Hero

This past Veteran's Day weekend  I got to thinking about people in my life, past and  present, living and deceased, that have impacted me. Some have done a great deal of good, and some have done a great deal of damage, but all of them have done one major thing...effect change. Change- the ever uncomfortable yet inevitable part of life that determines whether you will assimilate to your surroundings or perish.

As our heroes embark on journeys through the battle grounds of Afghanistan, and others that journey into the next life, it is us, the common civilians that must journey into ourselves for a bigger purpose, something grander to dedicate our lives to, and perhaps even be the heroes of our own lives.
For me, this means to live my dreams and be true to myself in the face of all adversity. To live my best life and strive to be the best version of myself. This is a challenge to live out with daily obstacles that test my choices and patience.

I have used my hurts, past anger, and insecurities as fuel so far, but I feel a change in me- a need to heal, a need to let go, a need to surrender into the next phase of my life.

Although, there are some benefits to using your sadness and anger as fuel for creation, creativity and motivation  that has become used up in me now, a baser form of myself I no longer wish to be. I have discovered a new emotion slowly conjuring itself to the surface- the emotion of love.

Now don't get me wrong and slowly start moving your cursor towards the red x to the right of your screen. I didn't turn on you and become a blubbering Teletubby mindless sack of joy. This is not a Brady Bunch, Stepford wife, or religious cult call of duty to love all things with plastic smiles and comatose brainwaves. No, this is a gentler form of seeing connections and positivity with awareness and creating a love for yourself where there was none.

 I have chosen to find myself worthy enough to give myself everything that I desire. To create a space where I can love and nurture my dreams and become the astounding person that dwells within me...that is me. This is not a stroking of an ego, or Narcissus falling into his reflection but a realization and appreciation for this life that I am allowed to live in this moment, in this dimension, in this space and time- to make a difference, create a ripple in this world if for no one else but myself. This moment I am living has been created by my ancestors, by my heroes, by the strength and example they have left behind to be something more, or to simply just be.


I hear the ringing of Roman, our 5'9, dirty blond, curly haired Russian Latin coach wearing my favorite version of his shiny blue polyester pants, yelling at me, "Natili' you must look expensive, you are expensive, look expensive for your audience on  the dance floor."

While he meant this in quite a literal way, I will take this on the dance floor as I muster up the strength and confidence to step into my first major competition this week. I will know that this competition does not define me because I already know how far I have come, I already know my worth. I know, that just getting on that dance floor means I have taken the opportunity my heroes and my veterans sacrificed to make this all possible. I will walk down that floor, my expensive shoulders drawn back, my eyes ablaze, my ancestors shadows behind me, bravely choereograping myself as the hero of this story.

Into The Woods

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


       I'm writing this at the crack of dawn, the only time I could find a little bit of peace and quiet and I feel afraid. Not the kind of afraid that gives you the fight or flight feeling, just afraid of the particulars in my life. When I look around and realize that I have sacrificed my life for this dance sport. I have given up Sunday dinners with a family I don't have, given up decorating a Christmas tree with a husband that never existed, I am giving up toasting a meal with a group of friends I never made ties with. I'm afraid I will be so busy I won't have time for a family of my own, afraid to have a family because maybe I don't want one, afraid I will be alone, afraid I won't be good enough, afraid of some "hypothetical fight" because I might be dead wrong, afraid to get hurt, afraid to have my dreams crushed by reality, afraid to die, afraid to live fully- whatever the hell that means, afraid to publish this post because it may be absolutely irrelevant to the person reading it and mostly, I'm afraid to make the choice to do what I love in life.
 
       Having already taken the plunge, I have put myself on the line so completely, that if I fall it will be a long hard thud into reality. And nobody give me that speech about how reality is what you make it because it's not completely. You can't choose your family, financial crises call for people with dreams to take "real" jobs and ailments, tragedies, and catastrophes are constantly plaguing the unassuming man on his daily walk.

         Oh and did I mention that I got a "real" job. I know I shouldn't complain-in fact, I'm not. I mean, in this economy I GOT A JOB. This should be a statement of exuberance, and god knows  I'm lucky to have one, but a part of me feels chained, defeated. As if the subliminal part of my mind has said, good luck trying to get your dreams to become a reality. Because that's what real jobs do, don't they? They make you conform to comfortable living, a  home with a 2.5 bath, and a wailing child you kinda sorta didn't want.

       Ok.... perhaps I exaggerated a little. I'm sure those slimy, screaming messes are a joy to their parents but for me, I want to to live off the wings of my desires and passions for a little longer while I feel I can still run.

         And that is just what I think my dreams are there for-in case I need to run. Because aren't we all escaping something? Personally, I take two hits of rumba, one shot of samba and maybe a waltz to come down because dance is my drug-  the vehicle in which I leave my body.

      Take point example, when I need to run from the snot nosed, know it-all, livin' with his mama, steroid pumped imbecile I knew in high school who berated me about why I was working in this "dumpy gym" when he thought I had moved on to bigger and better things since I graduated.

        Yes, the past few weeks have been peppered with statements by dear friends with good intentions, who all have opinions that they would like to share and naturally, that I am obligated to listen to. Statements about what I should do with my life and how to make myself a better person, a better dancer, a better writer, a better instructor and so on. It's like being forced to get through a bad date with a socially ungraceful savant so completely unaware of the bile coming out of their mouth that all you want to do is muzzle them and call that precious waiter to slip the bill so you can get home and wash yourself of this moron forever.
I can't listen to anymore biased advice. I'm all for change, but...what the hell do they know?
     
