Dead Man's Honda

Off the rocky dirt road stood a disheveled, broken down building in the shadow of a few sparse trees. This was the notorious orphanage I had heard so much about in the rural countryside of the country of Georgia. Crammed in the backseat of a tiny, stifling-hot vehicle I could see several children walking up the dirt road. Beyond the children donkeys dragged carts with piles of hay balanced on the top. The children were dressed well—in fairly modern clothing (see picture to the left. These are some of the youths in the new village Youth Center sponsored by World Vision). They looked clean and their hair was done, though later I would discover that they smelled like the foul orphanage from which they came.

This orphanage smelled like urine, my professor had said, and lacked the heat and amenities children need to survive in a place that freezes over in the winter. The pictures I had seen were atrocious. The outside looked no better. Children die there every winter.

I was on my way to teach the older ones who had survived.

As a policy intern I didn’t expect to teach ballet halfway across the world, but I was glad to do it. Over the years I’ve taught ballet to students of all ages and backgrounds. During college I was fortunate to be employed at the studio where I grew up and where my first ballet lessons were given: Civic Dance Center.

Though at the age of 11 I began leaving Civic for training on the east coast under full scholarship and housing, Civic was where I received my first tuition scholarship. Cindy and Kevin, the owners who have known me since I was five years old, have thrived in the small town and given back to it in a variety of ways. Many students have studied there under scholarship. They provided a place for wealthy and poor students alike to grow in the art that they love. Their staff generally consisted of dancers who had graduated from their school and remained in the area to teach. It was always a trusted circle of individuals.

Just recently that trust was broken.

I heard about the news scandal in my hometown via web news. Two of the dance teachers at the studio, (a married couple) who had not grown up there but began teaching a few years ago after moving to Bakersfield, were accused of child molestation, among other things. A month later the couple, though they pled not guilty, were declared guilty of crimes against a 14 year old girl.

Kevin made statements to the press that the teachers had been fired as soon as the girl’s mother brought the information to their attention. This occured months before the police investigation was completed.

When I saw the picture of the 34 year old male teacher, Anthony Corriea, online, I winced. I taught him and his wife--when I was still teaching occasionally at the studio. Now they were in jail.

Immediately upon hearing about the story I felt sick. Would the community perceive the studio and those who worked there differently? Who was the victim and how had it affected her and her family? What was it doing to Cindy and Kevin and the other teachers?

I do not know whether or not the accusations against the dance teachers are completely true. I do not know what the situation did to Cindy and Kevin. I don't know who the victim is and what it did to her. I do, however, know what the situation did to me.

It made me remember all the years of training and enjoyment I received at that small studio. It made me remember how much like a family it often was—complete with occasional dysfunction. It made me remember Cindy’s classes when I was very young—and how much she made me love ballet. It made me remember how fortunate I was to learn an art that I could passionately pass on to others. It made me remember how my training there opened up doors for me all over and led me to the best ballet schools and teachers the world has to offer.

I've had the fortune of dancing at School of American Ballet--the first ballet school ever opened in the United States and arguably the best. It was founded by George Balanchine who was, funny enough, from the country of Georgia where I taught the orphans.

I’ve had the fortune of training at Pennsylvania Ballet, San Francisco Ballet, Westside Academy, among others. I’ve trained under famous and inspiring ballet dancers. I’ve been given opportunities to teach in many locations for a variety of different reasons because I've had such diverse training. But every time I trained somewhere, the first question I received was: "what school are you from?" My answer, no matter where I was training, was always "Civic Dance Center." No matter how great the teacher, they were always impressed by my training at that school. And I have yet to find a teacher who inspires her students as much as Cindy always inspired us.

It made me want to inspire others to love ballet similarly. Bringing ballet to the orphans of Georgia was the greatest ballet-teaching opportunity I’ve ever had. These kids grew up against enormous odds without anyone to love them except each other.

In the newly-built World Vision Youth Center I taught them ballet and art on an unfinished wooden floor. They didn’t have dance clothes. They have nothing, really. But some of them had innate talent. Some of them loved what I taught them. Some of them danced their little hearts out that day.

My hope is that the mess Civic is going through now will not impede further generations from bringing ballet to those who otherwise would not have had the chance to experience it. I hope it does not keep students from teaching at-risk kids in urban areas like my sisters and I have done in the past. I hope it will not prevent new generations of dancers from discovering how much they love their art. I hope it will not keep Cindy and Kevin from knowing that though recent staff members of theirs have harmed one of their students, most of their staff have always done more good than harm. And they themselves have done the most good of all, for kids who otherwise would never have had a chance to dance.

I pulled my groggy, travel-worn head up off the pile of junk on which I was sleeping and focused my blurry eyes to look out the window.

Sheep.

Wait. Where was I?

After two days of traveling across the United States crammed next to the worst-smelling man I could have imagined, a delay in a Georgia airport where my guitar was nearly impounded, a night stranded in Paris’ airport, an arrival in Frankfurt’s heavily-armed terminal (two words: large guns) and a drive through the countryside of Western Germany, I was confused. And tired. And after two and half days of being alone with only foreign-tongued strangers, I felt isolated, even though now I was with my Aunt and Uncle. As soon as I arrived at my destination I discovered my feeling of isolation compounded by a desolate street, dimly-lit houses, mountain hills and……sheep. What the…? And they didn’t just stay in the pasture.

“Helga likes to have the sheep come into her house,” my aunt said as she saw my confused expression. The sheep were entering a door to the house across the street as I watched with my mouth hanging open.

