Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [118]
The capoeira workshop was being held in a school nearby. Throngs of young students stood outside. I saw my teacher, his hair now in long dreadlocks, looking older, but just as fit and elastic.
“Danger!” he shouted when he saw me. “I thought you lived somewhere around here. I was so hoping I’d see you!” We gave each other a big hug. I was aware of the students, none of whom could speak Portuguese, staring at us. “I wish I’d known,” our teacher said. “We could have gone out. I only have a few minutes before the workshop.” He led me over to a patch of grass, and we sat together.
“I just found out today,” I said, indicating Phyllis, who was chatting with someone else who appeared to be a friend of hers. “How is everybody? Have you heard from Fernando? Luiz? Pedro? Luzia? Anyone?”
“Fernando got his master’s degree, did you hear that?” I shook my head. “He’s beginning to teach for me now. Luzia, I don’t know. And did you hear about Dona Cida, Gato’s mother?”
“No.”
“She died last month.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t gone to visit her.
“She was a wonderful woman,” he said. “Very clever. Gato’s devastated.” One of the organizers of the workshop waved at our teacher and he rose. “Are you going to play?” he asked me.
I laughed and shook my head. “I haven’t played for years now,” I said. “It’s just not the same in the States.”
He shook his head. “You should play.”
I waved him off, watching the students walk in, wishing I could play and feel the energy of the roda.
“I’d have to train for ages to get strong enough again,” I said.
I rejoined Phyllis, and we followed the crowd inside. Our teacher showed them some moves, stunning them, as I had been stunned so many years ago, by his electric energy. He passed us several times, inviting me with a gesture to join.
They began a roda, and I heard the long call I remembered so well, the chants so familiar, the postures I could still feel in my body, the energy that permeated the entire space.
We stayed for some time watching, then I went to give my respects to my teacher as the leader of the roda before I left, thanking him for letting me partake as a visitor. It had been eleven years since I had first entered a roda myself. So much had happened in that time. I blinked in the bright sunlight as we emerged from the dark schoolhouse. Playing the dance, dancing the game: what was true in the capoeira roda was true everywhere.
“Oh, that food does look good!” Phyllis placed another tidbit on her plate from the buffet line and moved to the next delicious-looking dish. I followed close behind. We were at Karey’s wedding reception. Karey and her husband had decided to invite the wedding guests to bring the dinner as a potluck instead of gifts. A brilliant idea, I thought. It saved them money, it allowed her friends to make her something meaningful, and besides, getting mostly Jewish people to make food for a Jewish wedding? What could be better? Karey asked that people who wished to give further presents make a donation either to a Jewish cause for peace or to Bahia Street.
The room was joyful chaos. Karey had tried to combine both her Jewish faith and her love of Brazil, still undimmed despite her experiences in Salvador, in the festivities. She had hired Eduardo to play, and he and his band were valiantly trying to render a suspiciously Brazilian-sounding version of Jewish wedding songs.
Upon her return from Brazil, Karey had met, and was now marrying, a nice Jewish boy. She and he had also become involved with a local Seattle political group working for peace between Jews and Palestinians. She took this brave position, particularly for a person of Jewish heritage and Jewish faith, and participated in protests against Israeli policy in Palestine. She stood up to other Jews who spit on her in the street. She even traveled to Palestine for a month or so in an effort for peace. She and her husband had invited both Jews and Palestinians to their wedding. We all danced together, hugged each other, laughed together. It was an exhibition of the possibilities