Alvin Ailey

Sure, my birthday isn’t for another two months. But it’s a big birthday, and we might as well start celebrating sooner rather than later… as in now.

I met my mother – whose birthday is two days before mine – across the street from South Station. With four-inch heels, hardly any sleep, and a good ten-hour day, I was not exactly oozing energy. She was. And rather than pay $5 for cab or $1.50 for the T, my mother decided we’d walk on the rough cobblestone sidewalk to get where we were going. (As my arches seared with pain, I couldn’t help but to think of a comment by the Wonkette blogger, who noted that a woman wearing heels was like an animal’s “learned hindrance” used to attract a mate.)

On the walk to Boston’s Chinatown, the weather picked up. Rain, grimy streets, wind… and my mother wears contacts. She hid behind me and started walking slower than my limp, which is when I knew something was really the matter. Being the loving daughter I am, I stopped to shield her from the passing crowd of Asians and soot-carrying wind. “What’s the matter?”

She rubbed her eyes. Through the bustle of Boston streets and the mumbles of her voice, I heard: “Nothing, sorry, I’m looking ridiculous…dirt in my contacts…hurts.” She picked her head up, looked at me through blurry eyes and – loudly and clearly – continued, “I look stupid walking around with all slanty-eyes.”

Not exactly what you want to say in Chinatown.

But, city-slick girls we are (not!), we emerged unnoticed. My Aunt Carol – the orchestrater and gift giver of the evening - was waiting for my mother and I at some mildly famous restaurant decorated in a tropical, festive, tikki theme. The menu was more Asian than Chinese, including everything from Tai to Korean and beyond. But the real party didn’t start until after dinner, when we ventured to the old Wang Theatre – where I once dreamed of performing the Nutcracker – to see Alvin Ailey.

Shit. Those guys are good. The girls are beautiful, fun, graceful. The men – God, I have never seen such bodies… and despite their dance skills and homosexual mannerisms, their athleticism and energy were seducing. And there’s just something so amazing about a woman who looks that beautiful with a shaved head.

Seriously, watching these people dance to their heritage – from old African tribal songs to Ella Fitzgerald to good old gospel – and look so beautiful and have such a good time… well, it made me want to be black. Even the “fat girl” looked phenomenal. And damn, those girls can dance.

But nope… I’m just a lil white girl, a thoroughbred country bumpkin pretending to belong in the city.