A Lotus Grows in the Mud

by Goldie Hawn

  Somewhere out there is David Fisher and his brother, Jimmy. “Don’t worry, Goldie, we’ll clap extra hard,” they assured me before I went on.

  A few feet away from me, the stage manager places the needle onto the new copy of “Sleigh Ride,” and the opening bars crackle through the loudspeakers. Closing my eyes, I allow the sound of my favorite song in the whole world to flood my head and my heart.

  “Just hear those sleigh bells jingle-ing, ring-ting-tingle-ing too / Come on, it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you…”

  Before I know it, I am bouncing gently in time to the music, shifting my body this way and that, repeating the moves I know so well and have practiced so hard to get right. Improvising their sequence, I suddenly find my feet lifting me up and taking me flying across the stage, my arms and legs working in tandem, a big grin on my face and my head held high, completely forgetting about being perfect.

  I catch a glimpse of my mom, her hands clasped together, nodding gently and moving her lips to the words of the song. Her big-eyed enthusiasm spurs me on.

  As the music reaches its chorus, I am now completely lost, not knowing which move to make next and yet letting the music take me to uncharted territory. Whirling and twirling, I realize that we are now almost at the end of the piece. The music fades all too soon, and I find a way to end the dance in a curtsy on the final line: “These wonderful things are the things we remember all through our lives…”

  Everyone jumps to their feet to clap enthusiastically, and I step timorously to the front of the stage to take a deep bow.

  Looking down at the audience, I see my true friends on their feet, my only friends—Jean Lynn, David and Jimmy Fisher—smiling up at me with relief and happiness. My mother grins broadly from the front row and nods her head. My eyes scan the room for Mrs. Toomey and find her standing over to one side. To my surprise, she is sobbing openly, beaming up at me through her tears.

  Gee, maybe not being perfect is what perfect really means.

  postcard

  “You ready, Go?” my dad yells from the driveway of our house, lifting a bucket of live bait and some fishing tackle into the trunk of his dark blue ’49 Lincoln.

  “Next stop, Chesapeake Bay!”

  “Coming, Daddy,” I cry, rushing excitedly across the front porch holding whatever he has rustled up for our lunch. I am eleven years old.

  Settling into the front seat, I watch my father adoringly as he walks with his swaggering gait around to the driver’s side. Slipping in next to me, his hair slicked back like Fred Astaire’s, he glances over at me with those piercing sky blue eyes and smiles. “Ready to catch some fish, Go?” he asks.

  “Yes.” I nod, sliding across to cozy up to the first great love of my life.

  I love sitting right alongside Daddy in the front seat. There is nothing better than to feel the warmth of his body against mine, and to inhale the unique scent of his skin. Watching his long, lean musician’s fingers draped over the three-spoke banjo steering wheel, I sit very still and don’t fidget, hoping that he won’t shuffle those few inches away.

  In less than an hour, we are sitting out in a little rental boat in that muddy old bay at the mouth of the Severn River, our fishing rods dangling in the water. He teaches me to hook the worms and net our catch. There aren’t too many flounder, and sometimes we snag only a few small trout.

  Whenever I catch one, he smiles at me proudly and says, “My daughter, the fisherman!” Mostly, we just sit there laughing and talking and eating our sandwiches and waiting for a bite. Neither of us is really there for the fishing.

  Me, I am just so happy to steal some time with my father by myself. Because he works every day, mending watches, and is out playing his music in Washington, D.C., almost every night, these fishing trips are my most precious moments. He is always different when he is alone with me, more childlike and free.

  Out in the boat, facing each other on separate wooden seats, I sit quietly and listen to Daddy’s soft, melodic voice. He’s a dreamer with his own unique take on life, and I love to hear him talk.

  “You know, Kink,” he says, using the nickname only he uses, the one he calls me when he’s really happy, “if you ever feel like you’re getting too big for your britches, then come out here, or go to the ocean and stand on the shore and see how small you are.”

