A new dawn

Hats of to Alvin Ailey!

There are a lot of white people here. First thought. I never knew rich had a scent. Second thought. Where are the black folks? I mean I know the Alvin Ailey Dance Theater is known as the “cultural ambassadors to the world” but I felt like I was in the middle of a John McCain rally.

After the door attendant told me I was in the wrong theater (apparently “Kimmel Center Presents” printed on the ticket, doesn’t mean it’s in the Kimmel Center …hey, I’m still a Philly virgin) I walked one block down to the Academy of Music and began the “Ailey experience” for the first time. Settled in my seat with a view so close I could see the sweat fling off the dancer's heads (thanks to Kim!) a teenager bounced in his seat behind me, slowly looked around the theater as if taking a photograph of each detail and bear hugged his mom. “Thank you mom, prepare to be amazed,” he said beaming. She smiled softly and looked up at his New York Yankees baseball cap, “Take off that hat boy!”

Before a single dancer hit the stage, a large projector fell as the lights faded and the voice of Alvin Ailey boomed from the speakers to rousing applause. The 15 minute video highlighted the life of the celebrated dancer, choreographer and visionary with vignettes from his childhood and footage of the company’s amazing expansion — including a training school, an offspring company for rising talent and a dance school for kids.

Too often when the founder of a company (Arts or business) dies, their vision goes with them. Yet, 19 years after AIDS took his life Alvin Ailey has been more than a namesake throughout the company’s evolution. Pride gives way to piety as Ailey’s presence is embodied in every movement.

My favorite piece hands-down was Love Stories, a pulsating arrangement built on today’s popular dances. Judith Jamison, Ailey artistic director, said the piece is a representation of today's dance culture largely influenced by hip-hop. In comes, Rennie Harris, North Philly-born chorographer and founder of the hip-hop dance company Rennie Harris Puremovement.

The dancers traded their ballet slippers for Nike Dunks and shell toes, killing Jamaican club dances (putting video imitators to shame!) and hitting every pop-n-lock with striking precision. With a cleverly crafted mix of Stevie Wonder cuts from “Fingerprints” keeping the track, the dancers got the whole audience in the act (with help from a young Stevie telling us to “stomp yo’ feet, jump up and down, do whatever you wanna do!”) The phrase “Black people dance at home” played in a computer-simulated voice paying tribute to the living rooms, block parties and cookouts where we invented countless dance moves, just because.

The company’s respect to Ailey is best proven in the staple piece “Revelations,” Aileys’ 1960 breakout performance. Narrating the African-American experience through dance, it was as Oprah would say, “a religious experience.” “Revelations” is such an anticipated mainstay on the tour that the audience erupted at its opening of Negro spiritual melodies. Since my eye is not trained to measure the difficulty of dance maneuvers, I used the audience’s reactions as a gauge. A strong gasp meant no human should bend like that.

Looking at the performance I thought of a childhood friend, Carlita, who’s a dancer with the Chuck Davis African-American Dance Ensemble in Durham, NC. The About Me section on her facebook page reads, “I do what I love EVERYDAY. Can you say the same?”

I’ve always been in awe of dancers. No, I’m not one — unless you count my amateur break dancing skills — but there’s a fire in a dancer’s eyes and a determination that can’t be matched. The reason why Carlita’s words have stayed with me is because she knew her passion and relentlessly pursued it during a time when I was less than enthused with the direction I was taking. At the time (and a sometimes now) I settled instead of going after my own flame. Though I won’t be lacing up my ballet shoes (especially since I don’t have any) I’ve decided it’s time to make some movements of my own.

NOTE: The picture below is Carlita (in the air) doing what she loves.

The Fire This Time

For Coach Kay Yow...

In my time in Philly there have been moments that have left me speechless. Sitting VIP watching Jill Scott rock the house to unexpectedly seeing Venus Williams on a Sunday shopping trip to Steve and Barry’s, none of these encounters matched the euphoria I felt after seeing Coach Kay Yow at the Temple match-up in the Liacouras Center. For those of you who don’t know your history or just live outside of the Tar Heel state, Coach Yow is a legend. She has been at the helm of the Lady Wolfpack for 33 years and has garnered over 700 wins and secured a place in the women’s basketball hall of fame.

I have admired her since I attended the Kay Yow basketball camp as a star struck seventh grader. I remembered the fire in her eyes and the careful attention she gave us campers, although we were far from recruiting age or skill. She ran up the court with zest and wasn’t afraid to scold one of us for committing a fallacy that she detested — giving up. Today that feeling came back. It is moments like this that I wish I had the descriptive writing finesse of Post columnist Dana Milbank. Hopeful my own words will due justice.

Coach Yow stood courtside in black and red Nike Presto-style sneakers with Velcro straps gripped tight over black socks. Her hair, a winter white with grey streaks, was cut closer than her trademark short and coiffed do. She wore her customary game day attire: blazer, turtleneck sweater, and black slacks with a small pink ribbon pin on her lapel. The fire in her eyes still blazed when her team ran a play to the ‘t’ and she was still quick to jump in the face of any player or unsuspecting referee. She looked like the Kay Yow I remembered from so long ago. That alone was breathtaking.

