Movement Is Radical

I have been able to contribute to all the Blogging Against Disablism Days so far. Each year, I feel myself taking on new challenges and growing as a writer. Most importantly, I am thrilled every year to see the spread of what is now a massive event. To the Golden Fish and all who support her in making this celebration possible, I thank you.

This year, my post about movement and dance comes in two parts. The first deals with disablism from a more familiar angle: from non-disabled to disabled. The second looks at how -- possibly in response to the first -- the disabled world can be as disablist as the non-disabled world.

Twitter and Wheelchair Dancing

In addition to posting the almost daily tweet, I use Twitter as a kind of pulse/trend source about disability and dance. Late at night, while the Wizard sleeps the sleep of the innocent, I search for "wheelchair dancer." It was a vanity search at first. Then, after the rise of Glee, it became a kind of cultural barometer search.

The results are always interesting. On Friday and Saturday nights, there is usually a tweet and re-tweet from a nightclub about some "dude in a chair" "trying to dance." (Why is it always a dude? Where are all the women?) Some weeks, the dude gets or essays a lapdance -- the tweeter is often shocked. Some nights, the tweeter just expresses amazement and/or disgust at the idea of a disabled person dancing. Sometimes, the wheelchair dancer probably unbeknownst to himself is a source of hilarity. Sometimes, he seems like a target; the tweeter wants him removed from the club.

I always followup on the tweeter. As far as I can tell, it's not the same person. Week after week, in North America it seems that there are a bunch of wheelchair-using clubbers getting their groove on. HOORAYY!!

At other times, wheelchair dancer tweets are about Artie and Glee. They almost uniformly express surprise that the "best" dancer in the cast is prevented from dancing because he is in a chair. Either that or the tweeter expresses some regret that they won't get to see how good he is "really."

In both contexts, I detect a sense of surprise about the possibility for movement. How and why is it, the subtext seems to read that wheelchair users want to/can be seen to dance? What constitutes dancing? I am surprised that this is still a question. The Nielsen ratings for Glee are pretty good (sigh). Nearly 28,000 people submitted online auditions for Glee (a huge number). As much as I hate the show, it has certainly made wheelchair dancing more visible than any art company -- it simply has the reach. (Dancing on Wheels, the BBC show has done similar yeoman's work in the UK, and, yes, that is the last time I will be speaking positively of the show). At any rate, it should no longer be a surprise that people using wheelchairs can -- and like -- to dance.

And yet.

Dance Is For Everyone Except...

It's Bay Area National Dance Week here in, well, the San Francisco Bay Area. Essentially, it's a dance festival with open workshops, rehearsals, outdoor performances, classes, etc.... They have a really cool understanding of dance:

• We envision a Bay Area that celebrates dance in all its forms.
• We envision a Bay Area that is passionate for, knowledgeable about, and participates in dance.
• We envision a Bay Area that values dance as a cornerstone of civic pride and identity.
• We envision a Bay Area that recognizes dance as a defining characteristic of our humanity.

Though no one ever lives up to these -- or any such words -- in their fullest senses, these ideals are at the basis of an inclusive and consciously exploring community of which I am happy to be a member.

I contrast this with an email I recently received for a dance and disability workshop on the East Coast. I'm going to be careful here, because it's not clear where the language originated. Seeking participations for a dance workshop that sought to explore how the everyday movement of disabled people could become part of a dance vocabulary, a project coordinator sent out an "outreach" email in search of, and I quote capitalization and all, "12 Independent-living, intellectually rigorous, physically active adults with disabilities."

The code here shocked me.

What on earth was meant by "independent-living" as a requirement? The disability rights movement has fought long and hard to support disabled people living outside the institution, but should independent living really be a gate-keeping code for participation in a dance workshop? Because gate-keeping it is. I think "independent living" is here supposed to signify being "unimpaired enough to live outside an institution or facility." With that code is implied the idea of living alone (more or less). But let's look at that.

