Why You Shouldn't Worry About My Finances

....I mean, besides the fact that Mom, Dad, and I do enough worrying for everyone else.

So APPARENTLY money is a taboo subject. But, as a person who was born without any sense of social conduct, I never worry about dropping the "less than _____ K"'s. And then, inevitably, things get awkward. It goes something like this:

You tell me I simply cannot live like this. I explain that I'm above the poverty level, but taxes can still upset my finances for months and a restructuring of the tax system may be in order. You say that I deserve to make more than ____K. When I agree, and suggest you write your congressman or woman and suggest more funding for the arts, you suggest I "sell out." When I explain that I like my job, you are worried about how I'm surviving. When I mention I love my Latino neighborhood and attic abode, you are concerned for my safety. When I mention that my landlord lives in the building and keeps an eye on me, you suggest I find roommates. I say I love living alone, you insist I can't live in these conditions any more. When I say I'm perfectly happy and have everything I need, you suggest grad school. Then I agree that grad school is on the books and leave out the fact I'm looking at an MFA in dance just so we can talk about something besides my apparent misery.

Yes, I need to be paid more for the work I do. Yes, arts funding needs to be more available and dancers need to stop taking jobs that don't pay when the directors are paying a tech staff for one night of work. But I LOVE my job, and I LOVE my life and you can't tell me for a second I should sacrifice all the love I have and give and get everyday just so I can move into a bigger apartment, buy a newer car, eat more expensive food, take vacations, and go out more. I don't want any of these things. All I want is a day off and a French baguette with a glass of red wine. And maybe an annual holiday- but beggars can't be choosers.

Last Saturday night I worked a bat mitzvah and crawled into bed at 1 am in my clothes. Then I was back awake and at work by 9:30 Sunday morning. I worked until 9 pm then woke up at 7 am Monday morning to haul my ass to 3 separate teaching jobs before stumbling into Aldi's for groceries at 9 pm, then coming home to a cat that just wants to be held like a baby.

And tonight I'm the happiest woman in the world. Yes, my apartment is a mess and I have an awful stomach ache because I only ate a bag of Combos all day. I have deep circles under my eyes and I'm praying the 9th virus of the winter isn't on its way into my sinuses....but I got to spend my whole day doing what I love.

Kids are phenomenal because they give back what you give to them. I teach with love. I hold hands, I give high-fives, I tell funny stories, I ask about my student's lives, and I share dance. In return I get hugs, assurances that I'm fun, hilarious stories and anecdotes, and phenomenal dancing. Ok, so it doesn't work like this all the time. But today I'm feeling pretty positive.

Today was the first day of my new Chicago Public School job. I headed down to 104th street where I managed to convince the kids I was a leprachaun because I was so damn pale. I'd been warned to be prepared for unruly CPS kids, but these were the best kids I've ever taught. Oh sure, they were kids. And for some reason their reaction to everything was to hit their bestie beside them. (Ladies- rule #2- Hands to yourself.) Sure I had to yell and ask for their attention and threaten to take away free time. But, I mean, that's the usual, and I got like 7 million hugs before I left.

The thing is, these kids were so excited to be dancing. It was such a treat for them. And it should be. Kids know that they're lucky to come to dance class: they get excited. That's why they lose their heads, and then I lose my voice. It is exciting. And I get to be a part of it. I get to tell them what a great job they're doing. I get to help them do better. I get to laugh until I cry when they do something hilarious, I get to share their success, and I get to pass on all my passion to them.

So I know it's cliche, but you don't need to worry about my finances. I am rich in joy. If you want to help me, write to your congresspeople and remind them that arts jobs are jobs, and that people need and love art. Art feeds the soul. That's why we make it. Like education, like food, like safety, art needs to be accessible to all. Whether you're at 104th St or in Lake Zurich, 2 years old or 75, you deserve to dance, and sing, and paint, and to be given the chance to experience and participate in the world as a human full of potential and vibrant feelings and beautiful imaginings. Art is all around us, in advertisements, in architecture, in design, in fashion, in the street performer at the corner. Support it- you partake in it.

