Carmencita la Loca
A short fiction story about shifting traditional gender roles
Remember, remember the 4th of December, the gender-role treason and shot. I know of no reason why the gender-role treason should ever be forgot.
While many sleep on this cold December night, a brown-eyed Spanish woman named Carmen stares at herself in the bathroom mirror of a foreign bar in a foreign country. At 16, she had migrated to the US from Spain fleeing the Civil War. Tonight, she wears cherry red lipstick with her hair up, adorned with decorative roses — the same shade as her lips.
Carmen is using the bathroom as a sort of hideout. From there she can hear people being loud, yelling, singing and playing music. It looks to be yet another tablao flamenco night at the Spanish Tapas Bar in Queens, New York . But despite all the commotion, Carmen takes deep long breaths and focuses: If not me, who? If not here, where? If not now, when? A sudden knock on the door lets her know it is go time.
The stage, a simple wooden platform, is waiting. The musicians — Guitarristas, Cantaor, and Palmero — are ready. The audience consists of Spaniards and Spanish-speakers, most of them distracted, talking over one another, half drunk, half alert, with a beer, a glass of wine or sangria in hand. A wide variety of tapas are spread across the tables.
The venue has made an effort to imitate the tablaos in Spain, incorporating Islamic art into a cabaret look. There are tables decorated with embroidered silk shawls and bullfighter capes. Hanging from the walls are photographs of famous flamenco dancers and musicians, matadores, and Spanish politicians, with one or two Spanish movie posters mixed in.
Silencio! An electrified Carmen thinks about what she will be doing on stage next.. it is important, bold and out of line. As the three guitarristas begin playing their guitars with ascending appoggiaturas, quintessential flamenco sounds, the fear completely leaves Carmen. There is only excitement left.
The powerful and hypnotic melody calms the audience down. The cantaor soon joins the guitars with his beautiful voice — that well-known grito de flamenco, so specific to the art form and so heavily shaped over by the Moorish centuries.
Carmencita La Loca, as people would later call her, begins dancing by raising her arms and turning her wrists. She cannot help but hear discouraging gasps and yells from certain audience members — different from the encouraging cries of Olé! that she is used to. No matter. She is prepared for these disrespectful interruptions. This is why it is important to do this, she tells herself and tries to block out the noise and listen to the compás — the rhythm. She hears the palmero’s hand-clapping match her internal rhythm and after that, it is on. She is fierce, quick, and precise. There is no doubt that she is one of the most talented flamenco artists in the world and proves, once again, that she has every right to be there, in that room, in whichever form she has chosen to appear in.
Louder slurs and insults hit Carmencita’s ears like a bullet from a gun. Now and again she does hear a word of encouragement, Olé! Toma que toma! Vamo’! and she is determined to dance better, harder, faster. Suddenly, a powerful flash momentarily blinds her and she becomes aware of her heart in her hand, pounding; of the sweat completely drenched in her body; of her swollen feet, screaming to get out of those tight, leathery shoes.
As she looks ahead to the audience, she sees a man standing in front of her with a big camera taking her picture. He’s holding a Kodak Brownie Hawkeye with a big flash attached to it. That’s it. She’s done. She steps off the wooden plank, waves, leaves. She can hear people faintly clapping for her, but mostly hears disappointment. Carmencita quickly pulls out her abanico from her skirt and maintains it closed — as if ready to hit anyone standing between her and the bathroom — her hideout. She did something bold but, in a way, she felt at home with family. And although her heart was hurting, she was also emotionally prepared for it.
The following morning Carmencita walks to a corner store for her morning coffee and gets a hold of the local newspaper. There she is on page 17, in the Arts and Culture section: “Flamenco Performer Carmencita La Loca, as some residents are calling her, wears the Matador Pants to a Tablao.” Yes, crazy Carmencita had worn pants that night. They were green pants, very modern and minimalist. The exact opposite of the traditional red and white ruffled, polka-dotted and long-tailed bata de cola dress. Her visage, pants and all, is there, alongside a short write-up.
As she walks back to her apartment, she notices a girl about 10 years old walking along with her mom. It is 1937 and the girl happens to be wearing green pants, just like she did the night before. Carmencita does not believe in fate or destiny, but she does see this as a sign of approval from the universe. The little girl notices Carmencita is staring at her and waves. Carmencita waves back with a smile.
Inspired by flamenco dancer, Carmen Amaya RIP