What is the role of assistance here? How much assistance can one take before being disqualified from this workshop? What counts as assistance? What kinds of assistance are permissible or disqualifying for that matter. Assuming you aren't counting the number of people in a house or apartment, how would anyone begin to judge whether or not "independent living" with regard to a particular impairment was a significant barrier to participation in a dance workshop?

Dance is for people of all physical and cognitive abilities. In my own work, I have often wondered about the grey areas between facilitated movement and partnering. I've heard talk about whether or not independent movement should be a requirement for participation. I've wondered about it myself. When someone shows up and their companion/attendant/caregiver both speaks for them and moves them, I've frequently felt uncomfortable. Does this person want to be here?

There are several ways of obtaining, registering and acknowledging consent. More important to me, however, is the question of prejudice about what "counts" as dance movement. When we think only of the dancing, it turns out that there are no hard and fast borderlines between facilitated movement (as a therapeutic for someone who "can't") and a kind of partnering. Movement alone is not the decision-making point. Understanding partnering as a kind of facilitated movement and vice versa makes me want to rely on the notion of consent. Not on the movement as movement. And making that distinction reaffirms for me the importance of keeping dance workshops open.

Let me be clear. I am not saying that there aren't distinctions to be made or that making them is not hard. But I do think it is unreasonable to disqualify disabled people from a workshop designed for disabled movers that seeks to explore dance vocabulary as it can be made by disabled bodies simply because they aren't the "right" kind of disabled movers.

I find it unacceptable to make judgments about participation on the grounds of "intellectual rigor" -- non disabled dancers aren't necessarily the most intellectually rigorous of people. I find it unacceptable to judge degree of physical activity. The mainstream dance world admires -- nay, prizes -- virtuosity in a dancer. But virtuosity is not synonymous with technical difficulty. A "simple" movement of the eye can be virtuosic because of what it communicates and not because of its degree of technical simplicity. Movement itself is not exclusive to those who scale walls and leap tall buildings.

I understand that formulating virtuosity in this way may well be a response to the ongoing hostility and the dismissal disabled movers experience when we try to engage the non-disabled dance world. But there is no excuse for perpetuating the experience and for turning on each other.

Movement Is The Movement

These experiences teach me that movement -- no, moving as a disabled person -- is the most radical thing I/you can possibly do. Let me say this again. Moving your body is possibly the most radical thing you, I, and we can do. I have often danced around this topic, saying things like "Mobility is at the core of the movement." Now, I want to pop a wheelie, spin around, turn a cartwheel and say loud and clear: "Movement is the movement."

When you are out on the street -- move. When you are gathered with friends and family, move. In a store, a restaurant, on the bus ... in your car. Does anyone remember this flash mob dance video (London, Liverpool Station -- as an advertisement for T-Mobile)? There was a flash mob dance this week in the Bay Area. Gather your friends or perhaps go alone. Go to a public place and dance. Go to a local dance class and move.

Dancing. Movement. These are radical acts that shed light and peace in the world.

Arizona's Immigration Laws

I am an immigrant to your/this country.

I came here to study at a university. I took a job from approximately 299 Americans who, presumably, could have done it as well as I did. (Interestingly, the other person on the shortlist told me that he believed hiring me was an act of discrimination and that I had "dogged" him.) I have brown skin. I married an American. I was told I was only into him for the visa. (Almost 20 years later, I still worry about whether I have to prove our relationship is genuine.) I use the health care system. I have paid my speeding ticket and been to traffic school. I pay my taxes. I very definitely pay my taxes; I have been audited and found to owe nothing. And a little while ago, I began the process to naturalize myself as a citizen.

If you read back through previous immigration posts, you will find that I have been slow to move; I was eligible to do this back in 1999. I am disturbed, troubled, and freaked out by displays of nationalism and patriotism. I cry for the destruction wrought on others in the name of a "country." I can barely write the words "fatherland" or "mother-tongue." I don't participate in large crowds and even before my disability, I made a point of not joining in even the most conventional and innocuous reiterations of the (British) national anthem -- before, say, a symphony concert.

