Stage Fright

I never want to go to dance class. Mommy says she thinks I'll like it, so we drive to Orange every Tuesday afternoon and walk in the back door. The back, small studio is where the Creative A level class goes, and Mommy usually watches from the windows while she's looking after baby Nicole. But today Miss Karen asks all the moms to go into the big studio and wait. Today we are trying on our costumes for the first time. "Goodship Lollipop" is the perfect song to dress up in red and white stripes: a leotard, one of those tutus that just looks like a fuzzy band around my hips instead of the pretty ones that stick out flat that the big girls wear. And to top it off (literally) a white beret with a ginormous red pom-pom sitting, flapping in the middle of my head. All of us are getting ready in the small studio and we even have white gloves to complete the look. I glance at myself in the mirror and I think I look just perfect. I tilt my hat the way I want, my tutu is perfectly fluffed. I even help the other girls with theirs.

Then Miss Karen walks us all in a straight line through the door that leads into the big studio.

"AHAHAHAHA. OH MY GAWD LOOK HOW CUTE," an obnoxiously overpowering woman bellows the second she sees us little Shirley Temples walking in the vastly more intimidating ballet studio. In that moment all I see are the eyes of the other mommies staring at me, their mouths stretching from ear-to-ear like the Cheshire Cat, cackling at how cute I look: they are clearly laughing at me. Their video cameras with red lights blinking to indicate they are recording this humiliation to go back and laugh at at a later date. I suddenly feel nervous and scared and when Miss Karen puts on the music to show the moms how good we look doing the dance in the costumes, I can't. I know the dance, but I can't do it in front of all these people. They're laughing at me. And I look over to the door on the opposite side of the studio to see a crowd of giggling teenagers pointing at me, whispering, "Aw, so cute."

I'm feeling more and more frightened with each evil smile I see and, of course, I start to cry. I refuse to show the dance, so Mommy takes me home.

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Now it's May and the real recital is this weekend. We drive to the theater in Milford, it's a longer drive than just to ballet. We don't need our costumes for today, it's just a "blocking" rehearsal. Mommy opens the door for me and I almost collapse when I see the size of the room through those creaky doors. Kim, my older sister, runs down the aisle as fast as she can right up to the stage. I, however, am frozen. In the far distance I see the crazy mother who laughed at me a few months ago. She has her video camera ready. I can't do it. I can't go up there. Everybody will see me and laugh at me and make fun of me. When it's time for my rehearsal I put up the best fight I can. Literally kicking and screaming, crying and wrestling against Mommy she forces me up the stairs onto the stage. You can' t make me go. I won't do it. They laugh at me. The big girls are watching. The moms are watching. Everybody is watching.

Through all the hysteria I suddenly feel Mommy's soft cheek against mine. And she whispers in my ear, "Take a deep breath and try. All you can do is try." I take the deepest breath I can through my whimpering. I close my eyes. And I step on the stage. You know what? I can't even see anybody. There are these crazy bright lights shining in my eyes so I can't see the cackling mother, the red lights on the video cameras, the big girls with a permanent "aw" shape plastered on their mouths. All I hear is music, all I know is I that I know what steps to do and I'm having fun.

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Saturday arrives and with it all of the nerves I thought I'd gotten rid of. I realize there weren't even that many people in the audience earlier in the week, but today: jam-packed. Bustling with faces I know and don't know. My stage fright is almost too horrendous to comprehend. I cry while Mommy puts on my make-up (a very unusual concept considering putting on make-up is perhaps my favorite thing in the universe). Before I go onstage Mommy says that Daddy wants to talk to me. I find him outside the theater and he tells me the same thing Mommy told me earlier, "Deep breath, Rach. All you can do now is try. I have a special surprise for you if you get up there and do just that."

With my white gloves still on and my lips still bright red I make my way through the crowd of people exiting the theater and I see my father waiting for me with flowers and perhaps the most exciting thing of all, a piece of watermelon-flavored Bubblicious gum (this is a HUGE deal because we are not allowed to chew gum).

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Fast-forward fifteen years and I am still dancing with New England Ballet. Countless performances, costumes, flowers, pieces of Bubblicious gum (yes, that tradition continued) later and I cannot imagine a life without performing. I often wonder what would have happened if I did not make the decision to follow my mother's and father's "You'll never know until you try" advice. Dance in so many ways, has defined my life. Performing is probably the closest I've ever been to "bliss" in my life so far, and to think I was a three-year-old's snap decision away from never experiencing it is mind-blowing. This advice, for me, has both been relevant in my life and hard to follow. If you haven't noticed, I'm very much concerned with what people think of me, a serious character flaw in my opinion, but it's evident in my reaction to the cackling mother, for instance. It's hard to try new things because I'm often afraid of what people might think. However, over time, I've embraced this advice my parents gave me and it has led to some of the best results I could have ever dreamed: a love for ballet, for example. And even then, to think, it was probably that piece of Bubblicious gum that prompted me to perform the next year, and the next, and the next...

