Mama, on the other hand, was getting tired of it. I don’t know if she got a little bit depressed or went through menopause or just wasn’t as addicted to it as I was, but she retired, and I took over her regular gigs in addition to my own.
One of my monthly favorites was Frauentag—“Ladies’ Day”—when the Muslim men would rent out the entire restaurant for the afternoon. Cars would roll up to the front door one after another, and wives and their children, shrouded in burkas, would come inside. No men were allowed. Only the restaurant owner was on the premises, and he remained out of the main area. When all the ladies were there, the doors were locked and curtains drawn. Then they’d shed their burkas, revealing designer dresses and shoes and fabulous jewelry. They were dressed to the nines and ready to dance, drink, and party their behinds off.
These ladies were polite but skeptical the first time they saw me. How could this skinny little curly-haired girl know anything about an ancient Middle Eastern dance form? That’s a question I never could answer. Even when I tried to explain it to Prince, who had no problem with the idea of a thousand lifetimes abiding in a modern body, the best I could come up with was, “I don’t know. It’s just… in my blood. In my soul.” And then I told him about my little leg bones when I was born—how they were confused at first and didn’t know where they belonged.
Of course, Daddy couldn’t go with me to Frauentag, but the venue always had a great sound system for my mixtapes. As per Mama’s rule, I never allowed myself to be seen before the performance. These women understood the power of invisibility. I always started with my Wonder Woman turns, and then that fierce dancer in me would take over. During the first song, I’d play the zills as I scoped out the crowd, making a mental note of anyone who seemed particularly reserved, anyone with a frown on her face. At first, a lot of ladies would be out on the floor, but as they realized that I was a real dancer, they’d sit down and watch.
The second song was a ballad—veil work, sword, backbends, something pretty and a little bit shocking, something with a lot of performance value—and then we’d pick up the tempo, get them clapping, get the drums going. By then I knew who was into it and who was going to be shy. I’d go to the wallflowers and draw them out to dance with me, showing them that, yes, they could do it. By the end of my final number, I’d won them over, and they knew how to show their appreciation, if you get my drift.
Usually, I hated getting tips. On the upside: tips. On the downside: When I was little, it was always made clear up front that I was a minor, not to be touched in any way, so people threw the money on the floor, and I had to push it out of the way with my foot. After we moved to Germany, and I was suddenly sixteen, people started tucking bills into my costume. I hated it when a guy would approach, looking all sweet and kind, and then take his time tucking that bill in there, making me dodge and weave to avoid being touched. I was particularly grateful that the Frauentag ladies kept it classy, discreetly tipping me after the performance, respectfully tucking bills into my straps and hips.
As I became more recognized in Germany, a variety of interesting offers started coming my way, including an invitation to come in and cut a demo at a small record company based in Frankfurt. A producer saw me dancing somewhere and was certain he could make me a star. I was definitely interested in singing and acting in addition to dancing, because to be Rita Moreno—the greatest triple threat in Broadway history—is the fantasy of every Puerto Rican girl. So in I went to record my demo. Side A was a cover of Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings.” The B-side was “Too Dramatic,” a song I’d written myself. The words were something like, “Too dramatic, I don’t know why, it’s just the way that I ammmm.” I have purposely blocked out the rest. Just keep that much in your hip pocket, because it comes up again later.
I was proud of my song and excited about the opportunity, but when they decided not to sign me, I wasn’t terribly upset. That wasn’t the path I saw myself on at that moment. My dream was to dance in Cairo, where the top performers danced in grand hotels with fifty-piece orchestras. I knew that if I worked hard enough, I could be as good as those legendary dancers. Mama agreed, but added, “You’ll need the best costumes. And those can only come from Madame Abla.”