| I Remember: Part 3
Dance of the Hips I remember learning the dance of the hips. It was the move. Shake. Break of the hips. We'd begin at the wrists Turn, then twist the soul into the shapes of our hands. Bodies exposed. And this was the only time our bodies were seen. And even then, it was done behind closed doors. I remember hands on my waste to release the tension. To loosen the movement. Feet and hands must be as one. They would say, "Like this..." and they would bring their arms above their heads. Move their feet as their wrists would bend. The music was no longer there. They were the music. I remember red lips under covers of silks, beads and jewels. And bells and shiny things that meant something to us. Belly toys and blackened eyes. We were born with the hips. Dancer's hips. Wide, accompanied by slender bodies and little bellies. I remember our ankles jingling, as the bells shook our hearts and souls. Unleashed beauties, like our ancestors. This dance, like blood, was passed down. From woman to woman. Child to child, to learn. Beat into our bodies, like the hearts in our chests. Like the stomp of our feet. We were taught to teach our little girls about their hips. Before their roles as wives. Their roles as mothers. Before the burden of child birth. I remember the dance of the hips. It was the move. Shake. Break of the hips. We'd begin at the wrists. And it all began with this bond. The only thing that made our blood worth continuing. |