I want to vomit whenever I imagine running into a teacher from high school, an odd thing I do now as a form of self-flagellation. Quakes of shame toss my stomach until I feel sick. I imagine saying, hey, thanks for those letters of recommendation – I’m a receptionist now and my boss calls me cutie. Not that there is anything wrong with being a receptionist, except for its being boring as fuck.
When they knew me I wanted to work as a chemist. Dual-degree. A dancing chemist? they would laugh as they asked. I would smile and say, that’s the idea. Now I smile and say, do you take cream or sugar with that? Now I try to work the fact that I’m a dancer into every conversation, ignoring the fact that I’m a dancer is far from fact. I haven’t performed since graduating college and moving to New York – calling myself a dancer is like the non-baptized calling himself Catholic.
Yet I continue to genuflect my life to art, and I will continue to identify as a dancer. I will give myself this month, this year, these years, as a grace period, the time when I cut the ego and its bullshit. I will remind myself that those high school teachers have likely forgotten about me, which is just fine. Everything is fine.
*Katy is our newest collaborator and she will be performing with us @ The SM Cabaret: Slaves of Sallie Mae.