Discerning the Current: A response by Benji Hart

Embedded writer Benji Hart reflects in poem form on a rehearsal of Contra la Corriente, an in-progress performance by Ivelisse Diaz, at Segundo Ruiz Belvis Cultural Center.

Ivelisse Diaz image by Charlie Billups

She kicks off her Nike slides and stands center stage.

[Behind her, four crossed tapestries the colors of the flag of Lares, 

exposed brick.]         She walks slowly stage right.

[Eventually, there will be other dancers offstage 

holding telas stretched across her chest and torso.]

The voices of her mayores accompany her.         [This may be 

via voiceover, or her grandmother may actually join her on stage 

in a rocking chair.]

She steps into a shock of colored light.         [Orange?]

The drummer begins.         [Holandés, but played with heavy hits 

rather than the usual lighter licks.]

Phantom hands pull her from behind, encumbering her motions, 

but also contributing to their execution.

[Here, the call and response is not just between dancer and drummer, 

but between a Boricua and the literal forces working against her.]

Her palms slap a second rhythm on her thighs.         She stumbles, 

turns,         [“Sigue, mija”]         walks slowly stage left. 

[“Camina, camina”] 

Stepping into a second lightbeam,         [Purple?]         the drummer 

rejoins her immediately.         [Cuembé this time, rigid, almost militant.] 

The body is off-center, but also rooted.

[“No tenga miedo”]

The phantom hands respond to resistance.         [“Pero relájate, mija”]

She is expert at aestheticizing

that which might otherwise make movement impossible.

[Her daughter and even her niece may step in and take solos 

at some point in the piece.] 

Here, the gestures are frenetic.         Her hands bat at the air.

[Her chest heaves.]

A new set of unseen hands 

snatches the barríl away from the drummer. 

Suddenly, she is dancing unaccompanied.

[“Nena, sigue luchando”]

Her heels beat out a pulse.         [The drum is a phantom.] 

Hopping, pounding, the piquetes become instrumentation.

[Patria or diaspora?]

Perhaps the hands are those of ancestors, 

[“There are babies being born right now”]         and not 

the oppressive forces we first thought them to be.

[“No one said this decolonization stuff 

was going to be easy”]         She walks up to the very lip of the stage. 

[The drum is the oldest living ancestor.] 

She pivots, spreads her arms, 

twice to each side.         [Abuela is a phantom.] 

Her acrylics clack and jangle.         Her hands release.         [“This 

is the pressure that we’ve been waiting on”] 

She cringes with the effort.         [The drum is an overturned chalice.] 

She reaches outward,         [“Una gente de conciencia...”]

steps slowly back, returning to center stage.

[“If you don't love bomba 

then fear it”] She grins.