I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [191]
Little by little, as I eliminated, I would add to the “King’s orchestra,” instructing new members, “You, clap … you, whistle … you, hiss! Take these sticks and beat them together. Here’s a stone and a pot!” My percussive and vocal group grew and sounds, thuds, whistles, clicks, clatters, and swishes accompanied the dancers, until the musical ensemble had reached thirteen. By then, my orchestra was jamming, and I had zeroed in on the last three dancers—two boys and a girl. I called an end; we had danced nonstop for three hours.
Their chieftain had spent this entire time observing us, then commanded, “Wait!” and disappeared. We didn’t know what to think; perhaps he was consulting with the other tribal members and the parents? While we all sat and waited for the chief to give his imprimatur, yea or nay, Carrie grabbed the three—Zahra, Hussan, and Osis—and took off for a photo op. In late afternoon the chief returned with the three children’s parents and, with a slow nod of his head, solemnly announced the Afar word for “yes,” then demanded the interpreters inform us, “Do you know why we let you take our children from their homes? Because the way they will behave while in your land will show you our honor, and the whole world will know that we Afar are God-fearing people.” Mythic, grand—and, as it turned out, prophetic.
In the late spring of 1994, our varied groups from the earth’s geographic extremes gathered in New York City. As with the Chinese delegation in 1986, the 92nd Street Y housed our guests during their stay. NDI staff stayed with them, but I knew the two Ein Gedi kibbutz girls, Ilana and Tamara, would become the leaders, worrying and fussing over the other children. I could even imagine them reading bedtime stories to the others and tucking them in. “Has everyone gotten enough to eat?” “Anyone need help with anything?” And, sure enough, when I was harsh during rehearsal to Zahra or Tsering, or any of the other children, those two white doves from the Dead Sea would coo and flutter around them, commiserating and stroking hurt feelings. In a kibbutz, everyone has to share and care and be responsible for their duties. In the midst of bedlam, trying to stage dances for two thousand children as the orchestra rehearses, scenery is being hung, and lighting plots created, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, Ilana and Tamara practicing. They wanted to be perfect, and they were. When they weren’t polishing their own dances, they were helping the others with theirs.
Besides the children from the extremes of the globe, I had gathered all my production elements together and finally chosen the star. Alexandra Rosen, a nine-year-old girl from a public school in New York City, won my heart with her simplicity, bright smile, dancing energy, and innate modesty. She would be my Rosebud, the girl-child plucked from a hole in the earth and presented to the sun at the climax of the show. She would weave, from the earth’s myriad life forms, a blanket—a rainbow cloak for all the earth to wear on a trip to the stars.
I don’t believe it would be possible today to recreate what Rosebud’s Song became. Not with millions of dollars and a high-powered team could Disney come close. Almost one thousand Native American children in the U.S. painted their faces on canvas and sent them to us to hang as part of our scenic backdrop.
Hundreds of Native Americans from dozens of reservations drove across the country to attend our Event, and Clinton Elliott, from the Ojibwa tribe, was our narrator. We featured Native American singers and drummers, Broadway dancers and musicians, and some thirty string players from the Mannes College of Music. For our final act, they played excerpts from Stravinsky’s Apollo. Judy Collins wrote the most exquisite song to grace our finale.
The entire cast, wearing a rainbow-colored blanket, 1994 (image credit 19.14)
On opening night, directors, choreographers, and producers all cede power to the performers. I sat out front, became a member of the audience, and waited