I marched in 2006 for immigration rights; I will do so again. Because the law in Arizona does not represent to me the country I wish to join. The law in Arizona is the outcome of the politics of fear and hate. This is not how America represents itself on the world stage. This is a state -- whose politics I do not know and cannot fully understand because I do not live there -- this is a state on the border, yes, but now seemingly on the edge of shocking unconstitutional acts.

It is important to understand that this particular act did not just come out of the blue. Arizona has been struggling with all aspects of immigration for quite a while. Take, for example, the English-Only legislation that was finally ruled unconstitutional in 1999. (Interesting articles here, here and here.) You will remember the way immigration and Arizona were inextricably linked during the last two election cycles and beyond. Something like this has been brewing for a while. We have known that something like this was coming.

You can read the bill here. I keep trying to finish it, but I keep stumbling over stuff.

These are among the provisions of the law (per NYT), police officers are required

when practicable,” to detain people they reasonably suspect are in the country without authorization and to verify their status with federal officials, unless doing so would hinder an investigation or emergency medical treatment.

How will they know? Will they look at the kind of car? The clothes? The way people walk? Or will they simply stop the first non-white, non-upper middle class person they see? It's not like immigrants -- documented or non -- walk around with a big "I" stamped on us.

The NYT continues:

It also makes it a state crime — a misdemeanor — to not carry immigration papers.

This scares me. This scares me.

This provision legalizes the creation of two classes of people (immigrant and non) and criminalizes only one class for not carrying proof of its membership in that class. Does this ring any historical bells for anyone? Beyond becoming a "criminal" who has committed a "misdemeanour" (and, btw, being "convicted" for such a crime totally affects your immigration application), being unable to provide documentation disenfranchises you; it could even prevent you from accessing such basics as health care. This provision of the law renders one set of people invisible; it denies them access to the protections and human rights afforded members of the other class. It legalizes the dehumanization of a set of people who want to work to support their families and themselves.

Perhaps the state has the right to ask that everyone carry proof of their place in the country, but there's a reason that the US has not been able to implement laws about a national identity card: Americans value their privacy and their individualism -- even when the threats of terrorism and illegal immigration are thrown around. (This site seems to track National/Real ID legislation; most of the entries are about 2008, but there's a couple for 2010 and the history of ID legislation is fairly tidy.)

Here's another provision (E: from the bill itself):

A law enforcement officer, without a warrant, may arrest a person if the officer has probable cause to believe that the person has committed any public offense that makes the person removable from the United States.

Two questions: what kinds of offenses make people removable? (Note: even the very word choice -- removable -- makes it sound like you are taking out the trash.) Turns out that besides the biggies, like you know, murder, the case for removability can be built from smaller things such as traffic offenses. Without a warrant? Perhaps that's one thing if you see a person on the street robbing a bank, but I can see it being used as an excuse to enter homes, to conduct raids, to begin to hunt people down. I can see it being used as a way of legalizing the immigration equivalent of witch hunts.

I could go on. And believe me, the law does. But here's what I am going to do. I have been fingerprinted. I have filled out a wealth of forms. I have a little booklet to study from. I will take that citizenship exam. And, then, dammit, I will vote.

I will vote.

I will vote.

Because this is wrong.

Meeting

And there she was. Quite how we passed each other in the lobby without seeing each other -- how many chair users were there? -- I don't know. But there she was. Katja from brokenclay! (link is to her post on the visit!) Katja's is one of the very first disability blogs I ever found. I hung on her every word; she helped me through some dodgy spots (unknowingly), and when I hurt my shoulder, she emailed me with some very good advice.

And from that moment on, it was a blast. We piled two chairs and two people into my tiny and battered from this and similar kinds of adventures car. (Put Katja's in first, sling mine in afterwards -- a technique I've mastered at West Coast, but saw perfected by LL in ATL.) Then, we took off (hesitantly, I admit) to downtown. I always drive cautiously in a place I don't know and even more so when I have someone in the car. But Katja was a good sport -- she navigated -- and we pulled into parking and then off to coffee. No speeding tickets and no dead bodies. All good.

