I had intended to publish this tribute back in September. I wrote a version of the second half (after the jump) in August and had hoped to have it read at her memorial service. But for a variety of reasons, things didn't work out, so Plan B was to post it here right before the implosion of the election. Then came the holidays, more distractions, and the realization that maybe it isn't my imagination that I'm finding it a lot harder to focus or finish anything lately.
Instead of lamenting that particular downside of aging, I figured that at the right time I would eventually make my way back to finishing what I started. Eight months later, we were driving back from New Jersey and while listening to a late afternoon gospel music program out of Baltimore, I heard a song² that I thought I knew but couldn't place how or why. Normally, that kind of disconnect would have caused me to fixate until solving the riddle; however, by the second verse I recognized it as part of a suite of familiar dance pieces.
According to the calendar, it has been a year since the last time I saw Mrs. B at my daughter's dance recital, June 1, 2024. Each week, I sit in my car not far from the very spot where we had our last conversation. To think that interaction almost did not happen...but God. In a seemingly random series of ways, everything divinely aligned. Instead of leaving immediately after the show, I had my daughter pose for pictures in both of her costumes, which took time. I'm sure that I got to chatting with some folks whom I hadn't seen in a while as that is the nature of these kinds of event. When I made it outside, I saw my Dad's priest wandering past, so I stopped to talk with him. Then finally, on my way to my car, I saw Mrs. B slowly trudging her way across the courtyard to her car. Although I was used to seeing her walk with a cane, she seemed to be moving a lot more cautiously, almost dragging her body alongside a much taller walking stick that was twice her height. As always, she was toting more than one bag including one that held several bouquets of flowers she had received in honor of her being named director emerita of the studio.
My daughter had given her one of those bouquets, which turned out to be another one of those random impulses that God must have whispered into my spirit. I had dropped the Kid off to get ready for the show, and with a little time to fill before it began, I made a quick side trip to Trader Joe's to buy wine and flowers. I snapped up a few bouquets for my dancer, her teachers, and since I knew that Mrs. B was expected to attend, I grabbed one for her as well. Until the previous October, she had been one of the Kid's teachers too.
Until that previous October, it would have been inconceivable to think of St. Mark's Dance Studio and not have a simultaneous thought or memory of the ubiquitous Rosie Brooks. The very suggestion of her retiring was taboo, even if she was the person floating that trial balloon. Thus, when she had to take medical leave unexpectedly, we all hoped it would be temporary. In 40 years, I had never known her to get sick or injured enough to miss teaching classes. Paradoxically, it should have occurred to me that if she needed to take a medical leave of absence, then whatever the cause was a lot more serious than we wanted to believe. Therefore, I never imagined that our catch-up in the parking lot that day would be our last. Or that as we chatted about my Mom and she reassured me that I should take all of the time I needed to grieve, I would need to apply that same advice to my feelings about losing her.
In life, we aren't always given opportunities to let our loved ones know how much they mean to us. Sure, we have special holidays, formal observances, greeting cards, etc., but transitions don't tend to coincide with those moments. We become aware in hindsight or once we've missed the moment and promised to do better the next time. What happens if there is no next time? How to cope with the reality that you didn't make good on that promise to stop by one afternoon while she was teaching? Nor get to drop in to take a class for the first time since the pandemic? Nor just come to sit and chat like we used to in that big gap of time she had midday before her afternoon classes? How do you accept that you really never told her how much she meant to you because you had all of these ideas about how that should be communicated in some grand fashion, but she died before you got to formalize the proposal, let alone implement any plans?
Maybe that's why the church folks always tell us that we have to give people their flowers when they are able to smell them. Because six weeks later, I got that phone call and that meant I would not get to make good on any of my promises to visit. Instead of the retirement celebration I had envisioned to include testimonials and revival performances of some of her classic pieces, there was a memorial service.
That I had to watch online from the road because of a scheduling conflict...
Presuming that eight months of procrastination can indeed be blamed on brain fog and aging, it could also be that I felt a bit ashamed and a heap of guilt that this would be the only way I would ever get to express any appreciation for this relationship that spanned 40 years. Had I known that I wouldn't get another chance to do anything meaningful, what more could I possibly have said in that parking lot? Thank you? For not dismissing me as some gangly limbed freak when I showed up to start ballet classes at the ripe old age of 10? Thank you for seeing whatever it was you saw in me that kept me dancing all of those years. Thank you for being tough and honest and pushy because I needed to be challenged, disciplined, and encouraged. Thank you for loving my daughter. Thank you for being more than a dance teacher because you were also a confidant, a mentor, a life coach, and most of all, a friend.
It hasn't taken me all this time just to say thanks. It has taken me almost a year to confront my guilt and release my regrets for not being able to show up as I would have wanted. If writing this was the least I could do, then leaving it unfinished to languish in the drafts has been the worst. So it was not mere happenstance that something as subtle as a song inspired me to return to this piece. It was a nudge and a reminder that this was never supposed to be about me...but about her.
