June Thirteenth

Dancing as a conversation.We stood on the boardwalk next to the water, looking out over the harbour toward Dover and Kent. Michael was our student – time to learn how to swing. I find the move is appropriate – life is always about the rock step. It is the offbeat and bizarre that makes the day in and day out enjoyable.

Hands. There is touch, leading, guiding, receiving... moving to the music in our heads. Throw me, spin out, and turn in circles until I fall over. If I have faith that you will not drop me, I will put my trust in you. After a while we traded places. Michael decided it was time for us to learn some Kurdish wedding dances. Fortunately I understand the steps. We all entwined our fingers and followed his feet. Ibrahim Tatlisis swirled in the radio waves around us. We laughed as much as we learned. The kids eventually gave up and we switched to Bobby Valentino and Tiziano Ferro. Perdono. I tried to teach Matt how to dance. Gangsta sway. My knees behind his knees, back and forth, speaking and receiving. David tried to mimic us, later deciding it was more fun to just go crazy.

Michael looked at me – his eyes asking me to dance with him.
Music is the soul. Dancing is the expression thereof.
A conversation between two people – you cannot go half way or reserve yourself lest you be misunderstood. He reels me in, forcing me to share the pain I’ve been living in, to release it within our comfort for each other. Back and forth, up and down, faces at one moment far apart and then close enough to feel his breath on mine. His eyes never left my face. I danced in circles around him. His hand told me the stories of his people, their struggle to survive, his joy and pain at being in a place he cannot leave behind. I understood him. I told him of my love for joy and movement and friendship – for picking back up where we left off. With others, I would close my eyes in that moment, but his soul beckoned me in. I became a part of him today. The only thing to say was thank you.

All relationships must be akin to this dancing. A friend is one who knows the more intimate details and keeps holding on to your arm. I want so desperately to do life in this moment.

He tried to say goodbye to me. We sat in the car, having dropped everyone off, just being for one moment together. He spoke of freedom, the thing Michael always speaks of. He worries for his family should the government deport him. He does not fret for his own life, that is God’s job, but he frets over the hopes and dreams of others. I love that about him. He tried to say goodbye because there are no guarantees. There is nothing keeping him from being sent to his death in the Turkish mountains. It was his way saying “I loved you the most TerriBroughton”. All I wanted was to kiss his cheeks – Beijinhos - as his older sister and tell him that God knew.

I am ashamed. I give hope to others but cannot hold it on my own heart. I was asked how I would do going home. What will I do? How will I learn to call that place home? I will survive. I will do what I always do. I am ashamed because this is exactly what I fear for Michael. That he will make do, but that he will not really live. Neither of us have freedom. I only know that we are looking at each other from the two sides of heaven’s door. I tell him that I am praying, and that no matter what, I believe that God will preserve him and protect his family.
I need to learn to say thank you.
And Goodbye.