I admit, I was totally drawn to the power of her stroke. giggle. Katja has a really strong push, but she also understands the ways chairs work and I can see her using the physics of rolling as she goes. Push. Her arms come back; they hover (in a kind of eagle shape) as she rides the momentum and then, ... push. Ahhh. Yes. This woman knows how to roll. I scrambled after her. Up the somewhat uneven ramp to the coffee shop, Katja advocating for better access as she went and then, coffee. And food.

When we pushed out of the shop, I became aware of the sight we made. "You ladies having a race?" Yes, there were two of us on the street. We pushed up the hill; I was aware of how we moved. We crossed the road (a triviality, but so nice to do with another wheelchair user!) and were gliding down the other side, when .... we were stopped by the lady who owned the shop we had just passed. This, I will have you know, is all Katja's fault. We had admired some of the pretty things, but we were rolling. The owner called out to Katja; we stopped and she coaxed/persuaded us inside.

Girl time! The chatty owner explained how excited she was about all her merchandise; she lifted her top to show us how neat the bra I was looking at was. Katja found stuff that would look cute on me; I found myself persuaded by the bra (oops!); we tried on some tops, dodged trying on jeans and pants; and escaped.

Sometimes, it's just that easy. And that much fun!

Next time!

The Art of Balance

Balance is such a literal kind of thing for me. I am aware of it every day -- in part because my personal life is one of such extremes that it is very unbalanced, and in part because, in my dance professional life, my ability to balance (or not) is crucial. It's funny, now, to be thinking about balance; mostly, because I think -- and have written about falling (here, here and my absolute fave about dancing/danced falls, here). So, then, balance.

Frequently, I think we present or think about balance as a moment of held stillness, as a moment where you seem to stop motion -- perhaps against all odds. As a dancer, I like to create that illusion for you, but deep in my body and deep in my wheels, I know that balance is all about the movement.

I have recently learned how to pull off, for a couple of seconds at least, a staggering balance -- one that when I get it right, I can feel the audience breathe with me. It starts from stillness; I sit and gaze at the audience (I don't actually see you, out there in the dark, I just seem as if I do). My hand extends; I pause -- are you there? Then, I whip around in a one-handed turn; I want you to think that my extended arm is the initiation point. In fact, it's decoration. I whip through the turn and leap forward. When I first started doing it, I required an extreme amount of momentum; I frequently fell forwards on my face. Now, however, my recent lessons are offering me some new skills. With luck, I will be able to initiate with my head and snake up there slowly and gracefully.

I hang; a circling of my arms; I hang; and a dive takes me down -- not forwards but backwards.

Failure mode is threefold; there's the too much momentum (discussed above), the insufficient momentum (sigh, really? I screwed this up again?), and the "I've-got-it,-ha!-look-at-me!-oh-oops!" This latter is on far too many videos for my own comfort, but there, I am. On stage. Under lights. In costume. And .... Both the success and failure of this balance teach me that the balance itself is less meaningful than the contexts in which I manage it. I like to show off my technique, yes, but raw technical skills are, frankly, uninteresting. Once you've seen one moment of wow, you've basically seen them all.

When we meet, we circle once; eye contact only. I'm not sure how it reads to any one watching -- taking each other's measure, perhaps? I need that contact; it reassures me he's there and that all will be well. For the first turn, we grab each other firmly on the forearm. As the momentum takes over, the speed increases. We watch each other keenly. Are you ready? I'm ready. Go for it.

I shift my weight slightly. Even more slightly. Even more slightly. And I am up on my left wheels, my weight squarely over the rearwheel center, my right wheel and caster flying free. He leans back, increasing the momentum. It's a matter of trust; it's a matter of understanding where the counterweights are and the momentum. I can't worry about whether or not I will make the balance; I focus on my partner; we focus on where our respective weights are; the balance happens. He slows the whirl; we come to halt; we see the dancer before us; they take off in a dramatic partnership; I fade slowly into stillness.

