Watching SYTYCD Australia, wishing that I could have the platform to choreograph a child loss piece, as you do, when all of a sudden they announce that Sam and Zoey are doing such a piece.
I brace myself for the cliched train wreck that it could be, and within moments I was sucked into the pain of the mother on my screen. She was not a dancer, she was like me. She was holding the only tangible thing she could – a doll (I have a teddy bear). Clutching. Weeping. Holding.
And the boy, Sam, clung to his mother. Held her up. Gave her strength, carried her when she could not walk herself. And yet, she carried him when he needed to be a boy too.
I could do such an in depth analysis. I could write s much about the intricacies of the dance and the motions. The choreographer did so well.
Until the last tiny second when the doll is removed from the mother and slung to the ground.. That moment killed me. As a mother grieving, the last thing I would like to see is the surrogate thrown to the ground. I am sure that is not the point I was meant to garner, but it is what I carried with it.
But I go back to Zoey. Who magically made herself into me. And made me into her. Telling my story. OUR story to the world.
And I applaud her for the dance that touched so many.
The dance that touched me.