          I know I have hit a low point. The pressure has had me down for a few weeks. This insecurity that I have chosen the wrong road. This crossroads in my journey where I have re-evaluated the path to my dreams. But I have concluded (at least for the moment),  that nothing else makes sense except to do whatever it takes to reach the end of my destination. The pain and struggle is the only thing that makes sense to me, the only way I know. And to be honest, I am becoming stronger about expanding this idea that I can trust myself to do whatever it takes. If I have to write during strange hours of the night, endure judgment by those who will never understand, have existential crises, constantly change my course of action, never achieve comfort, endure financial instability, never have stability, then that's what I'm gonna do. Reality it seems is what you make it but the particulars, oh the particulars you don't get to choose. That's where the hardships, suffering and challenges come in.

      But I have chosen my road, or perhaps it has chosen me. A very inspirational dancer told me about his hardships on his journey of dance, the odd jobs he had to take, the top coaches that told him he would never make it...oh, and did I mention that he and his wife are the American style Latin Champions. I suppose that all is possible, and that minor setbacks are only part of the journey, part of  the program that builds character. There are a million roads, but I have chosen mine and while the woods can become consuming I know one thing for sure- when the music plays, and I start to move, I close my eyes and I am home.
       

Independence Day

Strangely, I am siting in bed on Sunday morning...relaxing at 9:48 am watching some infomercial hack on KCET and feeling oddly normal. My days usually consist of waking up straight out of bed at 7 am, frantically trying to work in a run, preparing food for the day, tackling small chores and then heading to a dance studio in Hacienda Heights by 10am where I train till midnight-never fully enjoying daylight. This is my schedule everyday with a few variations and exceptions on locations and dance partners.
But today, I realize I have gotten to the end of my rope and need to recharge, reflect.
So I'm at home this July 4th, and not a huge fan of the bullshit 99 cent store paper plates, banners, and other decorative patriotic nonsense of Abraham Lincoln in costume character tipping a beer in one hand and giving me a thumbs up with the other.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against patriotism or being proud of your country (in its minimalist, non-bastardized, appropriate setting of course). Recently, I had a friend visit South Vietnam and I couldn't begin to tell you the graphic stories of unjust, unorganized governments and rampant poverty.
I'm grateful. I'm grateful for where I am in life, where I am privileged to live, grateful that I get to choose my path, what I want to do, that I am free to go as I please, answer to no one but myself.
It has occurred to me that this idea of independence is much more personal than sipping cocktails on paper doilies and napkins decorated with the American flag as you sit at your Uncle Ned's house eating barbecue, listening to him tell you -in grotesque detail- the same old story about how he survived a wart on his neck the size of his fist.
Independence, on a personal level, is making choices my mother, grandmother, and close female family members didn't- couldn't. It's getting up out of bed in a way my comatose cousin never will. It's the freedom we have at the expense of the endless amount of blood we will never fully interpret, for reasons and intentions we will never truly know. It's being fully aware of the power in my ability to choose my religion, my relationships, my dreams and follow through on them.
Life has its limitations- government, finances, incessant paperwork, frustration over waiting in lines, health care, unexplained tragedies and so on which are road blocks in any person's journey.
To be honest, my dance partner and I had a falling out with one of our coaches and I am afraid to say that part of my motivation for staying home was to avoid the mental fatigue that comes with confrontation. So do I really have a free day, or an escape?
Am I really choosing dance, or choosing a way out of my problems...yet another escape. And am I really free to dance or am I chained to the studio in hopes of earning my three glorified minutes on the dance floor?
Independence, like most things in life is a perception. My heartbeat counts down my days and I am not so free...but this idea that I can create beautiful conceptions into reality makes me feel without sounding like a cheesy hallmark, like my life has purpose, a purpose I create and therefore I suppose, a declaration of my independence.
Special tribute to the men and women of the U.S. armed forces who are serving around the world or have given their lives in the line of duty.
Happy 4th.

Dancing to the call

It is said that dancing is never a choice in its inhabitants body but an essential way of life. As I stand inside the brightly colored studio with beautiful mahogany floors and stare out to see top coaches who are charging $130 a pop smoking their cigarettes with deep inhalations as if to say I know this life, this has been a hard life...I wonder if the obligatory call of duty has taken its toll on them. Which starts the inevitable banter, the voice in my head who like an evil stepsister says things like, you don't know what you are doing, you are a fool to even attempt taking this course of action, you will never make it and other incessant ramblings of a similar kind. What does it take to be a dancer, a ballroom dancer to be specific? Is it heart, or passion, or does it just take a human of Russian blood while the rest of us are hopelessly trying to push Sisyphus's rolling rock to the top of the hill. I am brave enough to say I don't know. I don't have a fucking clue. Which is what I suppose is the appeal to it all. The reason I have endeavored such an enormous task, taken on this goal with such vengeance it has-to my surprise- had the Russians calling me crazy. So who am I is the next question I suppose. Who is this lingering soul that dwells in dance studios and takes on big, almost impossible dreams that take lifetimes to build? I guess I'm just a kid-a 24 year old kid who has decided after years of being directed in every course of action from all forces of society, cultural, religious, scholastic and parental pressures to take on my own course. To free myself by endeavoring a challenge so great it had to be a maniacal choice of my own creation. And yet, and yet... I feel the call. I myself feel that it is no longer a choice. That I must drive my mind and body to interminable heights-beautifully and sadistically cherishing the pain it takes to reach this goal. I suppose I am not so free and yet... I'm flying.