A year ago, some of her former students, my daughter among them, got to dance for her. Instead of being worried about the behind-the-scenes technical stuff, Mrs. B got to sit and watch the show. For all I know, this might have been the first time in 40 years that she wasn't running everything. In that unscripted, serendipitous encounter in the parking lot, she praised how well everything had been managed in her absence. It must have filled Mrs. B with pride upon seeing what she had built, with confidence that we could carry on, and with reassurance that she had trained us so well. In essence, she had received something far more substantial than bunches of grocery store flowers--she got to bear witness to all she had done at and for SMDS all these years. Assurance that her legacy would endure and flourish is the kind of gratification that is priceless and beautiful beyond words.
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| My daughter in costume from Mrs. B's recital piece in 2023 |
The next part is what I wrote for the memorial service on behalf of the disbanded dance company/former students/current parents, but for the sake of expediency in the planning process, it got dropped from the program. Then because I couldn't be there in person, it seemed appropriate to convert my remembrance into a reflection to be read privately by her family. However, there was no way I could allow 800 words to suffice as my final farewell given the nature of our 40-year relationship. The version published after the jump is longer than what was submitted to the family...one of the perks/pitfalls of editing my own blog.
-- ADH
I am one of the many dancers who is proud to say that I was
taught by Rosetta Brooks (Mrs. B) at the St. Mark’s Dance Studio (SMDS). I have been a part of
the SMDS family for 40 years. If you can imagine, one of the most challenging assignments
to take on (and spend weeks procrastinating in getting done) is to attempt to write
a concise and poignant reflection about someone who has been your mentor for most
of your life. It has taken me nearly two months to jot down these few thoughts,
primarily because it has taken two months for all of this finally to sink in.
I came to SMDS when I was about the same age as my daughter Zuri is now (10). It was the early 80s and everywhere in popular culture people were dancing, so I wanted to do what they were doing. I begged my Mom to enroll me in classes so that I could move like a Solid Gold dancer or like one of the fictional students on the TV show Fame. Call it a coincidence, or just the way that God aligns things to bring us the desires of our hearts, because the summer before I started the sixth grade, a postcard came to our house in the mail. It was for a dance studio located not far from where we lived, addressed for the serious dancer.
As the saying goes, first impressions are lasting. I remember several things about that fateful initial visit to the studio: two staircases, a massive one that led to studio and the smaller one that led to the dressing room; the huge German shepherd dog that was stretched out in front of the mirror; the petite chain-smoking woman who didn’t smile (the late Mary Craighill, the founder and artistic director); and finally, a short lady dressed in black who wore blue eye shadow and her hair in pigtails.
If I had any reservations about whether this was the right place for me then (which I did), you would never know that now, given that with only a handful of exceptions, I never trained anywhere else.
The petite chain-smoker who didn't smile only glared at me while the other lady with the pigtails made notes to determine my assignment. Whether it was an actual audition, or just me standing there, who remembers that now? Until that day, I had no formal dance training, so if I am recalling events accurately, this was a pro-forma evaluation to determine if I was either too old or clumsy to begin lessons at my age since most girls began ballet much younger. Apparently, I made the cut and breathed a sigh of relief to learn that neither of those two women was to be my teacher.
Instead, I would start my dance career in a Saturday morning beginner class taught by Dorothy "Dot" Walker. It is important to point out that both Dot and Jessica Sloane, who was a dance company member at the time, are still here. That's because SMDS is, and always has been a family...
My second impression of Mrs. Brooks came from those Saturday mornings when I got to observe her in her own ballet classes. Remember how my first impression felt like I had to make the cut? Well, that's because there weren't many beginner ballet classes for anyone older than 10 at most places, so once our class ended, all traces of amateurism or that children had even been learning in that space completely vanished. At the end of our révérance, we were whisked out of the studio to make way for the company class and were instructed to wait outside or on that large staircase for our late pickups. We were not to be seen or heard, a rule that was posted on the studio doors, etched in the visage of the petite chain-smoking artistic director who taught the class, and reinforced by the presence of her German shepherd.
The mere presence of Mrs. Brooks, who was also a dancer in the company, ensured that we would remain silent. If the studio tagline, for the serious dancer, was embodied in a particular person, then back in those days, the avatar would have been Rosetta Brooks. Everyone else around here could be similarly solemn in demeanor; however, unlike the others, there was a different intensity to her that was intimidating--quite a feat for a woman who barely stood five feet tall. Although she didn't teach that Saturday class, if she had to glance over at us for being too giggly or restless, it felt like being struck by lightning.
Thus, being promoted to Mrs. Brooks's Intermediate B class the next year was simultaneously an honor and akin to being sentenced. Mrs. Craighill only taught adults, Mrs. Walker only taught young children, and Mrs. Brooks taught most of the youth ballet classes, so taking a class with her was inevitable. I imagine her objective had been to personally oversee the training of every teenager until we were released into whatever dance world existed beyond the church. Perhaps it was fitting that it was through Mrs. Brooks that the studio tagline was tested and refined--St. Mark's was indeed for the serious student who could survive her demanding and disciplined old-school Russian style training.
