Everyone has that friend - or those friends - who are always trying to get you to go see their performance. Whether it’s a band or a comedy show, a poetry reading, interpretive dance - they’re doing it and they want you to watch.  Usually they also want you to pay.  

“Come on, man, it’s only $10.”  

So, reluctantly you go.  You’re reluctant, not because you don’t want to support them and not because you don’t want to pay ten bucks, but because they might suck.  You go because you’re a good friend and you take your seat.  The show begins and after a while you realize  that no, this isn’t some warm-up buffoonery. This is actually the act. You zone out and spend the rest of the evening dreading The Wait. 

The Wait happens after the lights go down and you make your way out of the theater/bar/restaurant.  You and the other friends of performers gather in the lobby waiting for the act to emerge from backstage.  You see your thoughts portrayed on their faces … “What am I going to say and how am I going to keep my face from betraying me?”  You could run away, but you don’t.  Mainly because you want to prove that you were there and thereby get a free pass for following shows. “Yeah, sorry. I can’t make it this time, but hey, Linda, you haven’t seen Shane perform yet, have you?  You should totally go!”   Sure, Linda will hate you for this, but what are you going to do?

When your friend the performer finally comes out, you struggle for conversation.  You don’t want to lie outright, so you try to make do with vague, noncommittal comments.  ”Wow, Shane.  You guys have been working really hard.  How did you learn to play electric violin with those chicken outfits on?”  But Shane’s not having it.

“So you liked it?”  (The worse the performance, the greater the performer’s need to hear, “what you really thought.”)  So you lie.   You raise your eyebrows and in the most convincing voice you can muster you tell Shane, “Shane, You were AWESOME!”

“Thanks man!  What are you doing tomorrow?  We’re on at 8.”

“That’s SO cool.  You know who would love to come?  Linda.  You should call her.”

This past weekend I was invited to a dance showcase that my friend, M, was performing in.  She’s a modern dancer and she is truly talented.  I danced for several years when I was younger and from time to time I miss it.  Watching M dance takes me back.  The first time I saw her perform, I actually looked forward to The Wait.  I was excited to see her and tell her how amazing she was.  So when I got invited to watch her again, I jumped at the chance to attend.  

It was a matinee performance in the DUMBO neighborhood of Brooklyn.  Erica was busy so I went by myself. I got there moments before the show began, so I was seated in a window seat.  Literally there was a window with a curtain to block out the sun and a pad on the 8″ deep sill.  (Most chairs are at least 15″ deep.)  I didn’t care though.  I love watching M dance, so I was excited. Right after I’ve gotten settled, the lights go down, dancers take their places and the show begins.  Turns out, M was on first.  As per usual, she was phenomenal. Despite the numerous camera flashes, she did not fall out of her pirouettes and although she complained that she lost focus and her solo was sub-par, I thought she was beautiful.  

There were a couple more performances … one a duet and then a teenaged troupe of modern dancers doing what seemed to be a political commentary on burkas.  Fantastic.  And then, it was time for the kids.

I had wondered why there was a row in the front filled with toddlers in tutus.  I assumed that they were students who had been invited to see the big kids dance.  I assumed wrong.  Act after act after act consisted of one teacher and five to seven children in adorable outfits who scurried around the stage pretending to be butterflies or ballerinas or tree huggers to songs mass-produced by Disney.  The instructor performed the choreography and attempted to get the children to dance with her.  ”Step together, step together, jump jump jump!  Emily! Come over here.  Don’t you want to dance?”  And Emily did want to dance, but she wanted to do it her way. In a brilliant move, the choreographer/babysitter, had included plenty of time for improv.  The group would sit cross-legged on the floor while one tiny dancer got her improv time.  

“Ok Jessica!  It’s your turn!”  Jessica would hop up and begin to skip around the stage, occasionally spinning around, but mostly just pulling at the elastic on her tutu and making faces at her parents in the audience. One kid, the only boy in the children’s production, was incredible.  He seemed to have taken notes from the older dancers and began his improv with emotion and passion.  The audience watched the tiny virtuoso drag himself around the floor, in awe at the feeling this child was portraying until we all realized he wasn’t dancing. He was crying because his shirt was sweaty and he wanted it off.

Around this time I got a text from M.  ”U aren’t in hell w me r u?”  I had to wipe away tears to read it.  I was so mesmerized by the kids … even sweaty t-shirt boy … they were all so excited and proud.  When I was a 16 year old member of Clatina’s dance troupe, I taught children’s classes.  Watching the recital that day reminded me of being that teacher on stage, begging the toddlers to stand in a line.  ”Come on, remember how we did it in class?”  Inevitably, someone would start crying for their mother and I’d end up with a blubbering mess of 3-5 year olds snotting all over their leotards (and mine) while pleading for their parents.  

But there was always The One.  The one girl who had watched Swan Lake and The Nutcracker on PBS.  The One who dreamt of being a ballerina and was not going to pass up her chance.  She stood by me, ushering the crybabies off the stage, and immediately returning to her big moment in the spotlight.  The One would take her spot, point her toe, position her arms perfectly and telepathically let me know, “Hey.  Susan, I’ve got this.  Just move out of the way and let me go.”  

And there was The One, that day in DUMBO, who had waited her entire five years on this planet for this moment.  And she was fantastic. She danced beautifully and beamed at her parents.  ”See me?  I am GOOD!” I longed to be her instructor, tell her how incredible she was and congratulate her parents on having such a brilliant daughter.  

After I met M outside, she apologized profusely.  ”I had NO idea that this was a recital.  They invited us for a showcase.”  She was furious with the management, embarrassed that she had invited me and another friend to see her, thereby subjecting us to over an hour of toddler improv.  She was inconsolable, although I am sure everyone else could see my thoughts on my face, ”That was the greatest show ever!”