The Tomato Field Dance

"Show me slowly what I only know the limits of/ and dance me to the end of love" -L. Cohen

The Tomato Field Dance
for Kevin, wherever you are now

Imagine. A little girl, full of life, love. She’s about six years old, and just wants to be herself. liked, loved, normal. She loves her family, the outdoors, music, drawing, animals, trees, people- pretty much everything. She is sensitive, because she is different. She gets told every day at school she is ugly and unwanted. Her teachers call her a social misfit. There have been conferences about her social retardation. She desperately seeks approval. She has no brothers or sisters, and no friends. She wants what all other little girls want- to be a princess. To dance with a prince.

Her parents are having a dinner party. They are listening to music, loud. She loves this song, Blondie, “The Tide is High” She smiles, for she is an imaginative child, always playing make-believe. She sits with her Lego blocks and makes characters and writes stories about them, and the stories last for days. Sometimes, she starts over, making sure she gets it right. She writes them down… she will be a writer one day. She understands even at six that you can transform yourself. If you don’t want to be ugly, you can be beautiful.

She takes a pillow-case, and wraps it around her hips. She pretends the plain brown fabric is a swishing grass skirt, and puts a flower in her hair, like she saw some ladies doing on TV. She wraps another pillow case around her like a shawl. She comes out, preparing to dazzle her parents and friends with how beautiful she is. “Look at me!” she wants to sing. Other girls dance… and now so can she! She sways to the music, letting it fill her, overflow her with the wildness of her already stubborn spirit.

She is too young to understand the cruel power of recreational drugs- that people who are high have no empathy. All she knows is her parents and their freinds are acting strangely, and have been all evening. Now, they point at her. And laugh uproariously. All of them. She’s never felt so humiliated in her life. All she wanted was to be a little girl, for once… not a trophy, a tomboy, a reserved little adult who can recite the Latin names of every plant and bird in the woods. Just a little princess, dancing without a care in the world. She is shocked into freezing… and then she runs away and hides. She doesn’t know it, but a deep-seated phobia is born that night. She will always remember that cruel mocking laughter and the smell of the room that was not quite right.

It will be eight years before someone makes me feel safe enough to dance again.


***

I was a counselor at 4-H camp, standing in the Rec Hall, my back against the wall. They are doing the line dances. I can do everything but this! Last night, I walked a homesick little girl to the nurse, and when I realized there was a 500 pound black bear in the trail, I diverted us, took her to the dining hall, and told her to wait, that I would get the nurse.  I had to walk so close to that bear I could feel his breath. That didn’t scare me… but this… dancing crap… oh my God. Weak in the knees scared. My friends are making fun of me, and even though I don’t remember that littel girl, I think maybe a part of me does. I've just never liked dancing.

John taps me on the shoulder, and asks me to come outside with him. He looks me in the eye, and says, “Please dance with me. I promise, no-one will laugh”. He hugs me, and teaches me, away from prying eyes, the steps to the “Sugar Sugar “ line dance. We work on it for over two hours… I’m really that bad! Dan and George join us, and we go inside. My heart pounding, I take the floor, next to John, and I dance. It’s no big deal! My feet float, my heart is pounding. It’s very simple, not complicated at all. It’s… FUN!

The problem is, only John can get me to dance! The phobia still holds after camp, and, once every year, I dance with John.  Only that one song. He knows it’s the only one I know, and he honors my secret fear. He tells me I’m beautiful and I almost believe him. I’d almost forgotten that little girl… and dear God, did a pillow case once really fit around my waist? I love to watch dancing… but I still freeze. I still love music, but cannot make my body move to it. Period. I feel frozen on a dance floor, the way some people get tongue tied in front of an audience. I’ll speak in front of an audience of thousands… just please don’t make me dance!!


***

My freshman year of college, my best friend was Kevin, a farm-boy from our near the West Virginny border. When my father abruptly disowned me, Kevin got me a job on the campus farm to help me stay in school. We worked alongside each other, long, hard hours. Through the winter we pruned apple trees together, and I’ll never forget giving him stitches with a needle and thread when he sliced his hand open with a pair of Felco pruners. Stubborn jackass that he was… he refused to go to the hospital. “You’re going to be the vet”, he said, “You fix it!” He held out his hand and would not take no for an answer. Damned if it did not get better, too.

Summer of 1994 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania was the hottest on record to date. The fields were sweltering, and we had a sadistic boss. He was under pressure to meet daily “quotas” of work, and all of the students except for Kevin and me refused to work in the heat. They valued their sanity over the money. Kevin and I… we had to put ourselves through school. We did what it took.

