IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE!
Me . . . doing the coma!
FROM BIRTH TO 53 - IN TWO MINUTES!
In 1961, my ‘real’ father, an amorous American from the local Air Force Base, ‘loved’ and abandoned my birth mother. Nine months later when I arrived, she had to give me up. I was black. She was white. It wouldn’t have been fitting. Not in ‘62.
Despite such inauspicious beginnings, good fortune smiled on me - in abundance. My luck began at three weeks old when a dear local farmer and his wife – both white, adopted me. Mum said, "We brought a little baby girl home first, but it didn't feel right, so we took her back and swapped her for you." Over the years they also fostered over 200 children!
As a boy, wherever I went, folk whispered and stared. They’d not seen a black child before. Indeed, I didn't see a black man till I was seven.
Whenever I was naughty, which was often, I worried I’d be sent back to the jungle. I'd torture myself silly wondering how I’d cope, for I wasn't used to lions, quicksand and mud huts. It wasn't the sort of thing we had in our village. We were more cub scouts, quaint church halls and homemade jam. Nevertheless, as I watched Tarzan every Saturday morning before my piano lesson, I couldn't help but wonder if one of those scary jungle natives was my 'real' father.
The moment I turned 16, I won a three year scholarship to the finest dance academy in the land:
Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music & Dance click to view
Before I knew it, I was a professional dancer, prancing round the globe. Life was a bauble of glorious fun. Party, party, party. Dance, dance, dance. Big problem though – I wasn’t a very good dancer. I could razzle dazzle, but my technique was crap.
My passion for choreography was greater than my desire to perform. Slowly, with focus and determination, I became a choreographer.
By the time I’d finished that career, I’d ‘done’ Diana Ross and Elton John, flirted with Lisa Minnelli and danced with Tina Turner. I’d seen Barbara Streisand in her scanties, and Mick Jagger in his more times than I care to remember. I’d giggled with Kylie and gossiped with Naomi. I’d won four major choreographic awards and was a director of a top London dance agency. Yes, all was swell, including my head. I contracted meningitis. After three weeks on a life support machine, in a coma, I woke, confused, skinny and really, really hungry.
I'd lost three quarters of my sight, three quarters of my hearing, and all four quarters of my career. Truth was, I didn’t much mind. After 26 years, I’d almost run out of crowed-pleasing steps anyway.
After retraining as a ceramic artist, I was stunned when I sold every piece of my work at our graduation show. A couple of galleries asked to represent me, and a 1000-word autobiographical article I’d written for the international craft magazine, Ceramic Review, saw my first words in print.
I often try and split the day between the two disciplines, but writing’s taken over. I don’t miss all that glitzy stuff one bit.
My ambition, (apart from becoming a successful children’s author), is to live to 110, and still be happy and healthy.
Ain’t life grand?
If you’re not sure, ask anyone who’s dying!