Growing up, I was lucky enough to see many kinds of people and stories in dance. But over the years I’ve been branching out into the world of cultural and contemporary dance. As an Asian/Pacific-Islander, it feels really refreshing to see dances which tell stories of underrepresented communities.
Which brings me to the past week. The Fringe Festival came to San Diego, and it brought with it a wonderful New Zealand-based dance company called Le Moana. The company was selected to perform 1918, telling the story of the Samoa influenza pandemic.
Last week, I was able to catch Le Moana for their final performance in San Diego, on the stage of Spreckels Theatre. I’m so glad I did.
When I entered the theater two minutes to show-time, it was nearly full. I took my seat and looked around me. The rustling, murmuring audience was, to be honest, very different from the usual crowd at Spreckels. Brown skin. Brown hair. Flowers tucked behind brown ears. The show seemed to attract a different audiences -- instead of homogenous groups of young artists, I saw entire families, generations seated together, clutching their tickets.
The hour was a beautiful meld
ing of contemporary and traditional Samoa dance. There wasn’t a sound as the six dancers entered the dark stage. Three light-house dancers, standing tall, eyes shining. Three dancers on the floor, rocking slowly in unison through an unseen tide. Three spotlights on a singer, who slowly began a Samoan song in soft, slow, lullaby syllables. The dancers joined in perfect harmony.
In an age where speed and noise are so often the selling point for success, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the opening piece: complete silence.
Of course, it picked up speed. There were incredibly heart-thumping, jumping moments too! The second part of the show told the spread of influenza through Samoa, as one by one, the dancers spasmed, coughed, choked, fell. The stage was so intimate, and the audience so still, I could hear the nine dancers inhaling, exhaling, together.
But my favorite part, heart-wrenching as it was, came afterward. In the beginning, I could easily see the connections and sense of community between the dancers. They reached their hands out to each other, nodded hello, perhaps hugged. After the pandemic scene, the singer slowly stepped into the center of the darkened stage. She looked at the audience, and her eyes traveled up and down the rows of seats. It was only after she had looked into every single face that she opened her mouth and began her story.
As a member of the audience, this was a rare moment. I entered the theater ready to watch a story. In that careful stare, I was brought into the performance. I felt seen and I felt responsible for honoring and telling this chapter of forgotten history.
I believe this is a component that can be easily overlooked in today’s conversations on minority representation, both in history’s pages and on historical stages. It is wonderful that these stories are being told and presented to a wider public. But it is even more important that they stories engage the audience and remind them they are a part of the narrative too. Nearly a century later, we still grapple with colonial mentality and identity. I hope stories like 1918 continue to not only enrich the stage but inspire conversations in our community.
