If I Were an Otter

If I Were an Otter

If I were an otter, I would know just what to do. ‘Cause otters know how to eat those little sea creatures that are all hard on the outside and soft and chewy on the inside. Oysters… they know all about flipping onto their backs with a rock on their bellies, and smacking the oysters (or is that clams?) against them until they open. Same with spiny creatures from the deep. Some animals know how to get past that spiny exterior to the yumminess inside.

Kind of like dancers. I have met some truly horrid people since I have been dancing. I have also met some people that seemed nice from the get-go. This applies to both customers and dancers. And with both, I have met some that I just was not sure about, but grew to know and love over time. The customers are harder; they are guys, after all, and guy are just… well… guys. They don’t call you when they say they will, and they leave without saying goodbye sometimes. And they swear how much they love you but then the next new dancer that sashays past them gets all their attention. I won’t make any cliché jokes here; enough has been said on that subject already and I have heard most of the dumb jokes at least a couple of dozen times each.

But it is the dancers I am really talking about. I have known dancers that lived in evil situations, and were evil to the rest of the world around them. Just really sick and distorted people. I think every one of those individuals was also a drug addict, as nearly as I could discern. It is truly sad what happens to people as they descend into the hell of drug addiction. Perhaps the worst part of it is that they don’t even know what they are turning into as people. They just see the rest of the world becoming a more hostile place, with more people out to screw them over. Sadly, it is just the paranoia induced by the drugs and, until the drugs are out of their system, they won’t have a yummy inside.

Then I have met dancers that I liked right away. They were open and up-front, and seemed right enough. Some of them turned a little squirrelly as they let abusive boyfriends run their lives, or got into drugs. But a few of them were past the hard drugs—Greens, they call themselves, only smoking pot and drinking—and stayed consistently themselves. They have families with kids in school, husbands who work 40 or 50 hours a week and have insurance, and they dance regular shifts and go home when they are done. No otter needed, thank you. Just meet them half-way, and they will treat you well.

And lastly, I have met dancers who I just wasn’t sure of. And of those, I have met dancers who I just did not like. They were just too hard, too high all the time, loud, shrill, ornery, or whatever. If you piss them off, they become like Great Whites and you are a little sea otter with a bleeding leg. They go on the attack, and you can’t get far enough away. How do you piss them off? Dissing them always works. It doesn’t usually take much; the drugs ensure that. Or even worse, you might diss one of their friends. That will get you more open aggression than you ever want to have. And that can be sort of a slippery slope on the banks of a lake of thin ice. Because you might both be friends with the same person, and think you have a “right” to talk trash about a mutual friend. If you guess wrong, though, and they have more allegiance to that friend, or have known them longer than they have known you, you are in for a world of hurt.

And those sometimes are my biggest surprises. I have seen them turn out to be really sweet inside: loyal, giving, generous. I have witnessed where one is crazy-drunk and screaming expletives to the other and shrieking at her to get out of her life. And she just says, “OK. I’ll see you tomorrow!” And indeed she does. She comes back, and they laugh about how crazy-drunk the one was, and all is well again.

I have seen those types. I have pissed them off and had to apologize profusely to bring peace back to the house. And then had them protect me and nurture me through my pains and heartaches, and defend me against idiot customers. And cheer me on when I wanted to quit and go home early. And remind me that another hour will bring new customers, new money, good cheer. Bring on an otter please, ‘cause I would like to by-pass that hard first stage.

And lastly I have met dancers who, once I got to know them a little, I realized were just hard working women who have made some really bad choices in their lives. They married abusive men, had children, left school with too little education, did lots of drugs, and turned to dancing because they were pretty and it was something they could do without a lot of education. They talk about mothers that didn’t love them and fathers and brothers and uncles and cousins that fucked them or beat them—or both—from the time they were 3 or 4 years old. They lose their kids and win them back from the state, only to lose them again. They drive rattle-trap cars if they drive at all. Many spend all their money on rent—$3,500 in 6 weeks on a motel—and taxis getting to and from the club.

And its these women my heart really goes out to. As they hit that magic number (40) they start to realize their options are running out. They partner with some guy and pray like hell that he will treat them right and not leave them. They try to eat better, drink less, leave the drugs alone. They want a better life. They just don’t know how to get it. They are in a never-ending cycle of ups and downs that would try the soul of Job. And through it all, they remain good at heart. They don’t turn mean and heartless, ready to rob your clothes from your bag while you are on stage, or tips from your purse if you leave it lay for a moment. They treat other dancers right, and don’t hustle the customers. They dance, and they laugh, and they cry, and they support each other, but they never win for long. Because the same decision-making skills that gave them a 20-year career in dancing keeps them in dancing, and keeps them in flux. They lose their teeth. They lose their looks. They wind up with yet another abusive prick for their “man.” They lose the jobs because absolutely nobody will hire them anymore. And then they become even more vulnerable and they lose their identity, subsumed to the will of the only man who will put up with their (by now) ugly, worn-out asses and put a roof over their head.

And I thank God I have options. I thank God I got banged around so hard when I was young that I wanted to die—that I tried to die—and so was induced to take some long, hard looks at myself and what I was doing. I got educated. I went to school; it took 15 ½ years to win my bachelors degree. I went to therapy for almost as long as I was in school; I learned about how I got into the horrible situations I found myself in so often. And I started to make better decisions. Now I have options that these women don’t have. I can sense their fear and their insecurity. I know what drives it. I see it from my conversations with them, from overhearing their conversations with other dancers. I feel it from my own experience as a single woman growing older in a youth-obsessed, youth-rewarded culture.

I thank God I have options. I know I throw it back in His face when I hate myself so much that I obsess on suicide. I know I am being ungrateful when I cut myself in self-loathing and frustration as a less permanent alternative to suicide. I know my life is a million times more secure and less troubled than some of these really strong, beautiful, courageous women I work with. I don’t have children to think about and fend for. They do, and they do it every day without complaining. That alone puts me in awe of them. Because I don’t have the courage and the strength to do even a fraction of what these women do every single day, day in and day out. And they continue to love, and nurture, and share, and encourage, and be beautiful, wonderful women without resentments and regrets.

I wish I had that kind of strength.

August 17, 2008