by Mayte Garcia
She peered at me over her reading glasses. “Is this real?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “It’s my check.”
“Really.”
“Yes!”
She looked over my head at Daddy, who had gotten in line behind me, anticipating that he might have to vouch for me. Her reaction was understandable, because walking down the street, I looked like any other twelve-year-old kid. In my costume and makeup, I looked older, and I was coming in as a professional, dancing at restaurants and events until ten or eleven at night, so the people hiring me readily believed Mama when she told them I was sixteen. Like my first ballet teacher, they either believed it or believed I could make it work. It raised only a few eyebrows each time I celebrated another sixteenth birthday.
“Wait…” the bookers sometimes said. “Weren’t you sixteen last year?”
“No, no. Fifteen. Fifteen last year.”
Dad was always with me, nodding and smiling, backing me up. Mr. Rockefeller. He was my wingman in all things, with me at every gig. We were a little team, he and I. While I prepared, he’d get the sound and video equipment set up and assess the audience, and we’d formulate a strategy, crackling back and forth on walkie-talkies.
“You’ve got a square dance floor. Wood. The good party table is on the left.”
“Okay, cool.”
“Birthday girl is twenty-one. Table five. Seated with parents. Grandparents. Looks like a boyfriend, a couple siblings. They’ve definitely had a few, but it’s a family thing. They seem okay.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
I stayed out of sight until I heard my music. Mama was adamant about that as a rule—and Prince always was, too. It made Mama crazy when costumed dancers strolled around and mingled with people before a performance.
“Where’s the mystery then?” she’d ask in a huff. “Where’s the illusion? Shattered, that’s where. Destroyed! Why even bother making a dramatic entrance if you’ve already been seen at the bar giggling with the waiters?”
By the time I finally got to take my rightful place at General H. H. Arnold High School, the sizable chunk of money with which I’d started my checking account had swelled to more than $100,000, because I didn’t spend much. I never did much other than go to school and dance. I did pay for my own business expenses, costumes, and dance classes. When I turned fifteen, I got my learner’s permit and bought my first car. I could have bought myself a house if I’d wanted to. (Sometimes I wish I had.) After Jan started college, I shifted some cash her way whenever she needed it, and Daddy told me, “She gets an allowance, you know.”
I was genuinely confused. “Allowance? What’s that?”
It hadn’t really occurred to me that most kids my age looked to their parents to pay for things like clothes and a car. I liked funding my own life, but the money wasn’t what made me love dancing. First and foremost for me at that age was that it was fun. My good friends Stephanie and Allison loved to go with me. Free food, dancing, parties—come on! What teenage girl is going to complain about that as a lifestyle?
Mama, on the other hand, was getting tired of it. I don’t know if she got a little bit depressed or went through menopause or just wasn’t as addicted to it as I was, but she retired, and I took over her regular gigs in addition to my own.
One of my monthly favorites was Frauentag—“Ladies’ Day”—when the Muslim men would rent out the entire restaurant for the afternoon. Cars would roll up to the front door one after another, and wives and their children, shrouded in burkas, would come inside. No men were allowed. Only the restaurant owner was on the premises, and he remained out of the main area. When all the ladies were there, the doors were locked and curtains drawn. Then they’d shed their burkas, revealing designer dresses and shoes and fabulous jewelry. They were dressed to the nines and ready to dance, drink, and party their behinds off.
These ladies were polite but skeptical the first time they saw me. How could this skinny little curly-haired girl know anything about an ancient Middle Eastern dance form? That’s a question I never could answer. Even when I tried to explain it to Prince, who had no problem with the idea of a thousand lifetimes abiding in a modern body, the best I could come up with was, “I don’t know. It’s just… in my blood. In my soul.” And then I told him about my little leg bones when I was born—how they were confused at first and didn’t know where they belonged.