It's not a big moment in the whole piece. If you blink or are looking at another dancer, you will miss it. Yet this balance is meaningful to me because it is a powerful moment of trust. Balance is not a moment of held stillness -- it never is -- it's a negotiation between me, my partner, the chair, the forces of gravity, the momentum, and the gods of performance. I find this conversation compelling. I find the negotiation rewarding. The sense of partnership and trust keep me focused. When all these things are in balance -- moving appropriately around each other -- then and only then can the pyrotechnical display be successful.

It's like doing a no-handed wheelie. Post here includes a picture (courtesy MANCC) of the consequences of not understanding how everything is connected. A flurry of feet, legs, arms, frame and casters suggest what has in fact happened -- an upturned chair: the result of an unsuccessful attempt at the no-handed wheelie.

BlogiVersary!

When we woke up this am, Wizard looked at his phone device; his calendar alerted him to the fact that today is my 4th year of blogging as Wheelchair Dancer. I'd forgotten. Touring has been so draining that I have no idea where or who I am.

Today is my first day at home in a very long time. So, it seems fitting to spend part of my day off reflecting on my blog as a whole.

I know that I've come a long, long way. My writing has improved -- not so much on the technical front; in fact, I think my editing and proofreading skills have gone on vacation. I made a commitment to write and let it go. Sometimes, that has meant not rereading -- it's more that I have finally found a voice, a voice that is not quite who I am in real life, but a pretty darned close reflection. I owe that to you, my reading peeps. You have challenged me both in the comments and in your emails and in the articles you send my way for comment. My voice has grown as the internet and phenomena like blogging and social networking have exploded. Nowadays, most of you are skilled consumers of internet life; it seems normal to read feeds, to tweet and to facebook. It seems normal to connect to people you don't know and might never meet.

Some of my greatest joys have come from meeting you in person. You are my blogging or internet friends and when we meet in real life, it is as if we've known each other for ever. Our emails, phone calls, and in person meetings mean a lot to me.

Many of the entries here are personal. Exposing myself to the judgment of the internet has been one of the biggest challenges of having a blog. Not everyone out there is as kind and supportive as you regular reading types are. On the other hand, the writing of some of you has helped me through many a difficult spot. I don't know how this blog figures in your lives; I hope what I write is as helpful/useful/meaningful as the posts that many of you publish. I've grown because you have been honest, and I thank you for that.

Please keep feedback coming -- anything you want to see on the site? Not see? I've developed some principles over the years. I don't do stuff for money, and my site will not have ads or reflect commercial content. If I mention a product or something, it's because I have it and like it or don't like it -- that's what I am calling personal use. I don't take "please let's swap links" requests; there are too many and I don't want to be in the business of reviewing people's sites. I do link and I always give credit for sourcing material; that's just right. Sometimes, I repost announcements for stuff I think is cool and relevant. Sometimes, I review stuff people have told me about. Mostly, though, you are just getting content from my life.

Many of the posts are about dance and disability; well, that's kind of what I wanted to be writing about right from the very beginning (link is to my first post: it's not very clear, but the thing that happened to me was dance). Over time, I came to include reflections on the world and lived experience of disabled people. There are posts about language, architecture, race, feminism, tv, and, yes, my arch-enemy the New York Times. I am one of many disability culture activists who keep writing about the lousy disability coverage in the NYT. We focus, I think, on the NYT because it is one of the nation's paper of record (and because many of us live in NYC). If we can change the culture of how disability is framed, we can change the experience of how disability is lived. I believe it is important to keep up the pressure.

Sometimes, however, the NYT just delivers a piece that so deftly encapsulates my world that I have to laugh. I'd like to conclude this blogiversary post with some commentary:

"In the rarefied world of ballet, where dancers are expected to speak with their bodies, sometimes it seems that aloofness is something to aspire to. Lately, though, the ribbons are loosening. Courtesy of Twitter, dancers are starting to make themselves heard. It isn’t always dainty."
....
That in itself was quite a step for ballet, which has long been seen as elite, ethereal and something to keep under glass."

