THE PALLADIUM AND OTHER BALLROOMS

    It was meant to be   
    the dancing/singing
    all offered to me naturally.
    Even in school the drama parts were mine.
    Then there were musicals I danced
    to an audience of parents and peers.

    Then I was nineteen/mother of two
    wife to Enrique who I loved like a brother.

    Friday was payday!
    Time out for Spanish Cinderella
    flowered hair/high-heeled and jerseyed
    hips swinging to the music in my soul.

    In the Bronx
    Anglos danced at the Tropicana
    to a band emulating
    the syncopated beat of the Mambo.
    This music mated the Latin sway of palms
    to the brashness of horns and city jazz.

    Latinos danced at the Grand Plaza
    coolating to boleros sung by Bobby Capo
    whispering romantic lies
    while side-stepping to merengues.

    Marcelino Guerra sang guarachas
    y montunos. His swinging arms
    clicked beans in his maracas.
    The clipped and clog-dance rhythms
    urged dancers to move their aching feet.

    Occasional crossovers
    added atmospheric spice
    when an Anglo wrapped arms around a Latin
    when a Latin eased arms around an Anglo.

    Nineteen-Fifty in the Apple
    and turf was the name of the game.

    In Manhattan   
    Roseland had dedicated dancers
    with lockers/gowns/the whole schmaltz   
    honing their art for the yearly contest.
    But the Palladium (where Latinos
    cautiously entered the Anglo scene)
    was making history.

    The ballroom was circular.
    One side had tables where pimps/hookers
    jet-set and tourists sat to watch
    the spectacle of the new craze. 
    It was Mambo and Cha-Cha time.
                          
    The surrounding walls of the ballroom
    were low where dancers watched
    Killer Joe and Tangee teach steps
    on a platform elevated from the crowd.
    Behind them men and women stood in rows
    following instructions how to move
    how to cross/when to pause.

    The curved bar (3 deep most times)
    was the place for quick meets.

    Wednesday was the biggest spectacle of all.
    Dance Contest!

    Svelte dressed ladies
    coiffed like movie stars
    man-tailored suited
    with color-matched pumps
    danced with partners
    bored by the constant win.
    Their movements were precise   
    so perfect that the audience
    was primed for new interpretations.
    That's when I dared to enter
    with Italian John/danced with the abandon
    of a bird learning to fly
    titillated by timbales
    played by Tito Puente.
    The audience went wild with empathy
    moved more by my energy
    than lack of finesse.
.
    I won that night.    
    Split money with Italian John
    strutted past tables
    where people yelled kudos.
    Then Machito's orquestra played.   
    Graciela sang. Everybody danced   
    and I was just another face in the crowd.

    It was the turning of the Latin screw.
    More entrants in the contests
    would be Latins.  They would win.
    The Anglos voicelessly conceded
    that slowly the Palladium
    was changing once again.

    That night a door opened
    to the world I'd enter.
    I would become the partner of Killer Joe
    teach Mambo/Cha-Cha-Cha/travel
    leave Enrique
    have my parents care for my children
    as I bedded with guilt
    and danced and sang away
    their infant years in someone else's arms.

           © 1987, by Carmen M. Pursifull.
            All Rights Reserved

    BIRDLAND AND THE JAZZ SCENE

     New York City in the Fifties
     unfolded facets before me
     offered alternatives
     demanded decisions.

     My ears vibrated to Be-Bop beats
     blaring from a place I passed
     on my way home from the Palladium.
     Those sounds seduced/snapped my fingers
     to a pulse alien to my Latin veins
     guided my feet down Birdland's steps
     to pay entrance to a world of change.

     I sat among bleacher patrons
     heard 'yeahs'/observed smiles
     joined applause for solos
     musical phrases I learned
     they called 'quotations'.

     I analyzed heavy lids  
     constant scratches
     unused ties folded in a pocket.
     The Word was Smack those days.
     I'd seen my schoolmates self-destruct
     and being a survivor I damned drugs
     as substitute solutions.

     Music courted/infused my blood
     with passions strong enough
     to batter barriers
     built within my psyche.
     I glided by an English meadow
     guided by fingers of a blind man.
     George Shearing was acquired taste
     good wine to wane away day worries.

     In his glass cubicle  
     Symphony Sid jockeyed jazz
     in between sets.

     I felt manipulated by frantic paces
     creations of endless flow of choruses
     each different from chords of
     TEA FOR TWO/SWEET GEORGIA BROWN
     under hands of a musical warlock.
     Bud Powell with his posture
     of crossed knees at piano bench
     barely moving arms/fingers flying
     as possessed by God 'improvisation'   
     felt mellowed by Kai Winding's
     skipping style/his slide trombone  
     slicker than spit/or tensed
     to intellectual intrusions on a mind
     uneducated to musical mechanics
     of a Charlie Parker in his prime
     tapped feet to Curley Russell's bass
     or drums of Roach/Jo Jones
     and Louis Bellson
     snapped head to Dizzy's TAMPICO
     Count Basie with his constant 4/4 beat
     or when Stan Kenton played his
     HOUSE OF GLASS
     offending ears by scale atonal
     discharging dissonance to senses
     unaccustomed to that sound.
     When he played jazz or Latin beats
     he spurred a loyal following. 
     Herman's Herd fostered a sax man
     by the name of Getz.
     Then there were vibes of Terry Gibbs
     Chet Baker's velvet horn and voice
     complementing sultry sounds
     of the baritone sax of Gerry Mulligan.
     Took five with Brubeck or Zoot Simms
     or winged it on DeFranco's flute
     crashing musically
     when sets ended to noises
     of scraping chairs/tinkle
     of ice-cubes in an empty glass
     musicians packing 'axes'  
     calling it a night.