Of course, Daddy couldn’t go with me to Frauentag, but the venue always had a great sound system for my mixtapes. As per Mama’s rule, I never allowed myself to be seen before the performance. These women understood the power of invisibility. I always started with my Wonder Woman turns, and then that fierce dancer in me would take over. During the first song, I’d play the zills as I scoped out the crowd, making a mental note of anyone who seemed particularly reserved, anyone with a frown on her face. At first, a lot of ladies would be out on the floor, but as they realized that I was a real dancer, they’d sit down and watch.
The second song was a ballad—veil work, sword, backbends, something pretty and a little bit shocking, something with a lot of performance value—and then we’d pick up the tempo, get them clapping, get the drums going. By then I knew who was into it and who was going to be shy. I’d go to the wallflowers and draw them out to dance with me, showing them that, yes, they could do it. By the end of my final number, I’d won them over, and they knew how to show their appreciation, if you get my drift.
Usually, I hated getting tips. On the upside: tips. On the downside: When I was little, it was always made clear up front that I was a minor, not to be touched in any way, so people threw the money on the floor, and I had to push it out of the way with my foot. After we moved to Germany, and I was suddenly sixteen, people started tucking bills into my costume. I hated it when a guy would approach, looking all sweet and kind, and then take his time tucking that bill in there, making me dodge and weave to avoid being touched. I was particularly grateful that the Frauentag ladies kept it classy, discreetly tipping me after the performance, respectfully tucking bills into my straps and hips.
As I became more recognized in Germany, a variety of interesting offers started coming my way, including an invitation to come in and cut a demo at a small record company based in Frankfurt. A producer saw me dancing somewhere and was certain he could make me a star. I was definitely interested in singing and acting in addition to dancing, because to be Rita Moreno—the greatest triple threat in Broadway history—is the fantasy of every Puerto Rican girl. So in I went to record my demo. Side A was a cover of Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings.” The B-side was “Too Dramatic,” a song I’d written myself. The words were something like, “Too dramatic, I don’t know why, it’s just the way that I ammmm.” I have purposely blocked out the rest. Just keep that much in your hip pocket, because it comes up again later.
I was proud of my song and excited about the opportunity, but when they decided not to sign me, I wasn’t terribly upset. That wasn’t the path I saw myself on at that moment. My dream was to dance in Cairo, where the top performers danced in grand hotels with fifty-piece orchestras. I knew that if I worked hard enough, I could be as good as those legendary dancers. Mama agreed, but added, “You’ll need the best costumes. And those can only come from Madame Abla.”
Madame Abla was a legend, the Coco Chanel of the belly dancing world. Dancers would make the pilgrimage to her shop in Cairo and leave with costumes that were meticulously made especially for them. Each one was unique in design and immaculate in fit. Starting when I was fourteen, Mama and I traveled to Egypt for ten days every nine months or so. The first day, we’d go to Madame Abla’s shop on Mohammed Ali Street not far from Bab Zuweila, an ancient gate that seemed to separate modern downtown Cairo from a mystic ancient world. The narrow side streets were crowded with small shops where craftspeople made and sold musical instruments. The air was filled with laughter and music.
Madame Abla’s shop was on the second floor of a shabby old apartment building near the M
useum of Islamic Art. At the top of the stairs, we’d knock on the door, and an older lady in traditional Egyptian clothing would let us in. Like stepping through the looking glass, we left the dim hallway and stepped into what might have been a Parisian salon, lavishly furnished with silk brocade sofas and embroidered ottomans. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings. Ornately carved bookcases held bolts of fabric and glass jars filled with every imaginable shape and size of beads and sequins. While we waited for Madame Abla, we were served ghorayebah—little Egyptian butter cookies that melt in your mouth—and mint tea in fancy cups from a brass cart.
Eventually, Madame Abla would sweep into the room and greet us, gracefully extending her arms. She wore a gracefully muted galabiyya, a traditional garment for both men and women in the Nile Valley, with her hair pulled back in a perfect bun. I wanted to contribute to the design of my costumes, so I always had a folder of sketches worked up, and Madame Abla always pored over them with great interest, gracious and encouraging. Meanwhile, I’d look through pictures of her latest designs, which were displayed in large photo albums. We’d come up with a few concepts that combined my ideas with hers, select fabric swatches and beads and thread, and then she’d stand me up and look me over, complimenting me on how nicely I’d filled out since our previous visit.