I had never known a bond with another person like the one he and I had. We had started dating, and broke up after a month because we were always in each other’s minds. It was too much. We supported each other on levels people married for twenty years never even dream of. I knew almost always how he was feeling, and what kind of mood he was in. We had the same dreams sometimes. I knew when his back hurt, and when his girlfriend tried to commit suicide, 200 miles away, I called him to ask what was wrong. He could not lie to me. And, so on. Also, we worked well together. Our boss, Dave, figured this last part out, and took us aside. He told us, “I expect to make quota, and you two can do the work of three, each. I expect you to make quota for me” We were insane enough to take it as a challenge.

We worked that summer until we thought our backs might break in the hot sun. It had been three weeks without a drop of rain. When I placed a thermometer on the ground one day, the bulb read 117 degrees. The humidity made our shirts clammy against our skin. Dave put us in a tomato field one afternoon, taking turns dragging a push mower between rows to control weeds. The weeks of sun had scorched the earth into hard mounds of clay, and we had to pull the machine with all our might to make any progress, as it kept getting stuck. We had three acres to mow, and it was tedious, petty, and back-wrenching, toil.

Late in the afternoon, I had just massaged a knot out of Kevin’s back. He was always in pain, as he had broken his spine as a 12 year-old and it never healed properly. His parents hadn’t taken him to a doctor. When the pain I was feeling from him was too much, I would make him sit down, and I would dig my fingers into his muscles and work the knots out. Enough for him to stand upright again. The air rumbled around us as it had every afternoon for the past three weeks, threatening rain but never delivering on that charge. We were parched, and the dust coated our bodies, seared our lungs. We ached from head to toe, covered in grime and sweat. The heat and humidity combination was oppressive.

To our surprise, the skies suddenly opened up, and it poured down rain. All of the humidity in the air fell on top of us at once. Kevin, always a little boy at heart, leaped up in joy, and took me by the hands. “C’mon!” he said, “Dance with me!!” He tore his shirt off and pulled mine off, too. The ground softened as lightning flickered overhead, and water ran in torrents. We took off our boots and socks, letting our toes squelch in the mud.

At first, he swung me in circles, holding my hands and laughing, his eyes glittering wildly like a kid at Christmas. We danced like survivors let out of a building where they had been trapped. We danced, it seemed, for the sheer joy of being alive, him bare-chested, I in my bra. Then, as the thunder quieted, and the rain slowed somewhat, he held me close, and wrapped his arms around me. We ended up slow dancing in the drizzle and the puddles, under the rainbow that was forming in the sky. I laid my head against his chest, and he encircled me with arms that felt like they would never let go. “I still love you, you know”, he said, gently, as he danced me to a tune only he could hear.

“What about Janice?” I asked, of his latest girlfriend, a loud prissy girl with perfectly manicured fingernails.

“She ain’t you” he said softly, and the words were music to my ears, as he kissed me for the first time in months.


That night, we borrowed a van to go down to the reservoir, and with Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon” playing in the background, he asked me to be his.  I had never before, and seldom since, ever felt so complete. He danced with me again, slowly, in the moonlight, before we began that oldest ritual dance between men and women, under the stars.


We got back to campus and he learned, that same night, that Janice was pregnant. “Bad timing” seems to be the story of my life. I only ever saw him twice again, and the first of those times, he would not speak to me. He broke our bond, that deep connection, and I was left feeling like a part of me had been ripped away.  I wandered empty for years before I was able to put a patch on that hole. To be honest, I am not sure one can ever completely mend from something like that.

***

My friend Joanna recently asked me, during my summer last year of frustrated soul searching, what I was looking for. I told her I was looking for a place that felt like home. That I was tired of feeling restless, uprooted from my own life. She is a reverend, and is pretty wise about asking the right kinds of questions.

She asked me, “How will you know when you’re there? What will it look like?”

I could not answer her at the time. I could not put into words life’s disappointments. How it didn’t matter how hard I had worked, I still got fired. How John married the wrong woman. How there was never enough money to pay the bills. How Janice left Kevin for his best friend, and the last time I saw him, he was a wasted wreck of a man, strung out on meth, drowning his sorrows in booze. How he had lost so much weight I was able to pick him up, cradling him in my arms, in order to bathe him. How he rejected my offers of help, but let me feed him, and hold him for one more night, then made me walk away. How I did walk away, because this time he was beyond fixing, and I had to save myself. He told me I wasn’t the woman who could save him. How sometimes, it doesn’t matter how much you love someone or something, you just can’t do anything but stand by and watch them decide to live or die. How it didn’t matter sometimes how far or fast you ran, how often you walked away, because there would always be some unbidden memory that followed you, and reminded you of every time you shirked your responsibility to another human being.

 

***

In the privacy of my own home, I am now teaching myself to belly dance. I decided it was time to get over my phobia. I am awakening to the feel of my body’s rhythms, I even trust myself to put on a long swishy skirt (much larger now I fear than a pillow case). I have a coin studded bra, and I let my hair down. I am fascinated by the different ways to move one’s body. (The rib cage slides? Really? You can do THAT with your hips? Really?)