My Aunt cheerfully jumped out of the car to greet the stranger in the doorway of the house opposite the pasture of sheep. Once I emerged from the car I could see his cheerful, Einstein-like face, and heard my aunt explaining to her aging distant relative that she had brought a young woman to take care of his house during his time of surgery.

“Kleine Mädchen!” he said with a bit of "oh crap, this is who is taking care of me?" in his voice. “Little girl!”

The sun was setting and a heavy cloud of Schwatzwald mist began to nestle down around the buildings and the fields nearby. It was autumn and the Black Forest hills were scarlet, gold, and smelled like heavy pine. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I might have been enchanted by the little village and my new surroundings.

One thing I should mention that is of utmost importance in this story: I was sent, by my dear Aunt, to take care of her relative and his home in Germany. I did not know this relative, nor did I, by any means, understand a word of German. And the elderly relative, unfortunately, did not understand a word of English. It was quite the bind.

Uncle Fritz, as my aunt called him (and I followed suit) lives in a large, old house, that he put back together after it was bombed to pieces during WWII. A genius engineer and inventor of sorts, his patents span all of Germany and are quite diverse in their subject matter. So, too, is his taste in architecture. Somehow he brought all of those different tastes together into the creation of one eclectic house.

The first entry-way to his home, as I discovered that first night, is a small room at the top of shallow stairs. To the right are protruding, pastel-painted ceramic monkeys pasted onto the wall. They are the "hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil, see-no-evil" monkeys. A glass door and wall to the left reveal the car port, which used to be the yard behind the garden gate. Up a few small Spanish-styled steps is a large, heavily-wooded, wrought-iron-decorated door that opens up into the second entry-way of the original house.

Italian mosaics decorate the first part of the dim little square room, but to the right, toward the staircase, the room becomes decorated in an African theme. The only part of the house that feels quintessentially “German” is the breakfast nook with its heavy wooden table and carved-wood decorations and the unique windows of the house.

While sitting around dinner that first night, Uncle Fritz, with his comically large hands, feet and ears, expressive face and loud voice, spoke frantically in German though neither my aunt, uncle and certainly not me, could really understand him.

The dishwasher in the kitchen was open and as we sat there. My Aunt screeched at a mouse that ran across the floor and into the dishwasher. Uncle Fritz laughed and stood his six-foot-four frame up and hobbled over to the dishwasher. He swiped the door shut and turned on the machine with a laugh. Clapping his hands together he returned to the table and our mortified faces.

He is indeed, a beloved character. My life has been shaped significantly by my experiences with him in that village so far away. Reflecting back on that period in my life, I can honestly say that some of the best things in life make absolutely no rational sense.

Today I discovered that a few days ago this blog was featured on the blog of the keeper of Photo Dave's Yellow Chalk. For any of you who spent time at Calvin Crest, Photo Dave would be the guy who snapped camp photos while frantically chasing his always-running-off-on-something-rolling child, marking up the basketball court with chalk, herding stray campers and screaming (at the top of his lungs) "What do you get when you cross a....??!!!" jokes to make people laugh through half-terrified smiles. That would also be the individual who married a beautiful friend and also former team-mate, Lyndsay who inspires me even from a distance. He was, for a time, my red-headed counter-part on a summer team with Cleave. And for those of you who are thoroughly lost, his name is Cory.

But his little blurb about my blog made me realize I need to explain Uncle Fritz. I will have to comment on my felon former-students later.

So tomorrow (I am unable to explain the beauty of Uncle Fritz at this time) I will explain Uncle Fritz who lives in a small village in the foothills of the Black Forest.

And the "something" I do in Hollywood? It just really can't be explained so "something" works quite nicely, actually.....until tomorrow....or my computer gets fixed...whichever comes first.

Its head popped out with the squeeze of her hand.

“See? It really relieves stress,” she said as I squinted at the small rubber chicken with the distended eyeballs in her hand.

A delightfully unique woman in my office showed me her interesting little collection of office mates. A stuffed frog hangs on the wall with a zipper implanted in his back. A real frog….that was at one time alive…. Now it’s stuffed. And made into a purse. I was so surprised by it I barely noticed the other little animal figurines she began showing me at the same time.

“And this is from the same girl who gave me the frog….” she said with a disturbing amount of pride for a panda figurine.

“Who gave you the rubber chickens?” I asked, noting the two, small, deadish-looking plastic birds on her shelf next to the frog.

“Savemart,” she said seriously “When it used to get really stressful here, I would come in here and sit down and squeeze those. You should try it. They really work.” I smiled wondering for a moment how many little rubber chickens have been sacrificed in the quest for stress-relief. Perhaps more than the frogs that have been recycled into handy coin purses?

I suppose I should no longer be amused by such little things in a place that has winter streets in the dead of summer, George Clooney playing basketball outside every day, a woman with blue bangs who can't seem to get over the fact I'm not actually her friend Alice from Alabama, a lawyer whose famous socialite family doesn't know that he married his boyfriend for fear of scandal, people walking around in every nature of fashion for the variety of casting calls that request the "sexy blonde in high heels and a mini skirt" the "thug in a sleeveless shirt and leather jacket" the "indiscernable but quite colorful character bound to make us laugh" etc., butI am. And I'm grateful to be amused on days when I learn that a man I once taught ballet to has just recently been convicted of sexual abuse/molestation of a child under the age of 14. She was, in fact, actually 14, (not under that age) but that's beside the point.

More on that later.........