Bellydancing, Middle Eastern dance, Raks Sharqi, Danse Oryentale . . . the reasons we all started dancing are probably as similar as the dance underlying all these different names, and our methods and stories as different as the names themselves. Last week both my classes asked me how I started, and it is a pretty fair question. I seem to be fairly "normal": I have standard WASP looks, I'm not exactly in Bellydance SuperStars shape, I've got kids (including one who has decided that soccer is the only sport worth playing - oh, no! I'm a soccer mom now!), cats, husband, house that needs cleaning and weeds that need pulling. The story goes something like this:
Years ago, I went to college, played in the marching band and hung out as a fraternity as a little sister. Every fall, of course, the fraternities all had rush parties the first week or two of school to find their new members for that year. Theme parties were very popular, and this fraternity had an Arabian nights party every year. The wife of one of the fraternity's alumni was a bellydancer, Julena, director of Atlanta's Dancers of the Harem. She taught classes in Marietta, and the troupe performed at the Arabian Nights party every year. Once I saw them dance, the comparison was not very favorable: Sexy women in sexy costumes doing a very sexy-looking set of dances. I had blue jeans, a fraternity jersey and a boyfriend on the front row, watching intensely. The next year, someone decided that the little sisters should dress up in these costumes, too - great! Being young and skinny at the time, that worked for me. But I still needed the moves. Once the party was over, several of us decided we needed lessons, too. Off we went to Julena's studio for classes in a brother's car which had seen many better days. We took classes for about a quarter and a half, until the car broke down. Later, after graduation and marriage, I had too much free time while I looked for a job. Julena told me about the Beledi Club, I found a meeting announcement in the newspaper, and the rest is history. |
