou smoking a cigarette (a true
indicator of an exceptionally liberal vibe);
- a Belgian girl who seems gloriously
happy every time I see her at a concert;
- a class of restless Choir boys on
stage; Koranic school talibés at the curb, waiting...
The following night, the Senegalese
group Takeifa (rising stars of African music scene, with their family harmonies,
swingable, jumpable beats, and intelligent lyrics in Wolof, French and English)
took the stage.
For the first time in 8 years here I
can say that the sound system was not
loud enough and had too much bass.
Like Senegalese TV watching, people talked over the music. The place to be
present was the dance floor.
It is well known that dance is central
in African cultures: social, symbolic, ceremonial, mystic, healing, joyful. I'd
always loved to dance. Years of ballet and contemporary dance lesson paid off,
with or without the pink toutous.
In my Montreal party days I could
dance for hours, euphoric; my own little planet in a constellation of
beautiful, sexy energy. Our orbits were led by DJs like Andy Williams (not the
old guy of my parents' days) 'til dawn.
That night only my imaginary dancer
moved. It was all I could do to lift my wine glass without splashing. The joy
of blending myself to kindred spirits lost.
And I'd thought losing volleyball was
hard...
There are times when I am brave and
make the best of much altered circumstances. But it is not easy and doesn't
always work. Little by little this disease removes bits and pieces of my
identity: some big, some small, some to be replaced by other, new pieces,
others lost forever and ever.
As visions of volleyball and dance tumbled
(nearly on tempo) around in my head, my husband turned to me and said:
"For once you're not complaining". In his defence he was tired, not
his usual supportive self, exaggerating with his "for once".
And we used to be able to read each
other’s minds...
***
Then the last night, we went to 2
fantastic festival concerts (with Metzo Djatah and Wato). Neither was really
dance music so at moments, without the nostalgic expectation to dance, I was
able to release my grip, allowing my tremor to oscillate with the beat.
It wasn't so hard after all.
