Normally, being a male suppressor, or, as we used to call ourselves, “a guy,” I would not discuss belly dancing in public, certainly not with a woman, certainly not with a woman I didn’t know and especially not with a woman with a ring in her nose and wearing a Burn Elon Musk Alive pink baseball cap stained in human blood.
Still burning fresh in my memory was an incident from 30 years ago where my best pal Phil and I were discussing ballet. Phil? He’s a guy, too. I had been fortunate to see both Rudolf Khametovich Nureyev and Mikhail Nikolayevich Baryshnikov perform live. Rudy’s a Russky. Mike’s from Latvia. To see them live is like having courtside seats while watching Larry Bird and Michael Jordan go at it on the hardcourt. Nureyev or Baryshnikov, either danseur can jump in the air and not come down.
So Philly and I are in his living room, talking ballet. In walks his wife, this fetching and energetic Texas debutante equipped with opinions. Ms. Katie waltzes into the room to tell Phil something, throws her hands up in the air like she’s starring in a Lubbock community theater offering of “Carmen,” offers a few obligatory “Lordy Lordys” and “I declares,” then, exasperated for no reason, accuses, “Oh, you two MEN!”
Like we’re second-class plantation help with no feelings.
“You two are just probably going on about hockey fights or dislodged retina wrestling matches,” Mrs. Lanier chimed in an octave I’ll never reach. “I’ll be of no part of it.”
Phil and I looked at one another, weighing that we should confess we were just talking about mincing in tights, wagged our heads “no” in unison and said, “Nahhhhhhhhh …”
Disgusted with the two of us just for existing, Phil’s wife rocketed out of the room and we continued our chat about how a human guy could bounce into the air and do 27 pirouettes without getting dizzy or, cartoon style, corkscrew themselves into the floor upon landing.
Nureyev and Baryshnikov had that rare quality that I like to call, “Suchness.” In each artform or sport, there are many talented to great individuals. But, in their field of talent, everybody was dancing. These two? They had transcended the art and were doing something entirely different. A while back, I found another dancer who was in their league, not at all with raw power and gravity-defying athleticism, but in grace.
I couldn’t really share this with anyone, not even Phil, because he’d snicker, blow a snot bubble and call me — well, I’ve got 416 street-proven synonyms which this family newspaper not only frowns upon me using but denies their existence — effeminate. But I discovered a master of Tribal Fusion Dancing whose performances are beyond profound. Kira Lebeveda goes by her stage name of Habibi Lal. Tribal Fusion? It’s a mixture of ancient belly and modern/contemporary dance. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Habibi’s as cute as a bug’s ear.
I can’t even blame people’s reaction to a guy enjoying Tribal Fusion Dancing — the identical twin cousin to belly dancing — on our current and ongoing nasty social media wars. If you’re a grown-up male who confesses to appreciating a scantily clad woman gyrating her tummy, then you’re subject to, at the very least, eye-rolling and the self-righteous, high-pitched wail of, “… the Ladies’ Auxiliary will CERTAINLY hear about THIS!!!!” And this is true whether it’s uttered today or a century ago.
Ms. Lal transcends dance to the point of why we’ve been dancing for millennia. There is, of course, the pure, physical joy, emotional release and self-expression. Most of us do it poorly, if not laughably. But, really, at an essential level, we’re not dancing to be graded. We’re dancing to release and express. One of my first thoughts when I discovered Habibi’s art was to wonder how the heck her boyfriend (unless he was a dancer, too) felt about going out for a night on the town with the international dance star. Poor guy is on the dance floor, doing the Republican Woman’s Overbite Dance, which is about as close to wheelchair dancing as you can get. Habibi is effortlessly gliding with moves no human can make as every eye in the ballroom is upon her, and, she sports this smile as she dances that you can have me if you can catch me but you can never, ever catch me.
Having said that, there’s nothing lurid at all in Habibi’s performance. One music critic dubbed her, “The Petite Queen of Belly Dancing.” She is more. She is a goddess, performing on Earth, effortless, fluid as water falling over stone. She flows with every note, each movement is smoke, a classic painting and, of all strange things, she teaches dance in the midst of war at her studio in Lviv, in Ukraine. How something so beautiful can blossom in a war-torn hell is beyond mystical.
Someone noted, years ago, that dance is a marriage of art and athleticism. There are those few dancers who have been born with natural talent but who, again, transcend their art. It could be a Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, Russia’s prima ballerina Anna Pavlova or, eee-heee, Michael Jackson that have that elusive “It” factor. It could be THE Lord of the Dance, Irishman Michael Flatley or the flaming gypsy legend, Carmen Amaya Amaya, perhaps the greatest flamenco dancer in history. This tiny dancer Habibi Lal is the other, opposite bookend to a Nureyev or Baryshnikov. She is the divine mystery of eternal femininity.
I do know one thing.
I shall never, ever, tell Phil’s wife that I watch Tribal Fusion dancing videos on YouTube just for the beauty, amazement and art of it. For my trouble, I would just get an eye roll, a labored sigh and a holier-than-thou exclamation with a Texas drawl from Mrs. Lanier and a billion other women of — “Men …”
With more than 11,000 columns and 100-plus awards, Santa Clarita’s John Boston is the most prolific humorist/satirist in world history. Visit his bookstore online at johnlovesamerica.com/bookstore.