And if you can't do that little bit to help me out- because of whatever bullshit excuse you've got about small government and how great the free market is- and you can't donate to a not for profit because you're only making twice what I make, at least stop and thank a teacher. Let me start- thanks to my ballet teacher Nick Pupillo who inspires me as a teacher and dancer. Thanks to Jessie Murphy and Brian Murphy who work everyday to better the lives of the students in their communities. Thanks to Susanne Arens for working so hard to ensure your kids are being challenged and inspired. Thanks to Lori and Tim who let me play 4 days a week in their studio, and thanks to all the teachers who inspire me as a teacher and as a human.

I love my job. Now, to bed so I can do it all again tomorrow.

Ice Queen

This is my cave of ice.
It is safe like a fortress.
Here, in the ice, I dipped my scalding flaming heart.
Here, in the ice my emotional inflammation soothed
and my love numbed.
Here, in the ice, I put out some of the fire in my soul.

My color used to be burnt orange like the heat of a cinder.
What color am I now? Am I finally yellow like I wished?
A bright joyful color, but a weak flame, dimly lighting the room?

I am not the bright, hot-headed girl I was.
I am not the eternal flame that couldn't go out.
Some of that flame finally burned all there was to burn.

I am calmer. I believe I am happier. I know I am older.

Maybe I am not me anymore, now that I don't react with an instant fiery passion
But instead present my ice-encrusted self to speak on my behalf.

The girl I was is in an ice block and the ice block is in this woman's chest.
Whoever she is.

The Heavens, the Weather

I'm just another victim of seasonal depression
spirits sailing on the spring breeze brushing through my bedroom windows,
lying in my underwear on the floor, feeling the air on my skin for the first time in months.
Renewed optimism revives me as I perk up the same way my plants have:
drooping leaves spreading to the sun, soaking in the healing rays.

Is it just the weather that has lifted my spirits?
Or is it that the ebb and flow of life is in my favor?

Living in a sunny attic on a quiet street,
spending my days playing with little ones,
dancing, rehearsing, writing, reading, creating.
The stars have aligned in my favor for the moment.

How can I hold onto the heavens and the weather?
Lock this euphoria in a jar and refuse to let it out?
Trap my contentment?

Or must I move to sunny California, or dusty Arizona, and never let my branches wilt in the winter's cold.
Or must I hold onto my successes somehow and keep pushing my life safely forward?

Memories of misery terrify me.
Let's lasso the sun and stop the time from turning.
I am unusually happy.
I am nerve-wrackingly pleased.`

Summer in March

Today I began my day with a cup of coffee on the porch beside Cat and Plants.

1 ballet class and 2 jobs later I ended it in the same place with a glass of wine beside Cat and Plants. 

Life is what I want it to be.

An unusually political rant

Today I want to pay homage to the women in the media who inspire me everyday. Warning: if reading this you think it's a bitchy rant against men, you may be a closeted misogynist.

Growing up, I went through a lot of phases. There was the phase where I wanted to be short and petite like the other girls. There was the phase where I probably had an un-diagnosed eating disorder. That was during the phase where I hated my body, and sometimes myself. There was the phase where I hated everything in my wardrobe and couldn't figure out how to dress like the other girls. There was the phase where I thought putting out empowered me as a woman.

Those aren't the sort of phases I want my daughters to go through. I want them to struggle with: should I be a politician or CEO? Or maybe I'd be happier as a kindergarten teacher. On that note, I'm going to be a great mom so maybe I won't want to be a teacher if I have kids to take care of at home...


And that's why I'm glad for so many powerful amazing women who inspire the hell out of me everyday. I'm a little ashamed my path to understanding my femininity in a male-"dominated" (in quotes to remove the power from the word as this is not an essay to disempower my sex) world took so long, but only because I've always known who I was. It just took me a long time to learn how to reconcile who I am with what society expects me to be. And as smart as I am, it's a little sad.

That's why I want to note a few women who I am grateful can be role models for women struggling with this very topic. Let's start with Ellen. It's recently been a point of, well, hilarity, that nearly every time I receive a text after dinner that starts: "what are you doing?" my answer involves "Ellen...You Tube...."