With dance-writing like this from the New York Times, I kind of feel like it's one step forwards and one step backwards. I don't know what's up with treating dancers -- particularly female dancers as fragile fairies from some elite, exclusive world. The people I work with are earthy, muscle-y, graceful, and real. There's no air of fragility. Why do we insist on seeing dancers in this way? What is it about our cultural understandings of women and dance that makes it preferable for audiences to not have to think about the work, the dedication, the sweat and pain that go into dance? What effects does it have on dancers and public understandings of dance -- for example, how would a different understanding of the work of dance change funding?

The disability angle on this makes me laugh. Even as dancers -- male, but mostly female -- are portrayed as these fragile beings, my experience is that for a disabled dancer, dance reverses that fragility. No longer are we fragile flowers desirous of pity and sympathy; we suddenly become awesome, super-athletes, strong, capable, beautiful, powerful, incredible. Disability just has that habit, you know?, of reversing stereotypes and turning expectations upside down. Insert knowing grin. I'm not saying that this perspective is desirable -- just that disability has a way of making you think.

To quote Neil Marcus, "Disability is an art. It's an ingenious way to live."

Talking About Injury In Dance

"Don't worry; the injury monster visits everyone sooner or later." She was right.

But I felt scared and alone -- as if the injury were somehow my fault. Had I screwed up somehow? Would I always be damaged/tainted goods? Company life went on; work was created; rehearsals and performances came and went. My experiences of the isolation I felt, and my worries about the difficulty of being an "injured" dancer make me think no one talks enough about injury. On the whole, the mainstream dance world encourages a culture of secrecy around injury; you can't work or get work if you are injured or known to be injury prone, so there's a real incentive not to be upfront about it if you think you can manage. Most people I know work with whatever they have and around whatever they have -- unless you are one of the huge NYCB, ABT dancers your body history might not be too public -- and take care of themselves in secret.

What counts as injury? The easy ones are the stoppers. The "I literally can't move" with this. Or the "If I move, I know my career will be over for a very, very long time." Those are the easy injuries to define -- they aren't always the easy ones to respond to .... 2 months? 3? -- but they are easy to define. Then, there are the ones that don't count; the bruises, bumps, twists, tweaks that hurt hard for a week or so, but don't actually affect your ability to move and dance. There are injuries that come from overuse, repetitive strains or sprains; these are the ones you want to take a rest from. They might not be stoppers at that acute moment, but they might also leave you with vulnerabilities for the future -- partly because you never quite let them heal, partly because those are vulnerability inducing kinds of injuries, partly because they often happen at stress points on the body. Even if you survive the wild stuff you do, it is just as easy to be injured doing something small, something you've done a gazillion times, just because you've done it a gazillion times.

Many large dance companies employ physical therapists and/or bodyworkers to help support their dancers. Some companies make trade-off with massage schools; some dancers live in areas where there are dance medicine trained clinics (with special rates) and dance medicine trained PT's. One large question is money -- money to get the care and money to live if you are not dancing. And even then money doesn't always ease the transition from hurt to healing. You have to know what will help a particular injury -- acupuncture? chiropractor? PT? a massage? -- and you have to learn how to take care of your body.

Beyond taking technique classes to prepare your body for the work you do, what happens behind the scenes? What happens to injured dancers? Is it really a myth that all dancers are in pain/injured? How would anyone know?

Equally as salient, for me, is managing the overlap between disability and injury. When I first separated my shoulder, someone sent me a request to participate in a study, the basic question/thesis of which was (whether) disabled dancers get injured more than non. I didn't participate because I felt the supporting materials showed some bias towards suggesting that disabled dancers were more of a liability. (And, yes, I was feeling pissed off and vulnerable at that time.) I imagine that many of the things injured dancers do to take care of themselves (as if self *were* the injury) are the things I do on a daily basis in an attempt to keep the worst of the symptoms under control. Am I injured? No. But I do live my disability life as if I were. In a weird way, it prepares me for the twists and tweaks of dance injury.

Having written this post is probably pushing my luck, but I will hold fast to my care routines and my training practices and hope that I make it through.