I took her Thursday technique class until my junior year of high school and began her teen pointe class on Fridays beginning in the ninth grade. That was twice a week for four years until she "promoted" me to the tutelage of someone else. When I returned to DC after being away for school, I took a few classes off and on, depending on my schedule. In 2003 she invited me to join the dance company, and I was an active member until my daughter was born in 2015.
I often joked that she had gone soft in recent years. When I was younger, Mrs. Brooks demanded that we arrive early (not merely on time) so that we could be at our assigned place at the barre for the start of class. During that tight window between classes, she would conduct a quick visual inspection for cowlicks, holes or runs in our tights, forgotten ballet shoes, etc. Any infraction received a stern rebuke (to us and also to our parents and guardians). Arrival more than five minutes after she had begun our barre could result in being sidelined to watch the entire class from the corner, so it was wise to never let that happen more than once. If there was such a concept as a pop quiz in ballet, it would occur every time she brought out her drum to drill our ability to execute certain beats. In those days, everyone at St. Mark's jumped at the boom of her voice.
Subsequent generations of dancers, my daughter included, were taught by the more easy-going, mellower "Mrs. B", the moniker she adopted in recent years (because I could never bring myself to call her Rosie like the other adults). I observed her evolution from stern ballet drill sergeant to jovial stage Mom with amusement. She still ran a tight ship and could be a taskmistress, but with a velvet glove as opposed to an iron fist. The dress code remained, but it was not as strictly enforced. A student running late to class was more likely to be greeted with concern and then comforted by a hug as opposed to being exiled to observe class from the sidelines. My daughter doesn't remember if Mrs. B ever brought out her drum during class. Now, everyone at St. Mark's will miss the echo of her laugh.
For the most part, everyone who has ever danced at SMDS has found their way back here. This studio functions as both a learning environment and communal gathering space for a large extended family for which Mrs. B served as the de facto matriarch for decades. It never mattered how many years passed since your last dance class, if you showed up in that doorway and peeked your head around the corner, chances are, you saw Rosie Brooks sitting in that wooden chair, barely held together by duct tape, underneath that analog clock. And nine times out of ten, she immediately recognized you! She would invite you back to take a class or to attend the annual recital. If you had a family, she made her expectation clear that your child(ren) were to be enrolled as soon as possible!
Mrs. B remembered everything about everybody. She knew all
of our parents and inquired about them. She sent birthday and holiday cards in
both the old school and new school ways, so if you are the kind of person who
keeps things, you probably have a stack of physical and virtual greeting cards from
her. Like every attentive matriarch, she celebrated the various milestones and
the transitions in our lives—birthday parties, wedding and baby showers,
holiday socials, graduations, and bon voyages. Because she had been such a
steadfast and abiding presence here for so long, I often joked that we were all devoted to the Cult of Rosie, a group of loyalists who would do anything for her, because
we all knew that we could count on her to do anything for us.
While I am heartbroken not to be physically present to dance
in today’s tribute (September 21, 2024), perhaps it is more fitting that my daughter is there
to represent and perform. Allegedly, I ‘retired’ from the Dance Company in 2020
to focus my energy on being a Dance Mom, and Zuri was blessed to join that distinguished
company of young dancers lucky to have been taught by Mrs. B. Hence, one
of the enduring legacies of her tenure is that St. Mark’s remains a truly multi-generational
studio. It is not uncommon or unusual to have been patronized by students of
all ages/abilities AND to have had two to three generations of dancers trained
under her tutelage.
The magnitude of our loss finally struck me the night I found an old recital program. If you can believe that I vividly remember everything about that recital as if it happened yesterday. One of pieces included on that program was the Senior Company's performance of Jubilation³, the dance that will conclude this service. In spite of whatever emotions we might be individually feeling, Jubilation truly embodies the spirit that Mrs. B infused in this community for these 60+ years. By her own account, she choreographed this piece to fill space; ironically, it became the anchor of a gospel suite of songs the Senior and Junior Company members performed and passed down to subsequent generations of dancers through these many years.
Today, I urge you to you join in the recessional, because in celebration of Mrs. B, it is a time to dance, not to cry or mourn. Perhaps it seems inconceivable to embrace this concept of jubilation at the loss of such a formidable woman, but if you knew Rosie Brooks for any length of time, you know that for her, dance was everything—healing, restorative, calming, inspiring, expressive, transformative, sacred…triumphant!
¹ Mrs. B loved this stuff, so even if you can't keep the beat, have a glass of sweet wine and try dancing again :)
² The song, Mine All Mine (1970) by the Edwin Hawkins Singers was one of several songs that made up a gospel suite that Mrs. B choreographed in the 1970s.
³ This would be the second time we've honored Mrs. B with a performance of Jubilation (1973). I recently found this video from 15 years ago when we surprised her with a revival of the piece and brought back several former students to participate. She had been honored in 2009 by a local community foundation and we wanted to acknowledge that achievement.
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