The last time saw I Coach Yow in-person she could hardly get to the hardwood on the court and she leaned on her assistants to get in her seat in the coaches’ box. Her hair was cut so close it resembled an army buzz. She struggled to elevate her voice past a whisper to tell her point guard to keep fighting after getting knocked to the ground. No fire.

This Coach Yow was fighting her own battle, against breast cancer. When she announced to the public of her diagnosis last November many in the Triangle immediately thought of Jimmy V (goggle him, if you dare not know his name). And though Coach Yow has always been a fighter, whether from the battlegrounds of Reynolds Coliseum or leading the U.S. women’s team to Olympic gold in Korea, it looked to many that she may have met her match. Rivalry lines are drawn deep in ACC turf but we were all rooting for Coach Yow. In the spirit of Jimmy V, Coach Yow “never gave up.” She underwent intense chemo by day and made sure to be in her seat by night to help her players fight against the opposing team. She was amazing.

The courage and endurance she displayed last season ignited her team — the perennial underdogs of the ACC prior to last season — who shocked everyone in college basketball by making it to the Elite Eight while knocking off top contenders like Carolina and Baylor. For them, just a flicker of Coach Yow’s fire was enough to make history. Well, today I am proud and misty eyed to report: the fire is back.

She shuffled up and down the court with ease, argued with refs, and gave insolent players a stare that could break down any stoic. Her assistants, still there to handle some of the yelling in order to be heard over the temple pep band, assumed their positions in the back seat and let Coach Yow steer the Wolfpack to an amazing, nail biting win over an impressive Owls team.

As I waited my turn to snap a picture with Coach Yow I felt like that nervous seventh grader while fidgeting with my camera strap. I stood close and heard her tell a former player whom she coached during her years at Elon College that earlier in the week she had her rounds of chemo and the night before she’d taken some medicine so she would be able to travel with the team.

My eyes twinkled when I looked at our picture together as I walked slowly out of the stadium. I looked out at the bustling streets of a city that I have been reluctant to call home and thanked Coach Yow for giving me the fire to fight my own battles.

*the pic is trapped in my camera give me a day

Being Alive

The cast of Billy Porter's "Being Alive"

Today I bundled up to the arts avenue of South Broad Street to see the final performance of Being Alive at the beautiful Suzanne Roberts Theatre. The five blocks I ran to the theatre while bearing the grit of the freezing rain and the city’s first snowfall, became a distant memory as I was amazed by the seven-cast, all African-American production which opened to the well-known Shakespeare quote, “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players.” Creator and director Billy Porter borrowed the English playwright’s poetry to piece together a story that walked the audience through the stages of life.

Using vibrant colors and fusing the music of jazz, gospel, hip-hop and R&B — most notably a rousing scene with a live band version of Beyonce’s Crazy In Love — the musical was an entertaining fusion of song and dance. The cast, ranging in ages to reflect the coming of age plot, sang in perfect pitch and harmony. Seriously. There was not a flat note belted nor an overindulgent run heard from either cast member. The play explored the complexities of “Being Alive” revealing the fears of a young child; a daughter’s feeling of protection in her father’s arms; love sealed with wedding vows; discovering your own voice; losing love and finding life after death.

Although some of Shakespeare’s prose used in the musical got lost in translation and the critics were less than kind in rendering their verdict of the production, I still respected Porter for tackling issues that are prevalent in Black families but don’t make it to the dinner table discussions. A young man’s struggle with homosexuality, the newlywed who receive the news of her husband’s death while at war, the orchestrators of war who are profiting from those casualties, the pressures of expectations mounted on the shoulders of youth; these conversations were exposed on stage. I admire Porter for his bravery and was honored to be sitting in the same row as him, just the two of us in the last row of orchestra center.

I was pleased to hear, before the show began, that this performance would be the last run of the musical. Not because I wanted it to be over, but because I knew each person would give their all, more so than on open night. After the curtain goes down for the last time and standing ovations end, these men and women like all others in the world of theater would return to a place of uncertainty. The “players” of acting, hustle for roles and give their all not knowing how long the gap will be until they return to the stage.

I watched the director enjoying the musical with ease, which I’m sure was a stark contrast from his demeanor opening night. He was paying such close attention to every expression, note, motion, and gesture as if he were photographing each moment. When the cast took their final bow, he applauded vehemently then burst into tears. Comforted by a friend who sat across the room, the director walked out of the theatre wiping his eyes. This was a moment of celebration, why the tears, I thought. But, just as the curtain call fell on the aspiring cast one last time, the same was true for Porter.

Walking, or should I say sauntering out of the theatre, I had to admit that I felt a little more “Alive.” Now, I could thank one of the leading men, who resembled Columbus Short, sang like an angel and looked right into my eyes during every song (it doesn’t matter that I was sitting center view in front of the sound man) for my surge of youthful glee. But it was the whole night, though him especially, that gave me a new set of eyes to look at my present and my future. Lately, I’ve been struggling with a God-given lesson: life is a process, not an event. I can’t fast-forward past the parts that suck or the act that seems too long (though I may want to). Nor can I pause a favored frame. I have to enjoy every “Being Alive” until the final curtain call.