Happy birthday to you...happy birthday to you...happy birthday to you...happy...

When Utnapishtim replies to Gilgamesh’s request for immortality with simply, “There is no permanence,” he refers to the very basis of human life, what it means to be alive. First and foremost, we are biologically living. Scientifically speaking, we are made of cells, we develop and reproduce; we fit all of the criteria as part of the Kingdom of Animalia. Thus, we must expire. It is a part of the circle of life, the nature of all biotic organisms: we are born, we live, we die. Humans have accepted this fact and we see it in even the most regular of rituals, for instance blowing out candles on a birthday cake. In our culture, it is customary to light candles, put them atop a cake, sing “Happy Birthday” and then blow them out. The act of blowing out a candle is rather symbolic, no? As if we are extinguishing the years that have passed because they are gone, over; we will never get them back. Of course, if this were the only way in which we thought of birthdays, they would be very depressing affairs. Therefore, we eat cake and have a party for completing another year of life. Why do we blow out candles on birthdays instead of lighting new ones? Aren’t we starting another year of life in addition to ending the previous one? Utnapishtim answers, “There is no permanence,” because as much as we celebrate, we still must accept the notion that someday, all of our candles will be extinguished.

Gilgamesh says, “as for us men, our days are numbered, our occupations are a breath of wind” (71). However, if everybody celebrated their birthdays with a “one year closer to death” attitude as opposed to a “one more year of life complete” attitude, the whole world would be full of people unwilling to live. This is certainly not the case. People get up and go about their business everyday because of the relationships we have with other people, the connections we make, and the fact that we give life value and want to make the most of it. This is what separates humans from other living creatures. All living things eventually die, but only humans recognize the sheer importance and fortune of living life to the fullest. Carmen Martín Gaíte wrote a short story entitled “Las ataduras,” with the word “atadura” literally translating to “the bonds that bind us.” The relationships that outlast physical life give life meaning. We see this with Gilgamesh and Enkidu. The experiences they encounter together, such as the quest to destroy Humbaba, bring them closer as friends, brothers, and lovers. In their journey they provide each other with words of encouragement and the confidence that ultimately allows them to defeat Humbaba. We know the effect of this relationship this because of the way Gilgamesh mourns Enkidu when Enkidu dies. We see that the bond between Gilgamesh and “the strong comrade, the one who brings help to his friend in need” (66), Enkidu, has forever changed Gilgamesh because, when Enkidu dies, Gilgamesh begins “to rage like a lion, like a lioness robbed of her whelps. This way and that he pace[s] around the bed, he [tears] out his hair and strew[s] it around “ (95). Gilgamesh feels true grief and loss because he felt true love and friendship. He then mandates that the people of Uruk erect a statue in honor of Enkidu. This represents the everlasting effect of the connection between Gilgamesh and Enkidu.

Furthermore, Enkidu’s life is forever altered by his relationships with other people. The harlot weakens him physically, but more importantly, she transforms him into a human; she begins to socialize him. It is because of her that Enkidu feels the need to confront Gilgamesh, and thus, he meets his future best friend. We, as humans, are the means by which the immortal connections of love come to be. People die, yes, it is a fact of life, but we put gravestones over their dead bodies. We are forever changed by the people we love and who love us, and this gives life meaning. Why would a tired middle-aged husband wake up each morning, go to his bleak and cold office in order to sit in front of a computer and make phone calls all day? Because the money he receives from his job allows him to provide for his loving wife and three children.

Faith, in other words something in which to believe, gives us a sense of order and eternal life. Religion, specifically, provides a tangible structure for faith. Going to Church, synagogue, etc. every week and reading scriptures that were written in order to guide you through your life give us a sense of order. Religion has been present on earth since the Sumerians wrote about it and even before, because it was natural for humans to need something to believe, something to give reason. Moreover, religion is eternal. It is perhaps one of the closest concepts we have in our lives to immortality. It is something that carries over from generation to generation, providing structure and guidance in our lives every step of the way. For instance, Ea saves Utnapishtim from the floods and Shamash helps Gilgamesh and Enkidu defeat Humbaba. In addition we have Hammurabi, who was sent to Earth in order to carry out the gods’ will, the American expansionists of the 19^th century who believed in manifest destiny, that it was their god-given duty to settle in the land out west. With faith in a higher power, we accept our positions as mortals meant to pass on the faith to the generations that follow.

Human life is precious, malleable, and limited. However, it is only limited in the biological sense. Philosophically, the ideas we have, the lessons we teach, and the connections we make never die. These are propagated through eternity. It is the will to create new ideas, lessons, and connections that progresses humanity and gives meaning to life.