A Life in the Day

Touring reminds me of high school orchestra trips. It's not quite that we are chaperoned with that degree of intensity (indeed, I rather think a high school chaperone would be quite uncomfortable with us and our schedule), but it is that there is a high amount of interaction time with other company members and, for various reasons, a lot of group activities with little personal/private time and space. Less so for this trip than for others, granted, but since I am a misanthrope, I am keenly aware of trying not to be needy of the room space and of the difficulty of lying in bed alone time. I am keenly aware of the eat, rehearse, perform, sleep together generalities of the average day.

Today, we got up (later than planned). Swam. Then, ran for coffee; piled into a van; drove 40 minutes instead of 20 -- hey, who said anyone could read signs and directions -- and performed. The space was a "theater." It certainly had raked seating, but the performance space was small. So small, it felt dangerous to work in. We settled in -- fast and furious. Our audience soon took over and before we knew it, we were away. They drove us on to perform with exquisite detail and high energy and passion. It was a good one. With the sweat dripping, we piled back into the van, drove another 30 minutes (because, hey, it's always possible to make the same mistake going in the other direction), had a meeting, grabbed a meal, and piled back into the van. When we got to the theater, we settled in for a 3 hour rehearsal. Back home and suddenly, it's past ten pm.

Where did the day go?

Yesterday was my melting point. I haven't been back to California since mid March. first set of performances went well, and the residency was exciting. I did catch a couple of days in my own bed in NYC, but preparing for the trip to ATL dominated those days. I was writing, checking, printing, checking, writing. That trip went awesomely well. I actually got to meet some of the dancers from Full Radius -- I took a company warm up with them and watched them rehearse. If you are in ATL, you should check them out.

And ..... now, here we are on the road again. We will be here for another couple of days performing and rehearsing. Then, it's a 6 hour drive to our next destination. Worrying about both the past and the future did me in. I really missed the Wizard and my cat. Sometimes, touring feels like deprivation -- even though the hotel is among the best we've had. Even though, I am able to take care of my body. Even though everything is fun and exciting. Yesterday, I just ran out of fuel; I noticed that I had no patience for the process and that I was in a rotten mood.

So, today, I will treat myself well. I have to get off my window seat, leave the internetz behind and run. Pool. Stretch. Rehearsal. Actually, I am looking forward to it.

Rebuilding A Shoulder

My hip surgery was the best thing ever to happen to my shoulder.

By November 2007, I had had 3 cortisone shots, but the bursitis, winging scapula, biceps tendinitis, impingement syndrome, and multi-directional instability were preventing me from doing anything without pain. I could barely raise my arm. My shoulder got into this condition when the underlying stuff (long thoracic nerve damage and instability) got linked up with an AC separation -- I fell on it. I took nearly 3 months off, but somehow even though I continued to do physical therapy, bad body mechanics, an incompletely healed injury, and the interaction between all of the underlyings and the injury just kept building on each other.

My hip surgeon was very sensitive to my shoulder problems; we discussed whether or not we could do some kind of shoulder repair while he was doing my hip. I figured I was going to be out anyway, so why not. He figured that I would be stuck trying to do two rehabs at once and that I wouldn't be able to recover easily. His plan was to re-evaluate the need for surgery in the latter stages of the hip rehab. As things worked out, I did end up trying to do two rehabs at once, and the shoulder PT seems to have been successful enough that, for the moment at least, I am able to use it.

The aftermath of my hip surgery are located in various places around the blog (check the hip surgery label), but I have yet to chronicle what happened to my shoulder. Both orthopedic injuries are on my right side: my left side is my "more neuro" side, so I do as much dance work as I can on my right side. When I woke up, my right side was basically out of commission. No meaningful right arm or right leg. In retrospect, memories of trying to get around are quite funny. In actuality, it was pretty complicated.

