Balanchine’s “Prodigal Son” and: The Nuclear Family, 1988

Balanchine’s “Prodigal Son”

for Calvin Shawn Landers, Dance Theater of Harlem

On his first night in Manhattan, he dons an acid washed jean jacket, turns up the collar, and stands on the 1/9 train even though there are more than enough seats. White tank top, jeans cuffed at the bottom, and combat boots. Lightly, he treads the pavement pocked with blackened gum like stage marks. Through the white-tile tunnel and up the steps onto 42nd Street, he emerges into radiance. If this were a Broadway show, his imperious grace would assume first position on the corner, maybe a pas de bourrée couru through the cross walk, ending with a Grand Jeté in front of an American flag composed entirely of neon lights. Could it begin any other way? The ticker of the stock exchange relays the world’s worth and Adonis’ billboard, abs cut in shadows and digitally retouched crotch, hangs above him. Like so many that fall to the elixir of lights of this corporate sponsored space station, he sees the promise inherent in the landscape, the technological address of desire. The gravity of the Midwest behind him, the weightlessness of youth in his gate, he takes a small pas de chat for mankind.

The Nuclear Family, 1988

Cincinnati, Ohio

Dad calls from a pay phone next to a bus stop. A bus comes to a screeching halt and the doors slap open. It lets out a wheeze of passengers like Cronus passing Olympians. The warm air changes the very texture of their skin. Dad’s on his way to see the baby’s mama and wants to bring her by the laundromat. There’s a pause as the bus doors suck closed. He says, don’t look at her arms. She’s got track marks and doesn’t like people staring at her arms. I envision the scar as a long, candied worm.

Once, he brought a tall mulatto to his mother’s house. He was fresh out of prison and staying in the basement on Orchard Lane. He wanted her to have some homemade rolls and she clacked around the kitchen in 5-inch heels, offering to help. She pulled her long, good hair back over one shoulder as she cracked the lid of pot after steaming pot. This did not endear her to my grandmother. Carissa looked like a movie star or a singer, some type of chanteuse. They played spades after dinner and I sat under the table looking at all the shoes: Granny’s rosebud embroidered slippers, Dad’s slip-on dress shoes, and Aunt Pam’s regulated, uniform, nurse shoes. Besides her heels, red, Carissa wore a golden anklet. I thought, she must have a treasure hidden somewhere.

Dad calls from a pay phone at the corner to say they’re at the corner. When the bells on the front door jingle, I stiffen. She has the baby in her arms wrapped in a Winnie-the-Pooh blanket. I can’t see his face and she’s wearing a long sleeved tee in the middle of summer. Shirley’s Laundromat is only half full because most of the college kids have gone home to places like New Hampshire or Maine. Back then, I thought all college kids came from places like New Hampshire or Maine. Dad’s arm is wrapped around her shoulders and she sticks out a blanched hand to shake. She eyes the candy on the counter and I say, have a Snickers or a Whatchamacallit. She says thanks and rips the wrapper open with her teeth. Dad says this is your new brother. The fuzz on his head is like the new hair growing on the sides of my hands, which have become long and unfamiliar. A guy with a tattoo needs help with his washer. He comes to the counter and the family backs away. Dad waves, I’ll see you at home. The family leaves and the laundromat seems smaller. The tile is warped and cracked. Spin cycles begin their noisy rotation. I make change for a dollar and...