Here is a woman who is pretty, funny, rich, powerful, famous, and married to a gorgeous specimen of a woman. She also happens to be openly gay, smart, kind, and inspiring. When she came out she lost her job and couldn't get work for quite some time. Even today JC Penny's decision to name her their spokeswoman resulted in a ferocious and ignorant backlash from women who feel that as a gay woman she has nothing in common with them and their values. And STILL her message, everyday on her show, is "be kind to each other." Kindness which she demonstrates and inspires in others. With as much as she's worth of course there's no reason she shouldn't be donating to charity, but she gives not just money but also time and goodwill. After everything she went through she has come to the conclusion that kindness is what she wants to stand for. She's a marvelous woman.

Adele? Top of the charts? Not your average blonde pop star running around in underwear. A fully clothed, voluptuous WOMAN in every sense of the word who has not followed an already paved road but trampled her way into the music scene with a sound that stands out from the din of the crowd. She's not filling our head with mind numbing beats and ridiculous tabloids. She's gotten to where she is because she's talented and smart and because she taps into our very souls with her words and her sounds. She's not selling us sex and club beats, nor I believe is she wrecking her life with drug and alcohol abuse. She's offering us an understanding into something we couldn't quite put words to before. My students request Adele all the time. I happily oblige.

When I saw Pina I was amazed by some of her female dancers, old enough to be my mother, sometimes topless, still moving with more grace and beauty then I can ever hope to possess. And they looked phenomenal onscreen. Their bodies were the bodies of women who hadn't pumped steroids or silicone into their skin. They were pure beauty.

Millions of women around the world everyday do what these women do. I mean, we could start with Michele Obama (mom-extraordinaire, first lady, gorgeous, annnnd MUSCLES.) Kathryn Bigelow- first woman to receive an academy award for best director. (I don't care if she won "because James Cameron pushed for her." She won. And she's a chick. Suck it.) Uhh...Gabrielle Giffords? The name alone shows the strength our gender possesses. We could also talk about teachers, artists, managers, doctors, directors, producers....my point is: there are women topping the internet who aren't Snookie. And they didn't get there by following trends. They got there by being themselves, knowing themselves, being strong, and NOT succumbing to to the role men (and often other women) have relegated them to.

Recently, women's rights seem to be a topic of conversation again. It infuriated me for quite a bit. I mean, it will infuriate me forever. I'm enraged and horrified by the front row seat abortion takes. Or less controversially yet still at the forefront- BIRTH CONTROL???? Or women in the military...(le sigh.) We don't need to talk about my political opinions. It doesn't matter. What matters? So many other important issues should be on our agendas. There are so many things going on in the world, in our country, in our cities, and even in our neighborhoods that need our attention. And this is what we're wasting our time on? A panel of men sitting around telling women what their rights are. Why? Why, when so many phenomenal women are rocking the world, and so many horrible problems deserve our attention, is this an issue?

In college I was deeply upset that as a female dancer in a female dominated field, men still held a disproportionate number of power positions. Just like today, many women are infuriated and saddened that men are still trying to overturn Roe V. Wade, and limit our access to necessary services provided at places like Planned Parenthood.

You know what ladies, I think we're overreacting. (I mean, of course we're not! The last thing we should do is let men undo centuries of feminist work! But hear me out.)

These issues are on the table because we're winning. A male friend recently informed me that because of some "crisis of masculinity" women shouldn't be in powerful positions in the church. Apparently powerful women are some sort of threat for men? (Original. Really.) I'm not going to deny the validity of said "crisis." I deny that your crisis is going to be solved by cutting us back down. We have some very powerful voices out there who are demonstrating for us what a woman can be. She can be an involved mom and a first-lady. She can be gay. She can be smart. She can direct men onscreen and earn respect doing it. She can dance like a pro 4 months pregnant in an (albeit plagiarized) chart-topping music video. She can run a solid presidential campaign and serve as Secretary of State even after her husband's very public infidelity. She can dance until the day she dies, whether on a small stage in Wuppertaul or at the Superbowl.

I posit that we shouldn't be afraid of these men. The fact is they are afraid of us. And that's why they're fighting so hard to hold onto this issue. They need to control something. The fact is we're not scared. We're angry. And we have a lot to offer the world. (And, just in case we need back-up, we have a lot of angry men on our side too.)

