I first saw her in one of the galleries. She was the assistant to the woman performing as “Not Allowed to be Nude” or “Misplaced Madonna.” She was tall and lanky with short hair. She work a skinny black suit and dark sunglasses. She was the butch version of the proper museum docent.
At the reception following la Pocha Nostra’s The New Barbarians, Rio, Mariela and I sipped chilled white wine and munched on veggies and chicken kebabs while waiting for the performers to make their entrance. Soon after, the four main members of La Pocha Nostra — out of makeup and fully dressed — joined the San Francisco art crowd. The organizer of the show, a short dark-haired Latina, thanked the performers. Everyone clapped except for the alt-docent. She stomped hard on the wooden floor.
She had a good stomp. Like the stomps of a jaranero in the middle of a fandango. Or the zapateado of kids in a ballet folklórico troupe dancing to el Canelo or el Gusto.
In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be 13 years old again, at the height of my short-lived dance career. Continue reading


Sean: so what did you tell him?