Every time I visit New York City, it feels like a homecoming. I wasn’t born there, and I don’t have family there, but I grew up there. I moved to that city as soon as I was of age from the sunny shores of LA with dreams of being a Broadway dancer. You see, I grew up watching old musicals and always fantasized about being Cyd Charisse. She was the most glamorous, elegant, expressive, incredibly legged dancer I had ever seen. I think what I most loved about her, though, was that her dance had more depth and feeling than most actors. That, while she never spoke (or at least I don’t think she did), you could understand what she was truthfully emoting. Her performances always inspired me to attempt some element of what she so gracefully embodied. Was I a good dancer, you ask? Well, ahem, my parents thought so. HA!
I had rhythm, desire, and passion for it. I was in dance companies and performed on many stages. I even convinced my father to dance with him during one of his tours in the 80s. I didn’t really choreograph my moves; I preferred expressing how the music moved me in the moment. I had my outfit planned: neon tights, leg warmers, and something sequin (of course, this was the 80s!). I would fearlessly walk out on stage, completely upstaging my famous father twirling around on stage doing kickball change pas de bourrée, not at all being overwhelmed by the fact that we were, say, at the Hollywood Bowl, with thousands of people in the audience watching! I thought I had something going. I thought, heck, I could make it on Broadway.
When I moved to NYC at 19 years old, I would fill my days with acting classes and dance classes. I quickly realized, however (and thankfully came to my senses) soon after actually taking classes alongside professional dancers that I was, in fact, not going to be one myself. More to the point, I was not as trained, not as disciplined, and, my gawd, I have weak knees! Once I embraced my new reality, I realized that it was all right to take dance classes for fun (what a concept). I realized my mind frame had never been to do things because they brought me joy. There was always an end game, always striving for something at the bottom of the rainbow. I branched out into other studios in the city and fell in love with Afro-Cuban and Haitian dance and obsessively took classes at this place in Union Square called Djoniba Dance Center. And no, in case you are wondering, I wasn’t the only white girl, but I was no doubt the minority! I loved it and went all the time. There was live drumming in the class and authentic teachers who taught that hardly spoke English. There was no pretense; it was all about feeling the music and expressing yourself through these ancient, tribal, foot stomping, chest bumping, hip grooving ways. Those classes got me in touch with my body in ways I never experienced before. They were a release, a cleansing, and a damn good workout out to boot!
I look back on those young adult days fondly with wonderment at how much I actually fearlessly explored alone. I had friends, of course, but I was never the kind of person who was scared to do things alone. Heck, I moved to NYC alone (!) Now, whenever I come back to the city as a visitor, I am transported by memories of that time and realize in hindsight that I was a young girl constantly seeking fulfillment from fleeting things that filled me up as those dance classes did. The problem was I wanted that feeling of connection all the time. I would walk the streets, overwhelmed by all the choices, by all the people, by all the restaurants, shops, options, and stimulation. It was all-consuming. The noise, the grit, the sidewalks, the conversations. I would observe everything, judge everyone, and often found myself overeating and overwhelmed with emotion, desperately desiring some control over them, which expressed itself in the form of an eating disorder.
Like most young girls, I was obsessed with food from an early age. In high school, my friends and I would try the latest diet craze and follow suit. I was never a heavy kid, but I would diet all the time and abstain from this, that, and the other things. I can see clearly now that it was a form of torture. It was a way to punish myself by not allowing enjoyment. A way to try and have some control over my life (there it is again!) Like if I followed the rules, I would get rewarded or something. But, like all diets (and dance fantasies), you are bound to wake up to the harsh realities of the truth that you are setting yourself up for failure and disappointment. Cause when you break the rules, when you binge on the forbidden things, you restrict yourself from enjoying life. Instead, you go deep into the unconscious waters of no return. I mean, that is how diets work; you set yourself up for failure every time. Making the whole cycle such a terrible mind fuck that when you do cheat (and you will), you will beat yourself down more so than the reason you started the thing in the first place. And, ultimately, binge in the hopes of making the feelings of unworthiness, overwhelming numbness, and disappointment instantly go away when you do.
I would waver on the diving board, following one restrictive diet after another for years until my diet turned into “food sensitivities” that I was told I had by some new-age doctor. Which, in retrospect, made my obsession with food even worse. Look, when you are lost, when you are trying to find your way, when you are a control freak, or constantly in a loop of seeking connection, you will hold on to any little glimmer of seeming control along the way. That, if you follow these simple rules, you will be changed and, most importantly, be happier (and thinner!)
Now, I am not negating the truth of food sensitivities; some people have some serious food allergies, but I am not someone who has Crohn’s disease. I am someone who has been told they have “wheat, gluten, and dairy sensitivities” like most people I know. In other words, I will not die or be bedridden if I eat them. And this is why I think this new age way can be such a racket. Cause you will take this diagnosis to heart and restrict that shit, sign it off, never to be enjoyed again because some holistic snake oil salesperson told you so! Yes, I am generalizing here, and for the record, I have met my fair share of naturopathic practitioners (some whack jobs, some wonderful), but this is not my point. My point is this: life is about balance. Period. It is meant to be savored and enjoyed, not filled with gluttony or stanch unwavering restrictions, but with just enough to be fulfilled. It took me a while to realize this. It took getting pregnant actually to embrace the fact that my body was craving certain things that I needed to honor and consume. In fact, it inspired me to write a cookbook about it. And, when I actually listened to my body and ate the things I craved, I was amazed at how satisfied I became with only a few bites. Sure, sometimes I ate the entire plate, but sometimes, more times than not, I would savor those few bits of dark chocolate cake with freshly whipped cream more so than I ever thought possible. I realized that it was because I was consciously consuming it, not unconsciously stuffing my face to try and stuff down an overwhelming emotion. I was enjoying myself, I was present, I was satiated, and I was fulfilled. And since then, I have never gone back to my self-destructive dieting ways. I have lived by the famous Julia Child quote, “Everything in moderation, including moderation.”
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Another well written piece and so well said. I relate, sis....