Why Do We Do Aerial?

In Kansas City, where I established my aerial career, we trained, taught, and/or performed aerial because of our own trauma-induced masochism that we proudly channeled into the empowerment practice of mastering weird, artsy, awe-inspiring, circus shit. We made stage shows that told stories. We expressed ourselves as characters in those stories.

Photo by Tim Williamson — "Under the Bed," Nov. 2017

In my new environment, the aerial experience feels much shallower (she says with love). Rather than a community-based art form, it’s all one big competition--fueled by drops, likes, awards, and teaching certificates. Would-be brilliant artists work largely in isolation to try and be the “best,” but often by being the exact same as everyone else.

In my new students and colleagues, I spy hunger.

They are bold, so strong, and clever enough to sense that something’s missing. When I expose them to a new layer of their movement practice (like alignment, breath, fear, or the lies of social media), they tend to lift their eyebrows and smirk. I imagine their inner voices rejoicing, shouting “I knew it!”

There’s an intimidating amount of depth and vulnerability to explore in any movement practice, and while I’m in this community, I intend to be a resource, a guide, for those brave enough to put down their phones and find the movement from within.

Let’s start by asking ourselves: “Why do we do this?”

I'll tell you why I do this.

I went to my first silks class because I knew I could be good at it, and it’s fun to be good at things. I kept going to escape the misery I lived with at home--what dance gave me as a teen, aerial gave me as an adult. Then I did it, unbeknownst to me, to get free--because my every achievement (like becoming a teacher or a member of a performance company) made it impossible to continue a relationship with an abusive man who resented my growth. That tension was the ultimate gift. Then, in the aftermath of unfortunate events, my new full-time aerial work helped me heal, confront my past, and grow into a stronger, surer version of myself. Now,

I remain loyal to this wildly infuriating life of explaining to muggles what I do because...

“this can’t be all there is.”

In Season One of Once Upon a Time, young Henry knows his town is cursed, keeping all our favorite fairytale characters separated from their memories, stuck in provincial Storybrooke, where there are no more happy endings. Eventually, Henry’s therapist (Gemini Cricket) asks him, “Why’s it so important to you that these stories are real?” Henry matter-of-factly says, “Because. This can’t be all there is.” That’s why I’m an aerialist. Because there’s got to be more to life than working ‘till you die. Since I have to work to live, however, I insist on having fun.

Now that I’ve left the community that made me, and the two powerfully brilliant women who big-sistered me through the beginning of my career, I reckon I come to Dallas with an outsider’s perspective that could be of great use to my new comrades. I reckon, if we work together with open hearts, we can channel the exquisitely wild energy of this place and begin to move from the kind of strength that’s grounded in connection and authenticity.

It’s my new dream to watch this community lead with love over competition. Y’all are more than tough enough…so do the harder thing!