It's quite hard to put into words what I experienced as a participant of danceGATHERING--an anti disciplinary festival that gathers artists, thinkers, and creatives of all kinds in Lagos, Nigeria for two weeks. I traveled to Lagos both in 2018 and 2019 to devise, experiment, question, and vulnerable with a group of artists I had never met before. Fully willing to let get washed up in the tides and float. Even with various opportunities I had to write about my experience, the words never came. And, when my friends and family asked what the experience was like, I would always let out a long sign, let my back sink into whatever chair I was sitting in, watch my eyes float toward the ground, and then look up with a laugh and innocent grin, "I don't really know." You just have to be there. You just have to go. You just have to see for yourself. Part of me felt guilty for not being able to describe my experience at one time. Now, I feel liberated. Like I'm holding on to a secret. A treasure that I don't have to give to anyone else, but that I share with the people who were there with me. The people I now call "family." When I came back to Chicago in 2018, I could only write these stream-of-consciousness, onomatopoeia, chant-like, verses and describe visions I had while participating in workshops or performing on Broad Street. There was no coherent, straight, academic, account of Lagos. Partially because I was dealing with heavy emotions of having fallen in love, and partially because the words weren't coming that way. It was like another language that I had never known. I had never been able to utter. And it frustrated the hell out of me. Even now, as I write this quarantined in my childhood bedroom in Atlanta, Georgia, during a global pandemic, I am not able to fully express those experiences. But, like I said I'm okay with that. Somethings are just for me to remember. Somethings are just for remembering when you need them. But, if you're like me, nosy and curious as hell, then I've shared personal photos and lines from several journal entries and attempted, full-length pieces I wrote before and after Lagos in 2018. But, to get a better sense of the purpose of dG, the people behind it, etc. visit www.qdancecenter.com and follow @dancegathering on the socials. I
welcome. We started with small hums and sounds to warm up the vocal cords. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, ehhhhhhhhhh, ehhhhh ahhhhhhh, ooo, eeeee. Going from high to low registers. Open and closed vowels. She asked us to let our voices expire with the breath, and consider our inhale as sound, let it become and mix with time. “Consider how your body responds to this sound?” Do I want to walk back and forth? Am I urged to go to the ground? Am I prompted to run around and stop mid stride? Does my head fall back with chest splayed open? Where are my arms? She prompted us to embrase release in our bodies, let our voices reach. “Let go, but be present,” she said. Let it take you, but come back. We need you here. II moanin’. I close my eyes. Take a breath and settle into my body. I feel like I’ve been running for a long time. Finally back home to grab a nice tall glass of ice cold water. I take a breath, drop my shoulders, release my jaw, and let my head fall back slightly. Feet planted, toes spread out reaching like webs. I feel a warm sensation building in my abdomen. I bend my knees, let my pelvis hang within muscle and skin. I turn my palms upward. float. There, in a posture of surrender, I began o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o zuhhhh-ahh a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a azuhhh-ahh ahh ahh ahh ahh ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah a h h h h h. And then she entered my heart, grandma Reatha. I’ve carried her in my heart since may of last year. I don’t remember her. she held me in her arms when I was two months old. deceased in 99. I was two years old. I’ve always had her picture with me, but one day I noticed her and kept looking at the picture and felt immense gratitude because I knew she prayed for me. I felt the weight of that prayer. I felt the weight of love. I felt the weight of waiting and intercession. I felt the weight of “keep on keepin’ on.” I felt the weight of displacement. I felt the weight of joy. So I cried for her. The warm sensation in my abdomen increased, and I wept. eh hhh hhhh h h h h h a Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy ya Ya-zuh- ahhhhhhh Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy ya Ya ya ya ya ya ya ya ya ya ya ya ya ya ya ya Walking forward and back with small steps I wept. III benediction. The blockades are broken down. Remnants of our dance are left for others to decipher, pick up, claim, or leave behind. Packing seems like a labor of love, but I am opened to new possibilities and the challenge to “try not to forget.” I try to be courageous, as I ride away in my Uber. I left Nigeria feeling like I missed something. Feeling like I left something behind. Did I leave something? I have my charger, passport, ID, notebook. Take the uber. Go home.
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AuthorBrianna Alexis Heath is a dancer, writer, and arts administrator living in Atlanta, GA. ArchivesCategories |