You never know about dreams. I’m not talking about the nighttime type, but the daylight ones we carry in our hearts for a moment or a year or a lifetime. Sometimes, the most important dreams you encounter in life aren’t yours, but someone else’s. This is a story about one of those.
I was living in Kinshasa, Zaire, with my ex-husband, a doctor studying HIV. We had gotten married after a very romantic courtship just as he was finishing up his infectious disease fellowship. When he was offered the prestigious position overseas, I agreed to go. I had been working as an actress/singer/dancer in New York-based musical theatre for over twenty years by that time, and passionately loved my work. But this opportunity seemed to present both a grand adventure and a way to prolong the irresistible romance of our relationship. Also, my friends were dying; the New York theatre community was being devastated by that horrible disease. I felt I would be making a contribution in the war against it. Besides, it didn’t sound all that different from going on National Tour for a year or two!
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Life in Kinshasa was difficult. Aside from all the challenges of adjusting to living in a completely foreign, third world culture under the rule of a notorious dictator, being an “ex-pat spouse” was isolating and frustrating. I had little in common with the intelligence operatives and missionaries who dominated the American community. My ex was excited to be establishing himself as a researcher and hobnob with his new colleagues from the WHO and CDC, while I was essentially left to my own devices to find my way. Official employment was not possible under VISA restrictions. Oh, I kept busy: I found a house for us and furnished it, did volunteer work at a private zoo, and even briefly sang in a country western band run by the head of covert operations for the CIA. But slowly the reality of my decision and its long-term impact on my life journey sank in.
I was deep in the throes of mourning the loss of my theater career when, during our second year there, I was approached to choreograph a production of The Music Man at the International High School. I immediately made some excuse as to why I couldn’t do it; the real reason was that I wasn’t sure I could bear to be involved in a high school production when I was in such pain about the loss of my professional identity, community, livelihood, and aspirations. I felt embarrassed to feel that way…but musicals were extremely dear to my heart, and I feared that the contrast between the professional standards I had been accustomed to and the reality of high school theater would only make me feel worse.
The teacher/directors who had approached me graciously accepted my refusal, but asked if I would be willing to give the movement audition, as they were clueless as to which students would be best cast in the dancing chorus. I reluctantly agreed.
I dutifully gave the audition, and several days later found myself reaching out to the teachers to say that I’d changed my mind, and would choreograph the show after all. Much later they told me that they had schemed the audition request quite carefully, hoping to get me on board, because they believed that if they could just get me in the room with the kids, I’d fall in love with them. And that’s what happened.
Well, mostly. During rehearsals there was this one boy whom I will admit was making me crazy. He was German and had some quintessentially German name-something like Fritz. He was extremely shy, but more crucially, exceedingly uncoordinated. For the biggest group number, Shipoopee, I had set a polka (“Hop step, step step. Hop step, step step.”) to be executed in partners in a large revolving circle.
Everyone was getting it but Fritz. We worked and worked. Soon everybody got it except for Fritz. Now if one couple in a revolving circle screws up, you know what happens- an ugly pile up. A choreographic disaster! I soon realized that I was very close to snapping at him or speaking harshly, and began to consider taking him and his partner out of the number. But I didn’t. Instead, I took calming breaths and scheduled some extra private rehearsal time for the pair. Eventually, and somewhat to my surprise, he did learn to polka.
At the closing night party, I was relaxing on the sofa, enjoying watching the teenagers celebrate, when Fritz sat down next to me. He’d been so quiet during rehearsals that I’d barely heard him utter a word, much less had a real conversation with him. But maybe he’d had a few sips of beer? Anyway, he leaned in and whispered these words in my ear: “It’s always been my secret dream to be a ballerina, and you made my dream come true.”
Now, clearly, learning the polka isn’t the same as being a ballerina- but he didn’t seem to know that. And it didn’t matter. My first reaction was to think how close had I come to flippantly, thoughtlessly……shattering his dream. What power I had had, to make someone’s dream come true! And what a responsibility such power carried with it.
That little musical was my first foray into the world of arts education. I came to understand that it wasn’t about achieving excellence, but striving for excellence. As well as building community, encouraging individual expression, nurturing tolerance, practicing teamwork…I could go on and on about all the wonderful things that arts education can teach.
After many years in the field, I eventually ended up at a conservatory, where the insightful dean asked me to develop a required pedagogy course. She believed that anyone who committed to a life in the arts would, at some point, teach. She believed that it was imperative that our talented students approach the task not with condescension or some whiff of unresolved failure, but rather with the understanding that it was an extremely challenging, stimulating, and noble endeavor that could enrich not only the lives of their students but also their own lives (and artistry) in countless ways.
I was the right person for the job. And every semester, I would tell this little story about Fritz. I’ve always hoped that conquering that polka gave him the courage to go for his next dream, whatever that might have been.