  Staring into the middle distance, he adds, “It’s important never to lose sight of that.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I reply, nodding gravely. Little do I know that those are some of the most important words I will ever hear in my life.

  Driving home from our fishing trip through the green rolling hills of Maryland, we make up nonsensical songs together—odd combinations of words and popular tunes. I sing, “The moon is bright…,” and Daddy adds, “…and the sun is yellow.” We laugh and laugh as the sentences become more and more ridiculous.

  The sun setting behind us, I announce, “I will always listen to the classics like you, Daddy, especially Bach.” Gee, he loves his Bach.

  “That’s my girl.”

  “And I’ll never, ever like rock and roll.”

  Giving me a sideways glance and a crooked smile, my father says, “We’ll see about that.”

  Our journey home is never the same. Snuggled to his side on that long front seat of our ’49 Lincoln, I see roads that look as if they lead nowhere.

  I cry out, “Look, Daddy! Look at that neat road! It’s like a roller-coaster ride. Let’s go down it! Can we? Can we?”

  “Okay, Kink, whatever you say!” Accustomed to our little game, and laughing his hee-haw laugh, he makes a sharp left-hand turn and steers the car down a bumpy track that throws up great billowing clouds of dust behind us.

  Bumping and grinding down the dirt road with no destination in mind, the two of us become the wandering gypsies we’ve always secretly been at heart. I love him for his spontaneity, for his eagerness to take an unusual turn in life, regardless of the outcome. I guess it has always been his way.

  Daddy’s philosophy is, “Take a left-hand turn, Kink. See where it leads you.” For him, the journey is always more exciting than the destination.

  Hitting a rock on our ride home from the Bay, his old Lincoln’s long-suffering suspension lifts me clear off the seat and brings me crashing back down to earth with a jolt.

  My hand on my head, rubbing where it hit the roof, I look across at my grinning, free spirit of a father, and we both roll with laughter as our car follows the yellow brick road.

  Toes pointed, chins up, all ready to enter the third-grade talent show, dancing to “Sleigh Ride.” (Author’s Collection)

  first steps

  Life is a dance with the cosmos.

  The bright lights of Washington, D.C., are reflected on my face as I press my cheek against the glass of the cab window. Butterflies dance in my stomach, and my skin feels clammy with fear.

  “Don’t be nervous, honey,” is all my mother says as the yellow taxi drives us toward the Carter Barron Amphitheatre. It is a balmy June evening in 1956, and I am a last-minute understudy for the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo.

  “You’ll be just fine,” Mom adds with a confidence I don’t altogether share. “The other girl will probably turn up and you won’t even have to dance.”

  The Ballet Russe is performing Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite. The star is the legendary Cuban ballerina Alicia Alonso. I am understudying the role of Clara, the little girl who receives the nutcracker as a Christmas gift. I am scared to death that I might actually have to go on.

  “Here we are, now. Come along, Goldie, hurry up,” my mother says, pressing a wad of dollar bills into the hand of the driver. “Quick, quick, out of the car, and grab your dance bag.”

  Where’s the girl? Where’s the other girl? is all I can think as we rush the stage door. Gripping my mother’s hand so tight that my knuckles show white through the skin, we race inside.

  The backstage area is all abustle with dancers and choreographers, costumers
and makeup artists, running this way and that, speaking a language I don’t understand. Everyone seems so strange to me, so exotic and extreme. I feel as if I have just walked into a play.

  “Out of the way! Coming through!” someone yells as we are flattened against a wall by someone carrying a great gown of crushed red silk that rustles and whispers as he hurries past. A group of dancers, who look to me like exquisite swans with their long necks and white tutus, are stretching their limbs in the most amazing extensions I have ever seen. I gasp. As I do so, one girl draws deeply on a cigarette and stares at me fiercely, her huge eyes framed by stage makeup.

  My mother pushes me forward and leads me down a winding staircase. “But where’s the other girl, Mommy?” I ask, looking around wildly.

  “I don’t know,” she snaps, and I stare up at her in open terror.

