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My Left Feet
Mo’s Notes: I’ve played in big-time basketball games in front of thousands on regional and national television, but never in my life have I been more nervous about a performance. I remember looking at the kids as the lights dimmed seconds before we had to go on stage. When we jogged on stage—and that first step felt like I was jumping off a cliff—the entire crowd paused and then let out a chuckle. My friends roared and then laughed harder than everyone else. All I could see were white lights. For the record, I want it to be known that I did try and convince my teacher that it made no sense for me to participate. The kids looked at me and were like, “Why not, Maureen? Don’t be scared. You can do it.” I wanted to point to the mirror and say, “Do you see all of us and that person who looks like Ronald McDonald's sister? That’s me and that’s why!”
Wali Collins, a comedian, watched the video, and laughed so hard that he cried and begged me to turn it off.
If you're having a bad day, or even a good one, watch Swingin in' Harlem, and witness my natural ability to make a complete ass of myself.
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Women’s Health—October 2006
My Left Feet
When this basketball player traded her high-tops for tap shoes, it was no slam-dunk
By Maureen Holohan
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I am not a dancer. Not graceful. Not lyrical. Not light on my feet. Nope. None of that. The one and only time I ever took to the stage I was a chubby, pigtailed 5-year-old in an elephant costume. I was all about my floppy ears and makeshift trunk (they were pink, people!) and a net of balloons above the stage, meant to pour down during the finale. I gazed upward—and forgot to dance—while the other students clomped their way around me, took their bows, and exited to the kind of wild applause that only cute-but-clueless kindergartners and Baryshnikov ever get. I scampered after them, vaguely aware that the audience was laughing—and never went to a dance class again.
But then last year a crazy thing happened. I was at the gym when I heard a staccato tap, shuffle-tap, ta-tap . I peered through the window of the studio next to me and saw a woman in tap shoes hoofin’ it like Savion Glover. I couldn’t take my eyes off her feet, their lightness and rhythm—so different from my own, heavy and hurting after years of pounding the basketball court. I have to try this, I thought.
Which is how I found myself at the Harlem School of the Arts in New York City one day last October. I’d brought along a pair of brand-new tap shoes (as instructed) and some serious jitters (my own contribution). Because of low enrollment, I was put in a class with a bunch of 10-year-olds. “You’re going to love the big recital at the end of the year,” one of the moms told me. The what? “It’s real nice.” I’m not actually in it…am I? “When you registered, you bought the whole little outfit.” Little outfit?! Somehow I’d missed that nonnegotiable bit in the fine print when I signed up.
Before I could hightail it outta there, the teacher, Ms. Curry, cued up some big band music and told us to freestyle—tap lingo for “tear it up.” The kids were all smiles and rhythm and unabashed self-confidence. I stood there awkwardly. At 5’11”, with curly red hair and freckles, I was a decidedly pink elephant in a class of adorable African-American children bursting with talent and grace and all that stuff I seriously lack. |
But I also couldn’t refuse to try in front of a bunch of kids. So I threw myself into a solitary swing dance, my 10 tap shoes an extra-loud reminder of my heavy feet. I tried to pick them up instead of dragging them, but the harder I tried, the worse I sounded. Later when we started working on actual steps, I kept fumbling the flaps and shuffles that had looked so easy. Where was that neat staccato I’d heard at the gym? When I attempted the most basic flap step (a toe-brush out and back on the floor) the sound was schloompf-thud, schloompf-thud instead of a crisp fu-lap.
At the end of class, Ms. Curry gently told me not to cringe every time I screwed up. I needed to keep my joints looser to help me articulate each step. If I let my body take over, she said, the steps would come. But as our May recital got closer, I couldn’t seem to shake my habit of rolling my eyes and thinking obscenities whenever I made a mistake. I now resembled a crazy pink elephant. At least by this time, two other adults, Thomas and Sandra, had joined the class, so I didn’t stand out. As much.
On May 5, as I fidgeted in my red-trimmed black velvet pantsuit, 12 of my friends sat in City College’s Aaron Davis Auditorium, no doubt squirming in their seats at the thought of sitting through a 3-hour kiddie dance recital. I hadn’t wanted them to see me up there, but they thought it was hilarious that I’d gotten myself into this scenario and wanted to see it for themselves. Well, terrific. Backstage, one boy, Noah, told me that last year he got so excited that he ran out and accidentally punched himself in the nose. He asked me if I was nervous. I said no. Grown-ups are really full of it.
Seconds before we faced the sold-out crowd of 850, Ms. Curry said, “I’m not going to say break a leg. I’m telling you to take the house down! ” The kids giggled and poked each other as we moved to a dark wing of the stage. I played along, but my heart was racing and I could hardly breathe. I cautiously eyed the darkened audience. The music pulsed the opening beats of our song, “Shake Your Groove Thing.” The lights went up. We lined ourselves in a row, counted three 8’s silently, and began to hoof.
We stayed on beat during our group steps and then danced in twos. Sandra and I took turns swing dancing with Thomas. After a few rounds of applause, we started our solos. When my turn came, a shot of adrenaline rushed through me. My body took over and, woo-hoo! , the steps followed. Dig-toe, toe-heel combo, spin right, spin left, flap-jump, toe-heel, right and left, flap, heel, heel, stomp! When we all fell in line for the finale, the applause grew, and I realized I was smiling. And breathing. Elephant memories started to fade, and gazelles in black velvet took their place. There were no balloons this time, but I didn’t miss them. And my friends? They said I had pretty good feet up there.
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