by Dale Wiley
The scuttlebutt is they were caught going at it in the mail room last week during lunchtime.
Neither of us were green enough to commit names to paper.
The panel reviewed applications for dance organizations to find those who were both interesting and financially stable.
Nancy dragged the stack of applications directly in front her. “Do we have consensus of what the panel is looking for?”
One member practically banged the table. “Financial stability.”
The person to their left nodded. “No one should be granted money unless they are stable.”
Rather ironic for them to want the applicants to be financially stable when they were asking for money.
Ann leaned forward. “We tend to give most of the money to the bigger organizations. I’d like to see the smaller groups benefit for a change.”
The comments became a free-for-all.
“We need more cutting edge. The avant-garde.”
“Ballet, for goodness sake. Can we focus on more traditional dance for once?”
The mustachioed agent across the table interjected nonsensical statements. “Dance … creative expression … freedom of movement.” He waved his hands in the air.
Nancy checked her watch. “Let’s get started, shall we?” She grabbed the first file off the top of the stack and read from the application.
As the morning wore on, I sat and listened, learning what got some people lots of extra money and got others shit-canned. Nancy checked her watch with increasing frequency and read the applications faster and faster, cutting short the discussion after each one with a call for decision.
Interesting.
Ann’s face turned red when Nancy cut her off in the middle of yet another comment. She wrote furiously on her tablet and slid it across to me.
Gina Parks, the current dance flavor of the month, is performing tonight.
Understanding dawned. Nancy had been an amazing dancer before becoming badly injured. She rocketed through the grants—without giving them enough consideration—in hopes she could somehow make it to Gina’s performance. Highly unlikely, unless she could convince the group to decide the applications by the rock-paper-scissors method.
Nancy grabbed the next application and read through it, her granny glasses sliding to the end of her nose. “I don’t think we need to take the time for discussion on this. All in favor of passing?”
A woman across the table stood with such force, her chair nearly toppled. She planted her hands on the table and leaned toward Nancy. “That’s enough. I am not going to stand by and watch as you rush your way through the application process.”
Nancy looked like a snake just up and bit her, and a tendril of hair escaped her tight bun.
The woman took advantage of Nancy’s moment of surprise. “The applications we are reviewing took months, sometimes nearly a year, to prepare, and we are obligated as the panel to give each and every one due consideration.” Red spots appeared on her cheeks. “These are not simply words written on the form, but the culmination of hopes and dreams, and I refuse to crush anyone’s dreams lightly.”
James Rogers, the large man in traditional African dress, stood up and clapped his hands. “All right,” he boomed. “Everyone out in the hall.”
That was not what I expected.
His words were not a suggestion. I followed James, and Ann came out a moment later. Three other panelists walked dutifully out into the hall. What was going on?
“Make a circle,” James said, a hint of a smile on his face.
We did.
James then led us through half an hour’s worth of African tribal dances: moves to honor the sun and moves to honor the parents. Some looked like yoga, others more closely resembled modern dance. These were the first dance steps other than the box step I had ever attempted, and although some of the others picked up quicker, I soon had most everything under control.
Slowly, quite reluctantly, the other panel members filtered out, including Nancy, who was the last to succumb. We clapped and shimmied and saluted our elders and made everyone on every other floor come out and see just what in the hell we were doing. Some members of other departments even joined us. I laughed and realized this was the perfect time for one of the uptight senators, who made us their whipping boys, to come by and observe the NEA; it would have confirmed all their suspicions.
With all of the arguing, and all of the dancing, and all before lunch, I realized working at the NEA wasn’t so bad after all.