     Musical sophistication
     enhanced rhythms harbored in my soul.
     I was appraised as I danced
     upon Palladium's platform
     was offered a career of singing in a band  
     play maracas/travel/leave my nest
     of twigs and leaves.
     My children once again endured  
     encouraged me to fly
     proud to give me slack
     to go with forces that beguiled me.
     I saw my children with enlightened eyes
     knew my flights were scored
     gratified for one last trip
     before I'd settle down.
     
     They waved goodbye and I took off
     legs tucked beneath a belly
      quivering with excitement.
       
             © 1987 by Carmen M. Pursifull
                 All Rights Reserved.
 

BAND-SINGING/ON THE ROAD

     Road's mesmeric line summoned
     tore tenacious roots from my mind.

     At first I concentrated on the lyrics
     my maladroit arms gripped with paralysis.
     They stood like concrete pillars at my side
     waiting for my Latin song to cease
     transformed to agile limbs
     flicking clickity-clacks
     with focused and controlled accentuation.

     I practiced endless hours
     dancing/singing/playing
     until a mesh was realized.
     Confident with flicks
     my wrists could evocate
     I would win plaudits for my prowess
     with the loaded gourd.
     A taste of mastery was honey on my tongue
     making my songs sweeter than before.

     THE BOULEVARD in Queens was a delight.
     Ray Almo led his band and me
     into his realm of drive.
     We swung a frenzied set
     weaving dancers in a web of reciprocity.
     My voice/my arms/maracas and my feet
     functioned as one.  Nerve-endings throbbed
     with each successive beat.

     I was an instrument connected.
     I was pure pleasure.  I was a smile
     smeared across my face.

     I took to CHARLIE'S TAVERN
     like an old familiar friend.
     Names dropped like coins for a beer
     or whiskey straight
     or Charlie's famous meat loaf
     heavy on your gut.

     One day I took my drink
     sat in a booth/startled by a man
     who joined me.  He had an open face   
     looking for adventure.
     We spoke politely 
     (hazel eyes and dark brown eyes locked
     like fencers in a match)
     smiles breaking the tension of attraction.
     He was a jazz-drummer/a Californian
     new to Local 802/a weekend gigster
     loving at first sight
     the singer he had joined.
     He was a charmer/laid back/super cool.
     I shrugged my shoulders/thought
     'what the hell why not'?

     He became my second husband.
     We married six months
     after our visual parry.
     My children liked him. 
     So did Mama and Papa.

     We were both swingers/friends
     meeting in between road trips.
     Each time we met he seemed a little weaker.
     I caught him hiding a puncture in his arm
     and knew that this relationship would end
     as the syringe drained of all its goodies.

     I went on the road with 'Mr. Babalu'
     sang in Ohio and Maryland
     practicing for THE CARIBE HILTON.
     My voice blossomed to a husky invitation.
     I had my own arrangements written in my key
     and I was flying higher
     than I'd ever flown before.

     San Juan in Nineteen Fifty-Three
     taught me the meaning of intolerance.
     I watched manipulation
     of local Puerto Ricans
     in their land by greedy 'Continentals'.
     This was my father's land/his people
     and I (a Nuyorican)
     could not tolerate injustice.
     Glamour faded/gilt peeled.
     I negotiated freedom from a contract
     spoiled by disillusion.
     Time to think/but first
     a flight from here
     a source of my depression.

     I was a tourist for a change
     lounged by the pool
     at THE VIRGIN ISLE HOTEL
     was recognized and offered an engagement.

     Calypso!

     My wrists fought foreign rhythms
     but practice taught my hands
     Calypso's skipping beat
     and lyrics taught my ears
     the clever twist of words.

     The season ended leaving me stranded
     with nothing but survival skills
     to get me home back to the children.
     The children!
     Months had elapsed since I had seen them
     and suddenly I craved
     my cruising days to cease.
     At night I'd dream about their scent
     whisper their names
     hoping they'd hear my anguished calls
     across the sea of dreams.
     Guilt ravished me
     denying pleasure of the sun/island/men
     whose eyes held promises turned ugly.

     I took a job tending bar in a hotel
     was befriended by local Frogmen
     training at the Base.
     They tired of my guilt   
     my urgency to flee/desire
     channelled to my children.
    'They passed around the hat'
     happy with the role of 'Good Samaritans'
     helped me pack my bags/saw me to the plane
     with flourishes of flowers and farewells
     to the disapproving eyes
     of other passengers
     and once again I was in flight
     from an adventure
     that would last a lifetime.

        © 1987, by Carmen M. Pursifull.
         All Rights Reserved