by Tania Flores
I was introduced to flamenco by a blood-letting, like a tailored and sharply-cut red dress whipping out from the back of my head. I was introduced by a woman who had my name, who called herself La Tania, who marked the end of the time when the purity of ballet was enough to contain my six years of age. I watched her dance in Chico State’s Laxson Auditorium, my head wrapped in a turban of white bandages. Wearing my ballet tights and leotard, I had cracked my head open earlier that afternoon on a cold, metallic bathtub rim. La Tania’s resounding footwork helped stem the flow of the hysteria and screams, and transform them into echoing syllables.
That night, the steps of the woman who shared my name told me that I would learn their art – that I would learn to channel emotion into distinctive patterns on a wood floor, into the positioning of my hands, my expressions, my voice. Her steps told me that my passion would not be uncontrolled and explosive, that it would be both ambiguous and exact. Her steps told me that I would have to wait to learn, and I did. For years, a La Tania poster that my mother salvaged from that night hung on my wall, while life accumulated in my body. I gathered wells of experiences I would later draw upon for the development of my own style in flamenco.