Dogwood Chapter 10

Bless the Adopted Child

If you came to the very first performance of The Bambi Show in 2023; or you were at Bambi Loves You! this past Valentine’s day; or you’re only just now reading Chapter 10, then you would know that I, Bambi, have always felt a little like a prophecy. Maybe that’s because from 13 on, people I barely knew or honestly didn’t know at all, have told me that I will die on the dancefloor.

They’re So Raven with the visions left and right. Even when I was a straight-edge at ballet camp. Or when I was reading my book while working coatcheck at Barracuda in Chelsea. I would politely put down my Agatha Christie to hear, once again, that there was something about my energy or face or funny third thing, I don’t even know. But I’m telling you now: I, Bambi, will one day die on the dancefloor. It has been foretold by a customer at Aēsop. Fun fact, Aēsop and fable are both 5-letter words. This is the last chapter of Season 5. Bless. Which is also a 5-letter word.

🙏

Bless the adopted child. There’s a reason they appear time and again as an archetype for a hero’s journey. A child raised from some initial schism; a child jettisoned into the world like Moses in a basket, Mwindo in a drum, or Superman in an escape pod. Or whatever. The adopted child sits in a circle of genetic strangers, looks out and thinks “they are somehow not like me” and thus “what am I even like?” The adopted child does not hear “that temper comes from your father” or “ you look more and more like grandma Rose every year.” They read no roadmap of temperament or inclination as they grow.

Just like the Virgin Mary, my birthmother was 14 years old and I, Bambi, only know existence because of a brave child. Brave and child are 5-letter words. My parents, The Historian and The Believer, raised me on a mountain in a boarding house, now turned Bed-Without-Much-Breakfast. The current of that house taught me a whole fucking lot of things. Because I, Bambi, have met a lot of people and made a lot of beds. When I was 5, my grandmother, The Musician, warned that the spotlight would eventually exhaust me. Decades later, at The Musician’s funeral the priest broke down on the pulpit and choked through tears that they’d never seen a person “walk so quietly and steadfastly in their faith.” Faith is a 5-letter word. In the 40s, my other grandmother, The Historian’s mom, lied to the FBI…. She told them she knew how to type during a job interview. They hired her and she learned on the job, duh.

But back to me, Bambi, hi. I’ve known I was a dancer since I was 2 and a half years old. My great-grandmother made my very first (and to this day only) tutu. It was blue and I was 3. Not that you asked, but it was a Romantic length, if you know classical ballet. Speaking of ballet, I’ve done a lot of it because I was just barely talented enough to be invited to rooms with incredible artists. Some that I have admired and some I have hated.

I actually wasn’t allowed to say “hate” growing up. My parents, The Historian and The Believer didn’t let me say “shut up” either. Their preferred phrase was “please be quiet” as The Historian once reprimanded a friend of mine. The house I grew up in is only like 80 years younger than the country. It’s so old it has actual keyholes for actual skeleton keys. The lock on my bedroom door stands at the very top of our stairs and on nights the house was full of guests I could see a keyhole’s worth of vantage as I checked the parade of who had come to stay at our home on the mountain.

I am Bambi and I will die on the dancefloor… or so it has been written. Bless the adopted child who looks around knowing somehow these people are not like me. So what then am I like?