Mara learns to anchor the line

Mara T. is one of the kids who grew up in the troupe. Her mother, Kris K. sent this:

This was one of a number of essays Mara wrote for her application to Princeton. It's thanks to George that she and I have had our lives enriched (and complicated) by Balkan entanglements.

"The grainy, haunting sound of a Balkan kaval wavers in the dark, hushed theater. It is at first a simple pulse that slowly crescendos as bagpipes, zurlas, and drums flesh out the melody. The rhythmic pounding of the drums echos the bah-bum! of my own heart, hammering so badly against my ribs it threatens to jump out. I remember cradling myself at eight years old backstage at Lincoln Center, hoping my body parts wouldn’t come unglued and scatter at my feet. Then, as I’m swept onstage in a rush of adrenaline and light, I lose myself completely and hear only the sounds of the music that dictates my body to move in an age-old dance. Looking back, the sounds of Balkan instruments, often dissonant and harsh to the uninitiated ear, are as familiar and comfortable to me as the shape of my own hands. The pounding of opanci shoes on the floor, the high wail of a bagpipe, the beat of the dance—these are simply things that flow in my bloodstream.

"Ironically, it was my northern European mother who introduced me to traditional Balkan dance. (My Bulgarian father has two left feet and wouldn’t know a pravo from a paidushko.) In fact, the very night before I was born my mother danced with me in her womb, and ever since I was just a tiny monster I followed her around and imitated the way she moved. My wide eyes would fix on the dancers, and I was mesmerized by how they seemed to dance with such total energy and abandon. It was the closest thing to actually flying (which at six had been my grand wish). They moved in such an intense affirmation of life, and with incredible grace and ease. It was only years later that I understood how precise, intense, and exacting the dance actually was.

"A good performer understands timing, teamwork, and the ability to appear engaged even under the worst circumstances. I remember hearing George, our dance director shout, 'Smile, or I killit you!' As I got older and my mother stopped dancing, that piece of my life was sealed away and began to fade. But in my memory, the traditional harvest dance at Lincoln Center comes to its rousing finale. The music falls silent, leaving only my pounding heart to continue the beat."