Give your free will a chance, you've got to work to succeed...and a momentary look back

Take Heart

While many are under the constant barrage of Valentine's Day frenzy, I gleefully confess that I have spent many alone. No gifts, no hearts, no jewelry, nary a Stella D'oro Swiss fudge cookie in my midst. Each year, however, I am bestowed a precious gift, if only I stop to notice. It has never been a man, a look, a kiss, or dinner.

Since my muse watches over me with special regard, I take great pleasure in watching the folly of those around me in fruitless pursuit of the things I have just mentioned.

Valentine's Day really is one of the sillier holidays. A day to declare one's love? Haven't humans indulged in this pasttime since the dawn of time? And who made the rules governing the use of red foil hearts, chocolates, and tiny candies with sappy messages to express their love? I am partial to Cupid with his little arrow and tiny feet, but if he ever struck me in my past, I'm sure I wasn't aware of it.

My true suspicions regarding Valentine's Day are grounded in good, old-fashioned, ruthless commercialism. Americans love to make a buck, so why not? The actual existence of St. Valentine was never proven anyway, but placed in myth, so why not romanticize and wrap the whole holiday in red velvet? Hey, I like a good box of chocolates like anyone else.

But, I digress. Remember those "gifts" I mentioned before? I got a doozy two years ago.

I LOVE telling this story.

February 14, 1994 began as a fairly innocuous one for me. I went to a film class, wrote a poem at lunch, and planned to meet a friend later at his acting class. Pretty usual stuff.

Class ended, I took the train to Manhattan, and waited for my buddy. The problem was, I entered the wrong building. He had already left by the time I realized I was in the wrong place. "Oh well," I thought. I made my way up Eighth Avenue at 49th street with little fuss. I slowly began to recognize a woman walking next to me and I stopped dead in my tracks. The woman was my childhood idol.

"Gelsey Kirkland?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, quite startled.

"I happened to be reading your book, " I said, referring to the sequel to her autobiography, The Shape of Love. It was the third time I had picked it up and I wasn't quite sure why. My Muse must have known.

"You were really good on L.A. Law," I told her. The previous Thursday, she had guest starred, and I was quite impressed. It was her first acting assignment.

"Oh, thank you, " she replied, smiling. "It's freezing!" she said, beginning to laugh. "Good luck getting through the rest of the winter."

"I think I need it for the spring," I replied. With that, she stopped and smiled at me, her blue eyes sparkling. "Ok, then, " she giggled.

"Good night," she said to me finally, slowly turning the corner. The whole encounter must have lasted no more than sixty seconds, but my heart raced.

This was the woman with whom Baryshnikov had hand-picked to dance when he defected from the former Soviet Union in July 1974. Her ballet career, though later marred by injuries and various addictions, began to skyrocket at just the time I became interested in dance, 1977. Her comeback in 1986, after five years of drug abuse, floored critics and fans alike when she performed Romeo and Juliet and Sleeping Beauty for the last time with the Royal Ballet of London. There are five great ballerinas in the history of dance: four are Russian, only one is American. The American is generally regarded as Gelsey Kirkland.

She spoke to me. We shared a moment. We met. I thought I would BURST. My joy. My idol. I had to watch her walk away.

As a fine crystalline lattice of snow descended upon me, I realized THAT was my gift. I waited for a Valentine's Day to remember, and finally, there it was.

For all of you lonely masses, this I say to you: life's treats do not always appear in a box of candy, yet they taste just as sweet. Take heart: your unexpected package may arrive this year.

reprinted from The Brooklyn College Excelsior ©1996


The best Valentine's Day I did have a few years after this was 2001. If 9/11 hadn't happened, Mark would still be with me. Immigration made certain to harass him about his visa application. He's been back in Jamaica since 2002, with little hope of getting back here unless restrictive laws are eased. Thank you, Ashcroft.