Once, I asked her, “Why don’t you ever take measurements?”
“I take measurements,” she said, tapping her temple next to her eagle eyes.
When we returned for fittings, we always found that this method was pretty accurate. It was a thrill to step out of the dressing room in one of Madame Abla’s creations. We’d never had anything tailor-made. I’d never even seen my dad get fitted for a suit. Mama and Grandma Nelly had made costumes for me, and they were good at it, but I’d never had anything on this level. Madame Abla had thoughtfully placed every detail, including an ornate appliqué on the left hip—not the right hip, as any store-bought or hand-me-down costume would have had—because I’m a lefty, and she took the time to notice that. She fine-tuned the details that made me feel polished and complete. To see myself in the mirror—a walking work of art—gave me a sense of pride and mystique that changed the way I inhabited my body and raised my dancing to a higher plane. After the fitting, she’d tell us to come back for the finished costume in a few days, “God willing.” Everything was “God willing.”
While we waited for Madame Abla to finish my costumes, Mama and I made an adventure of it. We stayed in a five-star hotel and ate exotic food from big high-end restaurants and tiny old cubbyhole places. We made a circle of Egyptian friends—dancers, musicians, and other folk artists—and I picked up quite a lot of Arabic hanging out with them. We spent our days visiting the pyramids and markets, wandering the Grand Bazaar, drinking mint tea and more mint tea, taking in the colorful sights and exotic aromas, replenishing our supplies of essential oils and the black kohl eyeliner that is better than anything else out there. Every night, we went to the hotel nightclubs to see the greatest belly dancers of the day along with the up-and-coming dancers and musicians.
In November 1989, on my third annual sixteenth birthday, I actually turned sixteen, so Daddy went to Egypt with us to celebrate. That night was a special occasion at the Sheraton El Gezirah. Lucy, one of my favorite dancers, was performing, followed by Egyptian heartthrob Amr Diab—who was starting to seriously blow up then and would go on to become the bestselling Middle Eastern recording artist of all time—so this was essentially like an evening with Paula Abdul opening for a pre–Purple Rain Prince.
In a club like this, the dancer comes on at ten or eleven and the singer performs at one in the morning. I’d been up exploring all day, but I was wide awake, dressed to the nines in a gorgeous black sequined dress, down front and center when Amr Diab made his entrance. He took a look at me, brought me up onstage, and asked me to dance. I hesitated because I felt a little overdressed, but the happy crowd cheered me on. My mother always wore a beaded scarf to add a little bling to her outfit. Or so I thought back then. To this day, she actually wears it in hopes that I’ll get up and dance. When I do, she quickly grabs the scarf and places it on my hips. She always has my back, my mama. She could give stage mother lessons to the best of them.
I went up, wearing Mama’s scarf over my sequined birthday dress. Just dancing for myself. Because it was my birthday. I was so happy and grateful to be celebrating in this amazing place. I started dancing at the side of the stage, small at first, but then I did my Wonder Woman turn and gave myself to the music and the moment and the wild response from the audience. I felt myself light up and realized, Okay, it’s on. I’m performing. I didn’t know or care who was watching.
Afterward, I was sitting with my parents, already overdosing on dream-come-true, when the maître d’ approached us and said the general manager of the Heliopolis Sheraton would like me to come in and audition to dance in their spectacular Nubian Tent restaurant.
“Oh. I’m—I’m just here for costumes,” I said. “I wasn’t—”
“What time would you like her to be there?” Mama asked.
The next day was a mad scramble for an Egyptian agent and a borrowed costume. Madame Abla provided the latter, one with fishnet that covered my midsection, which is required by law in Egypt. (I know, right? Crazy.) We arrived just in time at the spectacular hotel northeast of Cairo. The lobby was a towering hall where bright-colored birds screeched from live palm trees and flew freely overhead. The audition went well, and it was agreed that I should come back in June. We picked up my costumes, said good-bye to Madame Abla, and flew home to Germany.
