The tapdancer

All you have to do is hum a little “doo do do do, do do do do do” and everyone smiles, recognizing a familiar intro refrain.

Dignity, always dignity. Don tells the gathered crowd at the premiere of the Royal Rascals in Singin' in the rain…

Love it or hate it (I haven’t met too many people who do – hate it.)

A story about a popular silent film star, with humble roots.

 A funny comedy for those who like musicals, and for those who don´t there´s a charming romance.

For me: it´s the perfect musical, bringing back memories of long-lost Christmases to the sands of time yet do pop up every December, bringing back to my memory the greatest man who ever lived as far as I go: my grandfather.

 We would watch the movie together: it was tradition. And I would see his eyes light up and take him back to the days when he made audiences move with him, around him, and make them share in his exhilaration: soaring through the air, lifting hearts….

The story Don reveals to his adoring fans is not the story the viewers are seeing on screen or what can be inferred as the truth. In the first sequence, a truth-revealing flashback includes a musical number that shows a fabulous tap routine by Gene Kelly; presenting two levels: an outer truth, that is revealed to be the false inner one. And it gives something back: musical performance. When Gene Kelly (and O´Connor) do the fast-paced “Fit as a Fiddle”, they own the screen, and the story, and the music. As a viewer you can´t but forgive Kelly for his hypocrisy – and: it´s the dance that makes you do it!

How can I portray the man whose memory is always evoked by what might seem silly to many: a man in love, dancing the stars from heaven because he´s happy; playing in puddles like a kid, rushing out into the street at night in a chilly rain. Displaying the warmth and happiness of his inner state…

 And to come back to my question; how do I do that: write a portrait of a man who cannot be portrayed?

 The seeker would be too late! The man himself is long gone.

He was a contradiction; made of incoherence and loss. The sort of subject that many people would find no subject at all. His irreducible self can only be sensed through his residue, for indeed there are those who claim they can still hear the taps of his shoes clicking the floor. Sometimes subtle and slicing, other times heavy and clear, like a wave crashing the floor. Or a line through the silence carrying children´s laughter in the wind.

He was a dancer and a musician. That was who he really was. His crystalline tone often compared to jazz. Plie or hoofer in an upright stance, the world around him would absorb his resonance. He would make them move with him and share in his exhilaration: soaring through the air, lifting hearts…

He was both movement and music. He performed nuptials of music to a narrative art, telling inescapable stories with different layers of emotion through his movements, rhythm, and dynamics.

The stars shined brighter on the nights he danced. The moon would cover herself in strawberry pink.

That was before it got dark in the world, and he was converted into saleable property, and he was starving. Before he longed to welcome death under a moon dressed in blue.

What was left of him after that? After the inedible fairy-tale of white supremacy had resulted in a defeated German nation and an equally inedible and discredited gospel of European cultural superiority took over… what was left of him?

And what lay for him ahead? A conundrum of racial identity he didn´t care for! He became a blithe trespass on hyphenated ground. Bodying forth the contending forces that made him broken henceforth. His displacement had resulted in an erasure of an unrequited search for the characteristics of the human spirit.

He was no longer able to dance when he came back from “abroad”. He played the harmonica now. Sad and flattened melodies. 

He engulfed himself in solitariness.

He loved Augusts. The earth too dry, laying sizzling under a delayed slow rhythm, like dark molasses. A sense of anticipation in the air and a longing for rain and for things forgotten.

He was barely visible as he walked through the sunflower fields in the morning, cap on his head, eternal cigarette bud in his mouth, tanned by the sun. He went fishing in the afternoons, basking in the happiness of a former place in a distant time. Recollecting odors of damp soil in a lush forest and a most remarkable girl in a pretty dress, who knew all the things he dreamed of and sat with him amongst wildflowers and dazzle audiences at night with their flair on the dance floor, expressing many of love´s moods, courtship, and seduction. The giddy exhilaration of high spirits and intense mutual accord… the tragedy of parting. He would linger in the sweetness of a repertoire of a far connection.

At sunset he would take his harmonica out of his pocket and passionately tried not to heed the demons in his head that originated in an abusive culture, shattering his soul a little more every day. His music wasn´t sweet: it moaned bitterly at first, then build into a crescendo of heart-wrenching screams.

Eventually, December would come, and I would see his eyes light up and take him back to the days when he made audiences move with him, around him and make them share in his exhilaration: soaring through the air, lifting hearts…. pressing me close to him as we watched the capture of a magical ideal pulsing with life. Humming “doo do do do, do do do do do” long after the final credits of the movie had rolled. And smiling!

As darkness set in, one cold January day, he gave up resisting the urge to drown the afreet in his head, tearing at his soul every day a little more. A merciful friend appeared and helped him exit this earthly sphere.

There are those who claim they can still hear the taps of his shoes clicking the floor. Sometimes subtle and slicing, other times heavy and clear, like a wave crashing on the floor, or a line through the silence carrying children´s laughter in the wind. 

-     Dignity, always dignity, Don tells the gathered crowd at the premiere of the Royal Rascals in Singin' in the rain….

I never saw him dance. But I remember “doo do do do, do do do do do” every December, and I can imagine him make audiences move with him, around him and make them share in his exhilaration: soaring through the air, lifting hearts…. pressing me close to him as we watched the capture of a magical ideal pulsing with life.

 Humming “doo do do do, do do do do do” long after the final credits of the movie had rolled. And smiling!

Rest in Peace grandpa!