When I began doing physical therapy, I worked on what I saw as two separate sore spots as two extensions of my (then weakened) core; this is pretty much how a dancer/pilates/gyro person would talk about limbs and centre. I did targeted work for my hip, shoulder and core; I also did integrative work. It's been a team project: my body worker regularly checks in with my PT and my trainer; my PT and I workout at the same gym, so she is able to connect with my trainer. The hookups have been key; everyone is on the same page and every little piece of progress or every new insight is shared.

It's still a work in progress, but my shoulder stability is improving and with the new stability come strength and reduced inflammation. With strength and reduced inflammation come better biomechanics and less pain. I notice it because I can now lie on my side for some time before it hurts; actually, I always move because I feel like it might hurt rather than it actually hurts. I can lift my arm above my head and bring it back down again without pain. I can push my wheels without the pain of impingement.

Getting there has been interesting. I don't lift weights; I have only tried gym cable machines a couple of times -- the weight is too heavy. It's all been done with resistance bands for strengthening and instructions for arm movement -- breathe, engage, relax, lift, extend, engage, relax. I have been doing rehabilitiative gyrokinesis sequences, and just recently, I have been excited to start using a very light pole.

My shoulder will probably always need some kind care. Even if I don't do them every day, I will probably always have to do shoulder exercises a couple of times a week. I now only ice for 2x 15 minutes after dancing or after a particularly hard day of wheeling, but the moment I start feeling pain or soreness, you can bet I will be back on the ice as a daily project.

Power

I haven't stopped thinking; I've just been silent -- overwhelmed by what I seen, read, and lived in the past couple of days. It's a wonderful morning in New York: the sun is shining and there is a street fair right outside my window. My apartment gets a lot of light (I often wonder whether the furniture will fade); I've opened the window and the city smells of city (yay); the breeze for the moment is cool and freshening.

The media world hasn't stopped writing bad articles about disability in general and disability and dance in particular. I will run right over the next person who uses the "inspiring" word. There have been some truly shocking things -- things that should call us as moral humans to action -- but for some reason, I find myself lacking in outrage and anger. I am so happy that it is Spring. I am on a retreat, in some kind of refuge, relaxing in the city. Mildness is the word of the day.

We leave again on Monday; I have the weekend to finish my laundry, clean my brushes, recheck my chair, and pack (at least I now have a check list). When I was first packing for this trip a couple of weeks ago, I dug out my fleece pants and fleece-lined tights (these things are just awesome). Now, I am thinking about light blouses and cotton yoga pants. The weather has changed and with it my sense of place in the world.

As I prepare for the next set of performances, I keep finding myself lingering over a colleagues' word: "powerful." I knew what she meant. At the moment, we walk to the downstage edge and freeze, I, too, feel power-filled. It's an incredible moment of stillness, made all the more meaningful by the fact that I know we are about to launch into a phrase that just blasts through the proscenium and rips through our bodies. I hold that moment of stillness. Yes, we are powerful.

Recognizing our power helps me answer a question that people find hard to ask. I say what I do and who I am. Some are curious, some hesitant, and some resistant. One of the things people want to know is are we any good. Am "I" any good? If they come, will they be stuck in some awful performance that is emotionally saccharine or simply will it be bad. No one wants to be trapped watching something bad.

We're good. I know that. Our audiences and critics know that. The photographs and videos show that. But it's hard to say that in words. "Powerful" seems to capture our expressive force and our dynamism; it reveals the emotional maturity and complexity of our work. It encapsulates what I feel as I move around the stage.

Preparation for powerful is another thing. Most of the time, I feel powerless. Smile. Theatre schedules are all about "hurry up and wait." Nothing I can do there: yield to the process. Nothing I can do about the performance either -- it happens. I can only be there in what I am doing. And in the moments between, "5 minutes to top of show, dancers, 5 minutes." or "Places, places, places" and the second that I start, power has nothing to do with it. Those are moments of raw fear. I have been performing since I was a child and, yes, I am still afraid.

The connection, in governmental and law enforcement contexts, between fear and power is negative. In performance, however, my fear gives me the power I need to make a powerful experience for the audience. Without fear, I do not have the edge; I do not have the power. It's almost ironic.

The street fair is kicking off. I am going to get outside and live a little.