The dancers barrel blindly off stage, and I swerve to avoid them. The only light backstage is the stage manager’s, a bright fluorescent bulb with a soft blue gel overtop, grossly wrapped in gaffe tape. I’m mesmerized as the light catches the sweat on the bodies as they scramble for costumes, and am pulled back in the present as the manager reminds me that it is my turn to dance. I take one last breath, in and out, trying to blow away the butterflies built up in my stomach.
The stage is a black maw before me, but it is a friendly blackness. It gives me hope and strength, and welcomes me to fill the darkness with light. I gingerly take steps out of the wings. I have given away my protection, my cover, my confidence. The marley feels soft on my bare feet, but I wince as I step on a malfunctioning nail from the stage floor, under the marley shield. Finally, as my eyes adjust to the new blackness, I see the glow-in-the-dark-but-not-really floor tape. I have made it to my beginning position on stage.
I crouch down into a parallel grand plé, like Gollum with the one ring, and try to keep my balance. One last hair/costume check before I begin. I feel my head for a bun in the nape of my neck, and my hand connects with a solid mass of hair. Perfect. I run my fingers lightly over my head, checking for loose hairs and trying not to create new ones. I find some by my ear, and hastily rake it into position with my fingers. I smooth my dress out over my knees, trying to create a perfect circle around my body. Slowly and methodically, I pull my arms away from my costume and let them hover in a low, curved position. My fingertips brush the floor as I regain my balance. The lights slowly fade in, showing my back to the audience. Pre-show sweat catches the light and glistens on my spine. For a moment everything is still, only the air-conditioning makes a faint hum. The music begins. I dance.
