by Grayce Connors
"Wherever two or more of you are gathered in my name, I am there also..."
Or is it three, or four? I couldn�t remember the bible quote exactly but the prophecy suddenly came to mind as I stood among the pre-demolition debris of a building I had spent thousands of hours in an entire lifetime ago...
As all good Christian folk know, a church is not made up of its pews, the stained glass of its windows or even its altar. The true spirit of any church is found in the members of its congregation. Walking amongst the wood splinters the plaster chunks and the lighting fixtures that once graced the ceiling, I now realized that the same was true of any building. Its� heart, it�s blood and its� veins are the people that are inside of it,
working, learning, living... loving.
The building at one time had been one of several comprising the campus of a boy�s school around the early part of the 20th century. The lower floor of the massive building contained classrooms, offices and the locker rooms while the entire upper floor was the schools gymnasium. By the mid 70�s it was the last building left remaining from the campus and had been sitting empty for almost two decades. It barely escaped demolition had it not been for the Madsen Arts Academy, which purchased it and turned it into what eventually became one of the most prominent non-accredited arts schools in the Northwest.
Several windows were broken or missing and the freezing cold air poured in causing my breath to swirl around me and mix with the equally vaporous strains of music I could occasionally hear floating around the rafters like renegade bats. The mirrors had been removed from the walls but I could still see my reflection in the far wall just as I always did six days a week for the six years that this studio was my home and refuge from the everyday trauma of being a square peg. Here, boys that danced were not freaks of nature. Here, nobody slammed me up against a wall, spit in my face and called me a faggot�
I struck an arabesque pose and I could automatically hear my teacher Stephanie calling out to me to turn out my supporting leg, her voice floating upwards to mix with the music and my frozen breath...
Over in a corner, under a pile of debris, I spot something pink peeking out. I walk over and pull it out, the delicate net fabric tearing on the wood splinters. It is a child�s tutu, something a girl of five or so would wear in a ballet level one class. I hold it in my hands wondering which of the thousands of little girls who passed through here had worn it, what they had danced and if they had been as happy as I had been here. Upon closer inspection, I can barely discern a name written inside it...
* * * * *
"Stephanie, I found this in the upper studio, no name on it. Any idea whose it might be?" I hand the little pink tutu over to our schools director who never lets anyone call her Miss Madsen; it�s always "Stephanie". She looks at it for all of two seconds then arranges a stray lock of her long prematurely gray hair. "That belongs to Becky Lowell in my level one class. Do me a favor Grayce, write her name in it and put it in the lost and found. She can pick it up on Wednesday when she comes for class.
O.k. Steph. By the way, I'll be staying after the eight o'clock class to run my pas-de-deux."
"Oh, so Katia can rehearse after all?"
"Well, she can stay long enough to run it once or twice. I guess I can walk through it by myself a few times after that."
"Well, I'm glad you'll get a couple of good rehearsals in. I�ll try to get up there to see it at least once. I did hear Clark mention something about using the main studio tonight, so you might want to check with him first."
Stephanie becomes engrossed in choosing ballet music albums for her next class. I walk out of her office on the mezzanine level and down the front staircase. I pass the huge radiator that we love to sit on and warm up our legs. It�s so huge I can comfortably lie down all the way across it and only my feet hang over the edge. Right now, six dancers of different sizes are perched on it like birds on a telephone wire. Clark is at his usual post at the foot of the stairs by the front doors busily manning the "security" desk, checking passes and making sure all the dancers sign in.
I decide to pull seniority.
"Clark, Steph said you�re rehearsing something later?"
"Well, I was gonna do some foot stretches then work on some choreography afterwards but I forgot my pointe shoes..."
"Katia and I are staying upstairs after class to run our duet."
"O.k., well, why don't I start cleaning downstairs then we can trade studios later..."
"I�ll tell you what. You stay downstairs and I'll lend you my pointe shoes."
Clark narrows his eyes. "I get the feeling you want the big studio tonight."
"You know, for a lowly peon of a scholarship student, you're very perceptive."
Clark laughs and then abruptly stops to reprimand a little ballerina that walks by without signing in. As she passes me she says in the loudest most mocking voice any 12 year old can muster; "Hi CHRISTIAN!� which is what anyone below the age of puberty calls me around here since the day she decided I looked exactly like Christian Slater. She is not entirely to blame. There is a very strong resemblance. But you know how kids will NOT let go of a joke�
