haswtch
11-26-2004, 05:46 PM
I posted this last year and I hope nobody minds the repost. You see, I wrote the article, and I spelled this wonderful teacher's name wrong, and she would like people to be able to find it if they Google her. Anyway, it's kinda a cool holiday-season story IMHO:)
Dancing for freedom
Razor wire glinting in the rainy night atop a thirty-foot fence may not be the most welcoming sight, but the gate is tended by a motherly soul, quick to smile and call you Hon. Inside the double doors, equally friendly folk take my car keys and assign me a guide through the maze of corridors and stairwells to the auditorium.
Inside these fences live, study and play a hundred and eighty two teenagers who’ve been unable to avoid, for one reason or another, repeated encounters with the law. Some have committed felonies, others misdemeanors; all are repeat offenders.
Inside these fences, acclaimed dance teacher Susan Slotnick has been working for eight short weeks with a group of sixteen and seventeen year olds. Recreation director Dan O’Byrne- to the kids, he’s Dan the Rec Man- tells me they have been selected for athletic ability, focus, and willingness to accept direction and make a commitment.
Still, this very day, two of the boys- facing the actual prospect of a recital- have tried to bow out. “I told them if they did, I’d never speak to them again,” says O’Byrne. Not, perhaps, the kind of penalty one would expect to be effective within the walls of a correctional facility- but here at the Highland Division for Youth (DFY), it apparently works.
Now ten barefoot young men clad in white stand behind the curtain, a little edgy, as their peers- dressed in red shirts and khakis- are shepherded in by counselors, to sit carefully spaced with an empty seat between each boy. Slotnick has whispered to me that on that stage are a Crip leader and a Blood leader, who’ve- just incidentally- overcome their artificial enmity through dance.
“I was very skeptical at first, about whether this program would be popular,” says O’Byrne. “But now? Kids come up to me and beg me to be in that class. ‘I’ll clean the gym, I’ll do anything.’”
What we are about to see has never been tried. In years past, troubled boys have been schooled in many a competitive sport and trade- but in the entire history of the New York State Office of Children and Family Services, no-one ever thought of teaching them to dance. Until Slotnick. Now, with her own mentor- famed tap dancer Brenda Buffalino- in the audience, she shows us how it’s done, taking the boys through a scaled-down sample class of plies, flatbacks and other exercises. “When they jump,” she tells us, “I ask them to tell themselves to fly.”
In the poetry and prose written by the students and read by Slotnick’s daughter Rebekah, in the remarks of the boys, it’s easy to see that Slotnick’s deeper message has gotten through. They speak of peace. Of freedom. Of mind, body and soul united; of “the harm done to us- and the harm we’ve done. We’ve been scorned, we’ve been hurt too, know what I’m saying?”
At last it is time for the actual dance. The boys perform two sections of Alvin Ailey’s Revelations, I’ve Been ‘Buked and Sinner Man, two sides of the coin of human misery, the currency of too many transactions in these young lives. The slight self consciousness some seemed to struggle with during the more prosaic exercises vanishes as they whirl and leap, reach to the heavens in unison. The crowd sighs and gasps and yells, like folks watching spectacular fireworks; sneaking a glance at the rear seats full of their peers, I see that faces which had been wary and closed are transformed, rapt, elated.
As the performance ends- a little too soon- we civilian visitors leap to our feet as one. The boys in the back rows remain seated, in accordance, one supposes, with one of a hundred rules they know by heart- but the cheers and thunderous applause say it all; so, too, do the many hands that go up when they’re asked who’d be interested in taking this class in the future. Questions from that section of the audience are taken first; one boy wants to know how one qualifies. “I’ll be back in April,” Slotnick responds, “and from what I understand of the culture of this place, that would probably depend on you- on the choices you make about your own behavior.” I see Dan the Rec Man nodding to himself in approval. “How did that make you feel about yourself?” comes another question. “Powerful and happy,” a dancer responds.
“Every time I went back to my unit after dance class,” reflects one boy, “I had a new poem to write.”
“This particular move, for me,” says one of the troupe of an exercise, “is about picking up the little boy within me and setting him free.”
“None of us in this room,” remarks another, gesturing to include delinquents and dignitaries alike, “is perfect, and that’s the beauty of human existence.”
Assistant director Beverly Burns tells the audience that the DFY’s Highland facility has long been unique. Four hundred volunteers outnumber the staff and the inmates, conspiring to create “a place of healing. Of love. We’ve always been lucky to have good leadership and good direction. But I didn’t realize at first how much we had ‘stepped in it’ when Susan showed up. I had chills tonight watching these guys. So much pride, strength, motivation, discipline- all of it coming from inside.”
“I’ve been dancing sixty years,” reflects the globally acclaimed Buffalino, “and what I saw tonight was fresh, inspiring energy. You know, dance used to be a man’s game.”
Paradoxically, this new freedom the boys have discovered behind the razor wire may not be as easy to find in the outside world. Should they get through the next four months without fights or other disciplinary incidents, most of this group are scheduled for release in April. In the outer world, dance training isn’t easy to find outside ballet school- a costly alternative when one takes into account tuition, not to mention reputation, although one boy mentions that he no longer worries about the homophobia of others. “Nothing you do is ‘gay’ unless you’re actually gay,” he points out reasonably.
Backstage, post-performance, the boys have plenty to say. Miss Susan has taught them to focus. The two who wanted to quit are flushed with pride like the rest. “I think it’s the first time I ever actually finished anything in my life,” says one. This training, they tell me, should make it easier to avoid the kind of trouble that could extend their time behind the walls- and then, says one, “This has definitely got me thinking about a different direction for myself once I get home.” Sitting in a circle on the floor, they radiate a politeness and friendly interest to equal any group of teenagers in the world and surpass many. The troubles that have brought them to this place, written down somewhere in an office on thousands of official sheets of paper, do not define them at this moment. In this moment, they are dancers.
Tonight is goodbye, and Slotnick is observably a little choked up. Wishing them well means wishing them to be gone by the time she returns. “Don’t forget me, guys?” she asks. Will they? “NO!” comes thunderous and instant from every one.
“She brings together the physical, emotional, and spiritual…she teaches us to focus our attention. Nobody ever taught me that…The way she talks to us. It’s like she sees the part of us that’s perfect. I don’t think we are, but I know she’s shown me there are options. I don’t have to stay on the path that brought me here.”
Unusual for this reporter, a sense of awe makes it a little hard to organize questions. I sense that they wouldn’t hesitate to tell me what brought them here and more. One has given me permission to use his full name, and probably the rest would be equally forthcoming. But I hesitate- he is, after all, a juvenile, and the labeling process in the outside world can be vicious.
Back outside the razor wire, stopping at Cumberland Farms for milk on the way home, I listen to two boys- perhaps two years older than the ones I’ve just met- gossiping about a coworker their own age with classic adolescent unkindness. I smile at them and hope that somewhere in their future lies something spiritually akin to the Susan Slotnick experience- but in this war-ridden world of ours, the odds are long.
During the discussion after the performance, one question was directed to everyone in the room. “Who here has ever been made fun of?” A majority of hands went up. Among the civilians in the first three rows, the admission was nearly universal. Most of the residents, too, raised their hands- and if “making fun of” is taken to include all the varieties of scorn in this world, it becomes hard to believe the rest were being completely honest. Perhaps the pain is still too fresh and nearby.
“Did it take a lot of discipline to learn to do that?” one young client asked of the ones on stage.
“At first, yes- but the more I was going through it, it became relaxing. Calming. I felt free- and what a wonderful feeling that is.”
-Anne Pyburn
_____________
Dancing for freedom
Razor wire glinting in the rainy night atop a thirty-foot fence may not be the most welcoming sight, but the gate is tended by a motherly soul, quick to smile and call you Hon. Inside the double doors, equally friendly folk take my car keys and assign me a guide through the maze of corridors and stairwells to the auditorium.
Inside these fences live, study and play a hundred and eighty two teenagers who’ve been unable to avoid, for one reason or another, repeated encounters with the law. Some have committed felonies, others misdemeanors; all are repeat offenders.
Inside these fences, acclaimed dance teacher Susan Slotnick has been working for eight short weeks with a group of sixteen and seventeen year olds. Recreation director Dan O’Byrne- to the kids, he’s Dan the Rec Man- tells me they have been selected for athletic ability, focus, and willingness to accept direction and make a commitment.
Still, this very day, two of the boys- facing the actual prospect of a recital- have tried to bow out. “I told them if they did, I’d never speak to them again,” says O’Byrne. Not, perhaps, the kind of penalty one would expect to be effective within the walls of a correctional facility- but here at the Highland Division for Youth (DFY), it apparently works.
Now ten barefoot young men clad in white stand behind the curtain, a little edgy, as their peers- dressed in red shirts and khakis- are shepherded in by counselors, to sit carefully spaced with an empty seat between each boy. Slotnick has whispered to me that on that stage are a Crip leader and a Blood leader, who’ve- just incidentally- overcome their artificial enmity through dance.
“I was very skeptical at first, about whether this program would be popular,” says O’Byrne. “But now? Kids come up to me and beg me to be in that class. ‘I’ll clean the gym, I’ll do anything.’”
What we are about to see has never been tried. In years past, troubled boys have been schooled in many a competitive sport and trade- but in the entire history of the New York State Office of Children and Family Services, no-one ever thought of teaching them to dance. Until Slotnick. Now, with her own mentor- famed tap dancer Brenda Buffalino- in the audience, she shows us how it’s done, taking the boys through a scaled-down sample class of plies, flatbacks and other exercises. “When they jump,” she tells us, “I ask them to tell themselves to fly.”
In the poetry and prose written by the students and read by Slotnick’s daughter Rebekah, in the remarks of the boys, it’s easy to see that Slotnick’s deeper message has gotten through. They speak of peace. Of freedom. Of mind, body and soul united; of “the harm done to us- and the harm we’ve done. We’ve been scorned, we’ve been hurt too, know what I’m saying?”
At last it is time for the actual dance. The boys perform two sections of Alvin Ailey’s Revelations, I’ve Been ‘Buked and Sinner Man, two sides of the coin of human misery, the currency of too many transactions in these young lives. The slight self consciousness some seemed to struggle with during the more prosaic exercises vanishes as they whirl and leap, reach to the heavens in unison. The crowd sighs and gasps and yells, like folks watching spectacular fireworks; sneaking a glance at the rear seats full of their peers, I see that faces which had been wary and closed are transformed, rapt, elated.
As the performance ends- a little too soon- we civilian visitors leap to our feet as one. The boys in the back rows remain seated, in accordance, one supposes, with one of a hundred rules they know by heart- but the cheers and thunderous applause say it all; so, too, do the many hands that go up when they’re asked who’d be interested in taking this class in the future. Questions from that section of the audience are taken first; one boy wants to know how one qualifies. “I’ll be back in April,” Slotnick responds, “and from what I understand of the culture of this place, that would probably depend on you- on the choices you make about your own behavior.” I see Dan the Rec Man nodding to himself in approval. “How did that make you feel about yourself?” comes another question. “Powerful and happy,” a dancer responds.
“Every time I went back to my unit after dance class,” reflects one boy, “I had a new poem to write.”
“This particular move, for me,” says one of the troupe of an exercise, “is about picking up the little boy within me and setting him free.”
“None of us in this room,” remarks another, gesturing to include delinquents and dignitaries alike, “is perfect, and that’s the beauty of human existence.”
Assistant director Beverly Burns tells the audience that the DFY’s Highland facility has long been unique. Four hundred volunteers outnumber the staff and the inmates, conspiring to create “a place of healing. Of love. We’ve always been lucky to have good leadership and good direction. But I didn’t realize at first how much we had ‘stepped in it’ when Susan showed up. I had chills tonight watching these guys. So much pride, strength, motivation, discipline- all of it coming from inside.”
“I’ve been dancing sixty years,” reflects the globally acclaimed Buffalino, “and what I saw tonight was fresh, inspiring energy. You know, dance used to be a man’s game.”
Paradoxically, this new freedom the boys have discovered behind the razor wire may not be as easy to find in the outside world. Should they get through the next four months without fights or other disciplinary incidents, most of this group are scheduled for release in April. In the outer world, dance training isn’t easy to find outside ballet school- a costly alternative when one takes into account tuition, not to mention reputation, although one boy mentions that he no longer worries about the homophobia of others. “Nothing you do is ‘gay’ unless you’re actually gay,” he points out reasonably.
Backstage, post-performance, the boys have plenty to say. Miss Susan has taught them to focus. The two who wanted to quit are flushed with pride like the rest. “I think it’s the first time I ever actually finished anything in my life,” says one. This training, they tell me, should make it easier to avoid the kind of trouble that could extend their time behind the walls- and then, says one, “This has definitely got me thinking about a different direction for myself once I get home.” Sitting in a circle on the floor, they radiate a politeness and friendly interest to equal any group of teenagers in the world and surpass many. The troubles that have brought them to this place, written down somewhere in an office on thousands of official sheets of paper, do not define them at this moment. In this moment, they are dancers.
Tonight is goodbye, and Slotnick is observably a little choked up. Wishing them well means wishing them to be gone by the time she returns. “Don’t forget me, guys?” she asks. Will they? “NO!” comes thunderous and instant from every one.
“She brings together the physical, emotional, and spiritual…she teaches us to focus our attention. Nobody ever taught me that…The way she talks to us. It’s like she sees the part of us that’s perfect. I don’t think we are, but I know she’s shown me there are options. I don’t have to stay on the path that brought me here.”
Unusual for this reporter, a sense of awe makes it a little hard to organize questions. I sense that they wouldn’t hesitate to tell me what brought them here and more. One has given me permission to use his full name, and probably the rest would be equally forthcoming. But I hesitate- he is, after all, a juvenile, and the labeling process in the outside world can be vicious.
Back outside the razor wire, stopping at Cumberland Farms for milk on the way home, I listen to two boys- perhaps two years older than the ones I’ve just met- gossiping about a coworker their own age with classic adolescent unkindness. I smile at them and hope that somewhere in their future lies something spiritually akin to the Susan Slotnick experience- but in this war-ridden world of ours, the odds are long.
During the discussion after the performance, one question was directed to everyone in the room. “Who here has ever been made fun of?” A majority of hands went up. Among the civilians in the first three rows, the admission was nearly universal. Most of the residents, too, raised their hands- and if “making fun of” is taken to include all the varieties of scorn in this world, it becomes hard to believe the rest were being completely honest. Perhaps the pain is still too fresh and nearby.
“Did it take a lot of discipline to learn to do that?” one young client asked of the ones on stage.
“At first, yes- but the more I was going through it, it became relaxing. Calming. I felt free- and what a wonderful feeling that is.”
-Anne Pyburn
_____________