I laugh, and even let myself sing out loud. I am sure I am terrible, both at dancing and at singing. I’ve learned, not just my own rhythms, but also how to judge the depth and nature of my affection for someone based on imagining I am dancing for him. Is it artistic or measured? Reserved? Graceful? Naughty? A little seductive? Downright scandalous and sultry? Ah ha, that’s the one, I think to myself, laughing. Let me show you, indeed, dear man, what I can make these hips do! I can lie to myself in my mind, but not in my body, I’m learning.  I’m learning a lot these days.

For example, if Joanna were to ask me the same question again, “How will you know when you get there?”

I would tell her: “I don’t know what it will look like, but I can speak to how it would feel. I would feel like…dancing-
I’d dance Kevin back to joy, and let him remember the hope he felt in that tomato field as we slow-danced in the rain;
I’d dance with John until he realized he should have married me;

I'd tell all the children and young adults in my life that they are valued for who they are, not just for what they do;
and I’d invite that little girl out to dance with me and sway and the world would tell her how beautiful she has become”

Most importantly… I won’t give a damn who is watching me this time!


























 

Reviews

[Ellen Hammond]

Being laughed at and shunned when a child needs to feel loved and special, leaves a lasting impression that can indeed surface as phobias long after she/he has pushed the memory out of her/his minds. Sometimes, it helps to face the fear head on as an adult, but even when the mind is willing, the body seems to involuntarily react or freeze.

Your story is very well told. I like the positive, hopeful, and determined attitude at the end. I am sure it will also help others to know they are not alone in suffering phobias, and will perhaps, become the catalyst they need to face their own phobias.

[smitty]

You are a remarkable writer and a large inspiration to me.

[bob, small b. aka invs]

it seems to me that many of the best metaphors aren't really metaphors at all when we encounter them. dancing is a wonderful metaphor for all the things we long to be able to do. and all the fears that keep us from doing them. i was raised in a strict fundamentalist christian home where dancing was forbidden (along with drinking, smoking, playing cards, gambling, bowling, billiards, rock n roll, drugs, etc etc etc.), so it wasn't till i began my rebellious youth as a teen that i even approached a dance floor.by the time that happened i was so self conscious about my inexperience that my few attempts at dancing were traumatic to say the least. but i marvel at those who dance. those for whom it's like breathing. i don't know if the story you wrote here is your story or fiction, but if it is about you, i applaud your boldness in taking steps to claim the joy of dance for yourself. the rest of the story is a combination of sad and hopeful. it's nice that the hopeful part is the ending. your writing touched some nerves and some feelings. well done.

[cest la vie]

Marie,

I have read many, if not thousands of stories in my life. I say without a moments hesitation none has touched me more thann this story. (Deep inside where that little child resides in each of us). I am not going to remark on the what if's or should have beens. They are real, apparent and history. I will delve into the here and now.. Your will, (key word here) is that of a princess warrior. It has been there since your thought and conception took place. The sheer fact that you danced in the Rec room, in the downpour of a tomato field, in the privacy of your home attests to that fact..That is what makes you a remarkable woman, deserving of being remarked upon. Your will for "Life" has allowed you to circumvent the alienation you felt from past life's events, and here you are now, today, rejoicing. This quote reminds me of your journey and how you made it.

"One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: that word is love." (Sophocles).

Your self love and love for others has carried you, and will continue forth. Keep dancing, swaying and feeling that inner groove.
Lynne

[Jess]

Awesome :) So, when does your firstbook come out? I seriously believe you could get an entire novel out of this short story!

[Samuel Dickens]

Oh boy, I wish I was better at giving reviews, because this one needs a special one. It resonated with me on so many levels and spoke to me with words that I could clearly visualize and understand. If this is true, and I suspect it may be, it sounds like it could have been an alternate version of my life. Does that make sense? You're an outstanding writer, Marie.

[Through the Gateway]

Oh, the terrorizing our own parents put us through as children, when they realize that we are different and special in ways that they are not. Some of those wounds last a lifetime unless those with the courage to allow us to be ourselves can reawaken those desires within.

I'm glad you can dance now, Marie. Be proud to be you...be happy to just dance when the music plays.

[Shutterbug]

This is a very good story. It touched home a little. Thanks for putting it out there for everyone to read.

[Mark]

"...sometimes, it doesn't matter how much you love someone...you just have to stand by and let them decide whether they will live or die..."
It is rare on this site that a passage of writing literally starts tears to my eyes, Rachael.
Though I am a man, I know this little girl well. That she is doing, at thirty four, what she could not or would not do at six, fourteen, or twenty must be an inspiration to us all, who too often take the pains of our childhoods and allow them to set the course of our lives. Beautifully, beautifully said, my precious friend.