My heart was pounding with the possibilities.
If the hotel offered me a contract, within eighteen months, I could graduate high school, get the necessary work visa, and be back in Cairo to dance alongside some of the most honored artists in the business. For the rest of my career, I’d be able to name my price anywhere in the world. For the rest of my life, I’d be able to teach as a master belly dancer, because working in Cairo at this level—that’s it. You’ve reached the top.
Back home, on a roll, I celebrated by triumphantly scoring my driver’s license. I don’t remember doing a traditional sort of driver’s ed at all. I just got the license. My dad was head of transportation back then. I didn’t ask questions. For the rest of my junior year, by night I danced, and by day I hurried to class, passing a large portrait of Priscilla Presley in the school’s hallway. I remember thinking how cool it was that she had been going to this very same high school when she met Elvis, not even suspecting that my life was about to change in much the same way hers had.
People have tried to tell me, “You lost your childhood to dancing,” but I don’t see it that way at all. If anything, belly dancing allowed me to hang on to my innocence a little longer than most of the girls I knew. When I was sixteen, I was a virgin who’d never tasted alcohol—that’s about as common as a unicorn among present-day sixteen-year-olds. If I can give my daughter one thing, I want to give her what I got from belly dancing: a sense of myself as precious. I respected and reserved myself—for myself, not for a man—and the side effect of that was a beautiful romance with a husband who was my first, and in that moment, my everything.
When I belly danced, I never saw it as a dance of seduction; I saw it as a dance of empowerment. That’s what I try to give women now when I teach them to belly dance: that sense of self-confidence that can only come from within. No compliment can give it to you. No number on the scale. No label in your clothes. It radiates from a woman’s core, and it’s absolutely her own. I think that’s what made Prince notice me. I wasn’t onstage to turn anyone on; I was there to practice this ancient art form and make it my own. That’s exactly what he wanted for every artist he worked with. Prince was a master at bringing out the best in people, and I soaked that up during the eleven years we were together. I try to bring that to every class I teach, and I see it happening: A successful businesswoman becomes more successful as she becomes CEO of herself
. A teenage girl in the media blizzard of our “you can never be too skinny or too rich” culture comes away with the idea that what she is right now is magical.
Prince, from an early age, was a savant musician. He knew he was one of the greatest entertainers in the history of rock music—or the history of history—but he never felt the need to say it. It was just there and could not be denied. We shared a common belief that whatever you’re passionate about, you should learn about it, work on it, do it—just let it go and let it be. And that’s what I do about belly dancing. The joy I felt dancing for George Michael or for Madonna and her dancers or for any other audience is the same joy I felt dancing on the tile floor at my grandma Mercedes’s home when I was a little girl. That feeling came from within, so no one could take it away from me. I knew I was good, and I celebrated that in a way that wasn’t conceited or cocky. I was grateful for this body God had given me, grateful for the formal education Mama had fought to provide me, and grateful for every hour Daddy spent carting my gigantic boom box and speakers up the stairs to another gig.
Daddy did get frustrated with me every once in a while when my grades suffered, but I remember only one occasion when he tried to get tough about it.
“That’s it,” he declared. “You’re grounded.”
I shrugged and told him what he already knew. “You can’t ground me. I’m booked.”
As Mama and I made plans for our summer trip to Egypt, we received two pieces of terrible news: First, George Abdo called to tell Mama that Amir had died of AIDS. We were stunned by the loss of our dear, flamboyant friend. I was only beginning to understand what “AIDS” meant or what “homosexual” meant—or what “sexual” meant, for that matter. When I think of Amir, I think of talent and kindness and laughter. I remember him sitting on the floor teaching Mama how to sew a particularly lovely pattern of beading on my sleeve. To me, he was Amir, the artist, one of the most beautiful dancers I’d ever seen. That was all. And that was more than enough. I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to know and work with him.