  Led on in a trance, I am introduced by her to the director, who is excitable and flamboyant. This is not a world I know at all. I am definitely out of my element.

  “It is a great pleasure to meet you,” he says, bowing deeply and kissing my hand. I feel my face redden and my throat close. “We haven’t much time.”

  “B-but where’s the other girl?” I ask querulously.

  “She is sick.” He smiles. “You will be our Clara tonight.”

  I freeze and stare at my mother.

  “You’ll be fine,” she tells me. Then, with more emphasis, “You’ll be fine.”

  “Eh bien,” the director says, clapping his hands together quickly. “Let’s get you into your costume and show you what to do.”

  The next thing I know, I am whisked off to the side of the stage and squeezed into a starched Victorian outfit, a white silk dress with buttons all the way down the back and a big bow. Someone pulls some white tights onto my legs and puts a pair of white satin ballet shoes in front of me to slip my feet into. My mother brushes out my long blond hair.

  “Do I have to, Mom?” I cry, finding my voice at last.

  “What, now you want me to take you home? Dressed like this?” she says. “Keep still.”

  When she is done, and I am—to my mind—looking my ugliest with my ears sticking out, she places a large turquoise bow on top of my head, scraping my scalp with the comb.

  Beyond the thick drapes, I can hear the orchestra tuning up. People are moving around, finding their seats and looking forward to the evening’s performance. How many people are out there? I wonder, wringing my hands. Oh my God, I’ve got to go out onto that stage and face them!

  The dancers I saw stretching earlier rush past me in a flurry of gauze and satin. The music strikes up and they are on, performing a short opening ballet by Prokofiev.

  Now that they have all gone, my mother and I are left standing alone.

  “Okay now, honey, just as soon as they are finished it is your turn,” she whispers in my ear.

  “B-but I don’t know what to do!” I say, still looking around hopefully for the girl who does.

  “It’s okay, the choreographer is going to show you during the intermission.”

  He is called “Monsieur,” and when the opening ballet has ended and the dancers have filed off he takes my hand and leads me quietly onto the dark and heavily curtained stage. Monsieur is a fabulous creature, like a bronze statue of a ballet dancer, muscular and demonstrative, his Frenchness oozing out of him. I feel like I’m on the caboose of a train that is moving so fast I can’t get off.

  Beyond the drapes, I can still hear the audience coughing and talking, moving about, stretching their legs and buying refreshments. Within a matter of minutes, there will no longer be the comfort of a red velvet barrier between them and me. With the pull of a rope, I shall be fully exposed.

  “Et voilà, ma chérie, you come on here and you walk over there and then you bow deeply to the audience comme ça,” the choreographer tells me hastily, as I watch his steps and listen to his timed claps, desperately trying to take it all in.

  “Eh bien, then you curtsy like this, and then make a turn and walk over to this side. You take Alicia Alonso’s hand and you lead her onto the stage. I want you to walk with her like this, toes pointed, prancing almost, but not too fast. When you have brought her to her mark—see ici, the red dot on the stage floor—I want you to take a long walk around her and bow again deeply, before moving to one side and sitting here, voilà, to watch the rest of the ballet. Comprends? Do you understand?”

  He might as well have asked me to recite the Gettysburg Address. My brain is aching with all I have to remember. I stand dumbstruck in the middle of the wooden floor, my entire body vibrating with fear. Just when I think my head will explode with the steps and the music and the bow and the perfectly timed moves—I suddenly realize what he just said.

  Grabbing his arm, I ask, “I have to lead Miss Alonso out?”

  “Yes, chérie,” he whispers. “Of course, my darling. Elle est aveugle. She is, how you say? ‘Blind.’”

  He rushes off the stage in a flourish as the overture strikes up beyond the drapes. I stand there, staring after him, my mouth open. “Blind? Miss Alonso? She can’t be! Holy banana cake!”

  My knees are barely able to support my weight. Steadying myself in the darkness in the center of the stage, I wait for my signal. After what seems like an eternity, Monsieur waves a hand and the curtains fly open.

