Essay 1 by Deborah Lammam
"Suhaila's on the phone!" yelled Gina, my daughter/fellow Suhaila Dance comapny Member. I grabbed the phone.

"What do you think of us dancing at the Renaissance Faire?" asked Suhaila. Memories of fifteen years ago when Gina was still in my arms flooded my senses: sweat dripping sword dance at the Mullah's Coffee house, aroma of roast turkey drumstick mingling with the aroma of roasting people overdresses in earth toned colors, a girl I knew named "Feather-Dancing, Eastern Star Cream, immense HEAT...." "So what do you think?" she said. "But what would we do?" I answered. "You know -- drum, sword, cane, cymbals -- but in my style." Sword Dance? Suhaila style? Mmmmm... could be hot! "Sure, fine. Sounds great!"

We had three months and rehearsals right away. Oh yes, first we had to wirte a sample press release and submit a formal application to the appropriate authorities-- my job, with a little help from my literary friends. We came up with some enticing descriptions of dances that we hadn't even seen yet. No problem though-- Suhaila was already choreographing in her sleep. Company girls were all assigned multiple jobs such as sending for drums and finding drum straps, a gong, some pots and swords. We all began a panic attack on the asute costumes which existed only in the realm of ideas at this point. Our list was like: send for asute dress and alter to fit; make coin bras and belts (Lila, help!); learn to play the drum rhythms; learn to drum and teach Suhaila's drum solo from her tape (my job-- but Suhaila I can't do that-- yes you can-- okay I will -- I did); AND learn new dances. Thank Goddess we already knew the cane and cymbal dances.

Rehearsals were Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights throughout the spring, and sewing and personal rehearsing and classes in between our jobs (why do we need jobs again?) and some of us already traveling to Los Angeles during the weekends for other gigs. There was not a free minute for any one of us and as it was we pulled it together just in time, still fixing transitions between dances even to the last rehearsal (...even to our "wet hair in towel" rehearsal in our hotel rooms which had been provided cordially for us by our employers). The real stress was our eight hour drive to Los Angeles every Friday after work and every Sunday night back after work. Ask me where to find: Sun Chips, Power Bars, Puffins, and Taco Bell somewhere on Route 5.

Essay II By Gina Bruno
...So there we were in our designer summer dresses, our hair in curls, and pounds of makeup. "Wow! This is too hot!" was all that could come out of our dry mouths. Sweltering and unable to handle the one-hundred degree San Bernardino weather we all huddled in a small patch of shade while Suhaila got the information as to which stage we were to be assigned.

"Here we are, girls." Amidst an oak tree shaded area under a multi-colored tent stood the stage which would be our universe and our home base for the next six weekends. Our "dressing room" appeared to be less than glamorous, if at all bearable (I'm putting this nicely). Actually, it wasn't much of an eye sore beside the fact that it consisted of mostly dust and haystacks.

The next few weekends turned out to be one of the most notable experiences this company has ever had together. The audiences were always supportive and weren't stingy with their applause or their picture taking. There were at least five older men who attended every show prepared with their high-tech cameras and rolls of film. I myself enjoyed performing outdoors. There was nothing better than dancing on a stage where there was scenery of the mountains behind while velvety clouds passed slowly by. Some days there would be this soft, romantic pink orange lighting that was almost angelic. These days were usually the bearable days where there would be a slight cool breeze blowing (because we all hate the runnig make-up and sweaty backs before we even step on stage). By the last few weekends we were really into the swing into the Ren. Faire. Chicken pitas, fresh strawberry shortcake, and Greek salads had become staple diet. The dressing room had been transformed into a plush louging area. It was filled with big mats and beach blankets to keep our feet from getting to dirty, bottle water and ice drinks from our generous friends we had become acquainted with "The Ale Booth", and lawn chairs for taking breathers (did I mention mirrors and battery operated fans?) We were able to put our costumes on in a matter of seconds and our shows were becoming practically perfect attracting more people than were able to fit in the seats provided. As we walked around the faire between the shows we could hear people say, "hey, those are the belly dancers!You haven't experienced the faire until you have seen one of their shows!" Or something along the lines of "We're not worthy!" "Were not worthy!" as we walked over ten kneeling nobles displaying their gratitude. One of my favorites was " I shall wait for thee faire maiden 'til ye return . And when thou dost return I shall take thy hand in marriage. God ye good den, my love!" (all in jest of course) My mother, with her witty ways, remarked to such blush-causing expressions of love, "How now, brown cow?"

On a more serious note, the Renaissance Faire experiences we had are what being a performer is all about. The friendships that were made, the hilarious people, the great food, the light-hearted feeling and adrenaline rushes during every show, the applause and smiling faces will always stir sweetly in my memory and will remain a high point of my dancing career for years to come.