7/14/81

Drums and Dreams

Actual Picture of Amara At Lincoln Center Performing as told by Amara's mother

Written By

Elizabeth Miller

The sun fell behind the horizon and the night began.  The lights flashed on, illuminating the outdoor band shell.  The audience hushed their neighborly conversations as the band assembled; some dressed in Arab caftans and headbands.  The harsh, persistent sound of the Middle Eastern drums, the stringed oud and various other instruments including a ram’s horn, heralded the beginning of Serena’s annual ethnic dance festival.  I strained to see my daughter waiting in the wings for her turn as a soloist dancer.

How does a mother feel about her grown up, thirty-five year old daughter dancing seductively and brilliantly in front of about 3000 New York City strangers to her sweetness and only interested in being entertained?   I had no time for reflection as the stage filled with lovely young women, gliding their way to their positions for the start of the dance. Their costumes were dazzling, each one different and unique. 

There were veils of every color, gold fringe shimmered and layers of silver and gold coins tinkled, as so many tiny bells, with the rippling movement of lithe bodies.  Jeweled crowns and luxurious veils hardly contained their flowing long hair, whipping bare shoulders and hiding beautiful faces, first innocent then alluring and demanding our souls as the drum beats quickened.

Where was my daughter? My heart pounded with excitement and I could hardly breathe. I studied the program and didn’t see her name.  Then I realized that only their stage names were used.  Marion was Amara while she danced.

One other time, a very young Marion took my breath away and loosened my tears from a heart full of pride when she danced at her school.  I pray that I’ll never lose that excitement in her creativity and take it for granted.

I watched her twirling, twisting gyrations of each performer, oblivious of anyone else in the audience, as though they were dancing for me alone.  I longed to be up there with them.  The magnetism and expertise of their performance was very compelling and enough to cause us to clap enthusiastically in rhythm to the cadence of the music.

Then there she was, Amara!  She floated to center stage as the chorus of dancers melted down and drifted into a seated semicircle around the back of the stage.  The drums quieted and a lone flute sang its sultry song and she began weaving her spell over us.  She was a witch, remote and careful, relentlessly conjuring the vision of those long ago Arabian Nights with each sweep of her veils.  She leaped across the stage with long legs, stretched beyond the restrictions of bones and muscles.  Her head whirled in Dervish turns and her body undulated and defied gravity with low backbends, drawing us into her power.  Then she was gone. As though a Genie had breathed his magic vapor over her and carried here away.

Other visions of loveliness appeared in turn.  One oriental beauty danced her way into our hearts with candelabra with four lighted candles on her head.  Another executed a sword dance, frightening us with its wickedness and danger. Another surprised us by appearing enveloped in a voluminous hooded caftan which seemed to lift off of her body effortlessly as she whirled within it.  They all charmed us with their superb ability and control to be surpasses only by Serena.  She is a dream, almost not to be believed.  She is the Middle Eastern Dance in the truest artistic sense, uncorrupted by the idea of the uneducated of the Belly Dance.

The staging, by Serena, of the dances seemed effortless, one performance melting into the next one, carrying us away on their magic carpet of dreams until the grand finale. Drums beating wildly, they swept down from the stage and engulfed us, dancing in and around, touching, teasing, and alas proving their reality.

I was sorry to be awakened from the spell they had woven as my daughter whirled her veils all around me and came into my arms as she did long ago as a little girl when she wanted my approval.  The dance was finished.  Amara was Marion again.