He was the first person I'd ever known who had HIV, and he was one of the most disciplined and demanding teachers I'd ever had the privilege of studying under.
I'd see him some mornings perched on one of the many benches that lined the inner courtyard of the school, his once taut and trained body slowly beginning to wither as the disease crept in and took hold. The drugs that now keep people alive for decades were just becoming available at the time, out of reach for many, or their side effects more brutal on the body than the virus itself. He was taking a cocktail of chemicals and some days he wasn't sure what was killing him faster.
His body may have been caving under the crush of fatigue but his mind was still as brilliant and fierce as it had always been. I remember sitting on the narrow white counter at the back of class watching this long, lean figure cutting through the air with skill and artistry, the many years of experience and performance balanced perfectly from every limb. He was a tough love tutor, a pragmatic professor and a dignified drill sergeant of the dance, and I live with some of the many lessons he imparted to this day. The strength and courage he displayed, so evident when he moved across a stage, also undeniable as he took hold and stock of where his life was now headed.
I'd arrive early most mornings so the grounds were usually quiet as I made my way up the front steps and down the exterior walkways that trimmed the main building. I'd see his silhouette, outlined in that unmistakable southern California light, legs extended, fingers curling over the edges of the of the slatted wood seating areas, shoulders slightly curled forward, long neck sloping down towards the earth. He looked like a regal swan after a battle with a relentless predator. I'd silently walk past most mornings, wanting desperately to reach out but willfully curbing the impulse to shatter his solitude. There was one day though, I think towards the end of my final semester, that I couldn't help myself. I stopped a few feet from him, clutched my books to my chest and said 'How are you?.' He raised his head, his fine blonde hair resettling in the breeze, his clear, glacial blue eyes looking right through me. 'I'm fine my dear...Thank you.' I turned and continued down the walkway, knowing he'd just spared me an intensity I would not have been able to manage in the moment. Later that day as we took our places in class he stood before us, shoulders back, gaze steady, and addressed us, acknowledging he was fighting a war he would not win. He understood that as difficult as this may be for him, he also realized it must be difficult for us too, still so young and perhaps ill equipped for something so profound. He said one of his favorite things was the quiet stillness of campus before the students arrived, a time he cherished when he could relive his past in this place of study before the present moment once again took hold. Then he looked directly into my eyes and smiled. I understood this was his way of telling me that the best way I could help him was to simply leave him be. I've never forgotten that subtle, simple message or the respectful and courteous way it was delivered to me.
A year later our class was invited back to Los Angles for a special event marking the anniversary of the facility and those that had helped make it the renowned performing arts school it still is today. I sat in the auditorium as one famous alumni after another was honoured, celebrated for their tenacity as much as their talents. Afterwards a few of us gathered outside on a grass and cobble stone terrace, reminiscing, laughing, reliving some of the glory of days gone by. I asked one of my former classmates how Mr. Landers was doing and watched her expression shift. 'You didn't hear?' she asked. She didn't need to finish her thought. I turned away and looked out over the ever twinkling skyline of the 'city of angels' and wondered if he wasn't out there, somewhere, light as a cloud now and perhaps, once again, dancing on air.
