When I belly danced, I never saw it as a dance of seduction; I saw it as a dance of empowerment. That’s what I try to give women now when I teach them to belly dance: that sense of self-confidence that can only come from within. No compliment can give it to you. No number on the scale. No label in your clothes. It radiates from a woman’s core, and it’s absolutely her own. I think that’s what made Prince notice me. I wasn’t onstage to turn anyone on; I was there to practice this ancient art form and make it my own. That’s exactly what he wanted for every artist he worked with. Prince was a master at bringing out the best in people, and I soaked that up during the eleven years we were together. I try to bring that to every class I teach, and I see it happening: A successful businesswoman becomes more successful as she becomes CEO of herself. A teenage girl in the media blizzard of our “you can never be too skinny or too rich” culture comes away with the idea that what she is right now is magical.
Prince, from an early age, was a savant musician. He knew he was one of the greatest entertainers in the history of rock music—or the history of history—but he never felt the need to say it. It was just there and could not be denied. We shared a common belief that whatever you’re passionate about, you should learn about it, work on it, do it—just let it go and let it be. And that’s what I do about belly dancing. The joy I felt dancing for George Michael or for Madonna and her dancers or for any other audience is the same joy I felt dancing on the tile floor at my grandma Mercedes’s home when I was a little girl. That feeling came from within, so no one could take it away from me. I knew I was good, and I celebrated that in a way that wasn’t conceited or cocky. I was grateful for this body God had given me, grateful for the formal education Mama had fought to provide me, and grateful for every hour Daddy spent carting my gigantic boom box and speakers up the stairs to another gig.
Daddy did get frustrated with me every once in a while when my grades suffered, but I remember only one occasion when he tried to get tough about it.
“That’s it,” he declared. “You’re grounded.”
I shrugged and told him what he already knew. “You can’t ground me. I’m booked.”
As Mama and I made plans for our summer trip to Egypt, we received two pieces of terrible news: First, George Abdo called to tell Mama that Amir had died of AIDS. We were stunned by the loss of our dear, flamboyant friend. I was only beginning to understand what “AIDS” meant or what “homosexual” meant—or what “sexual” meant, for that matter. When I think of Amir, I think of talent and kindness and laughter. I remember him sitting on the floor teaching Mama how to sew a particularly lovely pattern of beading on my sleeve. To me, he was Amir, the artist, one of the most beautiful dancers I’d ever seen. That was all. And that was more than enough. I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to know and work with him.
In March, the other shoe dropped. There was a terrible fire at the Heliopolis Sheraton. The hotel was relatively new, but there were no alarms or sprinkler system. Tragically, Egyptian law didn’t require those at that time. Sixteen people had been killed and much of the place had been destroyed. They didn’t know when they’d be open for business again or if the Nubian Tent would ever be rebuilt.
I wasn’t upset about the money, though it would have tripled my income. It didn’t even cross my mind that if I’d been there, I might have been killed. All I could see was that the dream I’d worked so hard for had slipped through my fingers. It might be a year before I got another chance to dance in Egypt with an Egyptian band, and a year seemed like an eternity to my sixteen-year-old self. I was devastated and probably being too dramatic about it—that’s just the way I ammmm—but Daddy tried to put a positive spin on things.
“You’re safe. That’s all that matters,” he said. “We’ll make the best of it. We can all go camping together in Spain.”
This didn’t improve things, for my taste, but Daddy pushed the plan forward.
“Look, you’ve only got one year of high school left. Jan’s going to be living in the States. After I retire, who knows where we’ll be? This is probably the last family trip we’ll take together.”
His genuine sadness about that made us feel bad, so we sheepishly got on board. I really was glad for that time with Jan, and Mama and Daddy seemed to be in a good, loving place with their relationship. Neither of them was seeing anyone else, so their fighting was at a nice low tide. He was feeling sentimental and happy and insisted on paying for everything, which I appreciated. It made me feel like his little girl, protected and taken care of.
“There’s enough in the budget for one concert,” he said. We had our choice: Celia Cruz with Tito Puente, or Prince.
“Prince,” Jan said without hesitation. She’d seen him in Washington, DC, on the Lovesexy Tour a year earlier and was still in a fangirl haze about it.
I wasn’t in favor of the Prince plan, because we’d gone to see Michael Jackson with Kim Wilde during the Bad World Tour, and it was a horrible experience. People were screaming and passing out, and not because they were overwhelmed by the awesome music; they genuinely could not breathe and were afraid for their lives. We were so crammed together that my feet dangled above the ground at times. I had a sweater tied around my waist, and some creepy dude tried to take it off me. That put me over the edge. I punched Jan’s shoulder and yelled over the shrieking crowd, “I hate you right now!” It was amazing to see Michael Jackson live, and God bless and keep Michael Jackson’s music, but I did not want to repeat that scene.