Jane mentioned the dancing, and I
think an explanation here kind of is in order.
You never know what life is going to throw at you,
and then this particular year, it's 1998,
the first rain of the season after a long drought
in the fall, fate threw a lightning bolt into our house,
so it burned down.
We built it up again, but the one incredible miracle
that happened, that came out of that,
was that I had no thoughts of writing poems, obviously.
You don't have a house, what are you going to do?
So I was only thinking of-- we were only thinking
of building it back up.
Our neighbors wanted to cheer us up
and took us to a dinner dance.
And when I saw the other couples dancing, some of them
were really waltzing and I said, I've always wanted to do that.
And the same group of incredible neighbors
signed the entire neighborhood up for dance lessons.
And we learned ballroom, and we are still doing it.
And also Argentine tango, a little bit.
One of the things that happens when you dance, do ballroom,
first of all, it's incredibly strenuous
and I've become friends with every ace bandage
and liniment out there.
But you also learn that as a woman,
you get a chance to wear something you would never
dare wear on the street.
And it's perfectly OK.
As one of my friends said, "I never thought I'd be 50
and could dress like a hooker and get away it."
And she was just-- you get to wear the teeniest outfits,
and also the most voluminous.
So at every single event where there's
a dance, or some kind of competition, or a showcase,
there's the dance lady is usually there
to sell her wares.
"Brown."
"Why, you look good in every color,
the dress lady gurgled just before I stepped
onto the parquet for a waltz.
I demurred, we were in a country club after all
and she fresh from Fort Lauderdale,
Do people actually live there?
With five duffel bags' worth of ball gowns, enough tulle,
and fringe, and pearls to float a small cotillion,
was only trying to earn a living.
For once I was not the only Black person
in the room, two others both male.
I thought of Sambo.
I thought a few other things too, unmentionable here.
Don't get me wrong.
I've always loved my skin, the way
it glows against citron and fuchsia, the difficult hues.
But the difference I cause whenever
I walk into a polite space, is why I prefer grand entrances,
especially with a waltz, that European constipated swoon.
The dress in question was red."