Today, I'm grateful that I've learned what it means to be a woman. Really learned that my gender has no determination on my worth in the world. And I don't just know it because someone told me, or kind of know it and then still dress specifically to find a husband. I know it because I feel it in every ounce of my body. I'm so proud of the strong women around me. And I'm proud that my daughters can grow up with such phenomenal role models.

Bring it boys. We're happy to play ball. There's still a long way for us to go but you may as well give up. Because frankly, we're going to win.

Happy Valentine's Day to All the Naked Hearts

For people like us, who wear our hearts on our sleeves, life is a little harder.

We weren't born with any emotional armor

We are exposed. 

We don't know how else to exist but like this,

With our naked hearts.

For us, we exist to love. 

We follow our hearts into battle, not because we are brave or stupid, but because we are our hearts. 

We experience life through our feelings, so when our feelings enter the war zone of love, we have no choice but to follow. 

Trying to stay behind is futile for

What are we without our big hearts but a shell, 

Hollow, 

Empty. 

And how can we protect ourselves?

We are vulnerable. 

We look at someone and we tell ourselves to keep our distance. 

But like a magnet drawing us close, we are beyond control.

We tell ourselves we'll stay strong. 

But when our muscles shake and our knees buckle, what choice do we have?

Once we've entered the field of battle every word is the stroke of a sword, and every smile is an overhead blow. 

And we were left armorless to die.

We try to slip through the crowd undetected, 

Or we lay still pretending we're dead. 

We may be hurt and bleeding, unable to lift our heads or our arms from exhaustion or pain, 

But still eventually our bruises heal and our bleeding stops. 

Sometimes we may scar, and our scarring is like an armor. 

Thick and grotesque, it protects us for a while. 

But scars fade and so too does our protection. 

Are we like a videogame character, unable to die, 

Destined to live death after death?

When at last someone takes our heart into their hands, and protects it for us, then are we safe?

Is this is the only way we are safe, when another has control of our heart?

But what then, if we are betrayed? 

If our protector is wounded?

 If our heart is taken away from us and we are left with none? 

Then at last can we live free of our love that drives us forward, exposed and naked?

Without our hearts we are nothing. 

Either we change or we seek until we at last have recovered our hearts

And are free to die again.

When you are like us, and your heart leads you, you are defenseless.

Be kind to we naked hearts, for once we are cut, we never really stop bleeding.

Bed of My Youth

Last night as I was laying in the dream-awake state, fantasizing about some mundane detail of tomorrow, I woke myself up. Not all the way up, I just startled myself back into a lazy consciousness and for the first time in years I didn't know where I was.

There was a spot of light, or was it my imagination, on the wall beside me. For a moment that spot was the window in my old bedroom on Powell Street. A pink canopy (the canopy Mom and I argued over endlessly, her saying it was too childish, me liking the cocoon it encompassed me within) rests protectively over me as I sleep. The windchime hangs in front of the air vents, jingling in the central air, and the Degas hangs menacingly at the foot of my bed, the figures of ballerinas strange in the night light. I sleep alone with Puff and two pillows in the single bed. My door is never shut because Mom is afraid of carbon monoxide poisoning, and she'll peek in on me and open the door a little wider before she goes to bed late at night. I'm still a child nestled like an egg between Mommy and Daddy, still unable to conceive of a life outside of this bedroom. There is a lifetime of firsts ahead of me, if they can sneak in beneath the lace roof over my head and penetrate my child's sleep. My heart and body are unbroken, untouched as my mother's watchful eyes rest on me, peering through the darkness until she is satisfied I am safe in my sleep.

I woke up knowing I wasn't in my parent's house. I haven't slept in that bed in 8 years- it and my canopy are long gone along with the pink innocence I slept enveloped in. But for a moment last night, in between dreaming and waking, I thought I was in the bed of my childhood in the home of my parents. When I finally broke through the confused haze I remembered the blue attic roof and the wide empty bed I share with the cat, my fears, my tears, and occasionally a man, under a sea foam green duvet. The Degas sat beside me, but its figures have lost their menacing touch in the last ten years. Then I drifted off again, a woman once more, caught up in mundane sometimes innocent fantasies about tomorrow.