Does anyone remember the 1952 musical Singing in the Rain or is it only me?
The part I remember the most is NOT the solo Gene Kelly throwing away his umbrella in the middle of a downpour, then jumping into puddles, dancing with joy, but later in the movie with his dance partner, an up-and-coming star Cyd Charisse. The ballet movement tells a story of a nobody who loves to dance. He knocks on every Hollywood studio door and is rejected every time. Yet his urge to dance never leaves him. Rejection after rejection, he continues to let dance capture him in her clutches. The accompanying song to the routine: Gotta Dance.
For many years I have written weekly analects/blogs without a break. Occasionally, perhaps once every 20th post, someone congratulates me on my story. More often than not, readers complain about a variety of defects in my writing or call me out on my opinion. Their criticisms always lead me to ask if it’s worth continuing to write.
My 124th analect, Two Funerals in Calgary, if you haven’t guessed, was about two funerals in an Ismaili Muslim mosque. For decades, I had spent my life avoiding any contact with my community. Nevertheless, I witnessed our diaspora out of Africa to the West, each carrying nothing but a single suitcase. In Africa, our mosque was built of solid marble and mahogany. It was there I found tranquility as a child. Abroad, as we scratched our way from survival to success, it was our religion that kept us together. As we prospered, so grew our mosque: from a townhouse in Kensington, London, to a warehouse in Calgary. This in turn sprouted into a large mosque on its own grounds. The epitome of our success.
Attending the two funerals, I wasn’t overwhelmed by the mosques. My mind went back to the peace in prayer in my mosque in Africa. I compared it to this pretentious edifice, a showy statement to the rest of the citizens of Calgary. Good or bad, that was my honest opinion on the day.
I had known Zen when I arrived in Calgary in 1980. We had lost touch for more than twenty years. Two years ago, I was notified by AWeber that she had subscribed to my website.
A few days after my post, I received a blistering email from her.
“How could you write such a (distasteful ) account of our mosque. Don’t you know our community under the Aga Khan Foundation has won countless awards in architecture in the last ten years.”
She never added, “Shame on you,” which she implied.
Zen forwarded me articles about the accolades our community had received worldwide for its latest mosques and gardens.
“Zen,” I replied after thanking her for two pages of email. “You’ve been a subscriber of mine for two years. Not once have you commented on any of my stories. Even here, you take immediate umbrage over a two-sentence description of my feelings on the day. You have no comment on my story and why it was written.”
I went on, “My anecdotes are life experiences. They are described through my eyes and emotions. If I’ve written with distaste for the architecture, in the light of all those awards, I’ll be laughed at. How can you judge my writing based on a passing description? My writing wasn’t a diatribe on Ismail architecture. It was an expression of my honest thoughts, rightly or wrongly, warts and all.”
A month later, I’m about to start my 135rd analect, with nothing to write about. Zen enters my mind. I think I may have something.
Amid the slings and arrows of my vocation, I remember the little skinny nerd in the musical singing “Gotta Dance” as he’s rebuffed from every corner. I stand up, slip into my leotard, raise my hands in the air and pirouette, retorting, “Gotta write. Gotta write.”