  Alone in the spotlight, I swallow but find no saliva in my mouth. I blink into the glare of the lights but can make out only the first two rows of the audience; the area beyond is shrouded in blackness.

  I can feel the expectation rolling in waves from the crowd. I can hear each chord being played by the musicians in the orchestra pit a few feet beneath me. There is so much energy in the air that I feel infused with its power, suddenly able to do everything I have been sent out to do. Every fiber of my being surges with the electricity of the moment.

  Staring down at my white satin feet, I force myself to remember the steps Monsieur taught me. As I do so, Alicia Alonso, the goddess of my childhood adoration, appears silently at the back of the stage. She stands like a tree in the half-light, head bowed, hands clasped tightly together, listening to every note and to the sound of the music. Her legs and arms are willowy, and she exudes a heady mix of perfume and makeup. Her black hair is scraped back so tight on the top of her head that it pulls on her eyes. She looks like the most exquisite bird I have ever seen.

  Somehow I find myself moving toward her as I was told, toes pointed, moving round in an arc to the back of the stage. As I reach her, she unfurls her impossibly long neck and her face comes alive with beauty and light.

  I place my small hand in hers as the music rises from the orchestra like a harmonious flock of birds. The energy coming off her skin feels like a live electric wire and makes me jump physically. As the music rises, I feel her entire body lift up, as if she is weightless. My hand grips hers, for I fear that if I move it, she might float away.

  Squeezing my hand back, Miss Alonso whispers, “It’s all right, daahling, don’t be afraid. You’ll be magnificent.”

  As a burst of music wakes me from my reverie, she snaps an instruction at me. “Now!” she says, and tugs at my hand to lead her onto the stage. Even though I am supposed to be leading her, it is she who is leading me. Somehow her presence at my side infuses me with confidence. I am suddenly the most graceful ballet dancer in the world, just by being at her side.

  Right foot, no, left foot first. Toes pointed, almost prancing, I remind myself, left arm out, fingers relaxed. And smile. I am pointing my toes that much better, and holding myself with more poise. For a moment, I become her, about to perform the dance of my life.

  As if by magic, we float to our designated place, a spotlight following us wherever we go. She bows her head and adopts the stance she needs to prepare herself for her next move. I do exactly as I have been told and curtsy deeply to her. It is all I can do to stop myself from kissing her beautiful feet. Instead, I sweep round the stage to take my seat on a small stump to watch the �
�Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” toes pointed, posture perfect.

  No sooner do I reach the stump than my legs start to shake. I can’t imagine how they held me up for so long. The adrenaline rush over, I am only just able to sit without collapsing into a crumpled heap of white satin. My knees are knocking so violently that I feel sure people will see them. Placing a hand on each kneecap to settle them only makes my arms vibrate too. Watching the beautiful ballet unfold before me, I can’t help but wonder what I am supposed to do next.

  Trying to stay calm, my hands still firmly on my kneecaps, I look around for my mother. Nobody told me what I do now, I cry inwardly. When do I stand up? Do I just sit here? Or do I have to lead Miss Alonso back?

  Despite my concerns, I am enraptured by the magical ballerina moving so fearlessly back and forth across the stage in front of me. I can hardly believe I am there, breathing the same air. I could sit motionless on that stage for the rest of my life, watching Alicia Alonso dance. She is dancing for me. For Clara.

  Catching a glimpse of my mother in the wings, I am relieved to see she is smiling too. Mommy, my lips silently mouth. What do I do next? But she doesn’t read my pleading eyes.

  My gaze is dragged back to Alicia Alonso. She is dancing without fear, with complete trust that those around her will not let her down. How can she do it? How can she throw herself so forcefully into the arms of her leading man and be twirled high above his head, or pirouette so perilously close to the edge of the stage, when she is able to see little more than shadows?

  The music seems to lift her, physically and emotionally, beyond her blindness. She is outside of herself somehow, lost to the sensation of dance. Her eyes may be ineffective for sight, but they radiate pure joy. Watching her, I think to myself: I know that feeling. I feel the same way.