“soar” by susan hess logeais

When filmmaker Susan Hess Logeais reached out to me to help promote her Kickstarter project, I spent five minutes reading what she wrote about it and, between tears, agreed. 

Susan is raising money to finish her documentary and produce a dance concert that will serve as the film’s finale.  She only has until Thursday to reach her funding goals so I hope you will help her out with a donation here.

Her film is called SOAR, and its tagline is, “Your concept of what’s possible is about to change.” The story is so powerful, I’m going to let you just read about it here, in her words:

Almost two years ago, I was invited to film a duet at a local high school. The teacher, Melissa St. Clair, had choreographed the piece for two sisters, Kiera Brinkley and Uriah Boyd. When she’d told me that Kiera was a quadruple amputee, I couldn’t picture what their duet might look like. How would she move, let alone dance? But Kiera had a reputation in Portland. Other dance teachers I asked confirmed that she could, in fact, dance. So, camera and tripod in hand, I went to Jefferson High School to meet Melissa and film them.

It only took one cartwheel out of her wheel chair from Kiera to make me a fan. But as the music filled the room and she and Uriah started to dance, my appreciation grew to encompass them both. Kiera was amazing—fluid, graceful, and so full of heart. And so was Uriah.

Through the viewfinder, I saw how Uriah’s effortless grace moved the space around her. Everything connected in an endless flow. Watching Kiera, I saw how her movement radiated out from her heart to extend beyond her amputated limbs. Their dance was exuberant and playful. When the music ended, I finally exhaled.

As my 2^nd camera operator gushed with praise for Kiera, I saw so many things. Kiera would always be remarkable for just being who she is. And yet Uriah would probably receive less praise and attention even though she was equally beautiful and mesmerizing to watch. In so many ways Uriah’s life would be easier than Kiera’s, but growing up in the shadow of a powerful person leaves its mark. Perhaps I’m projecting, but as the third child born to a couple with two adopted children, I know what it is to be told you’re special in private and yet not be treated that way.

I also consider myself a movement specialist. Dance was my life from age 7 until I turned 18, with the last year spent studying and performing with the San Francisco Ballet. Even in my mid-50’s I continue to study movement and dance whenever I can. So when I saw Uriah and Kiera dancing together, I knew that Uriah had learned to move so beautifully from watching her sister’s example. They exuded effortlessly what students in all disciplines of movement spend decades struggling to achieve.

In that moment, I knew that I would help them tell their story because people need to see it. They need to know what is possible when someone gets the love and support he or she needs to challenge potential limitations. People also need to see how much caregivers benefit from their caring.

I’ve cried more than once while editing our footage together. The first time happened as I edited their duet and watched Kiera pour her heart into the dance. Her courage helped me remember what is good about humanity. The second time was when I edited Uriah’s interview and she talked about what it was like to be Kiera’s little sister. Although she was quick to credit her sister for helping her become the person she is, the tears flowed as she admitted her need to step away and discover that she could be special on her own.

I suspected, over these two years, that their interviews were a form of communication between them. During a radio interview, Kiera admitted how easy it was to tell the camera things she would never have dared to say directly. That’s when I started to wonder about this journey we’ve been on: How have I been changed by knowing them?

When Kiera first told me she wanted to become a nurse, I couldn’t imagine how she would ever draw blood. But she had to do just that in order to graduate as a medical assistant. She even has her driver’s license and hopes to have a car outfitted soon. Time and again she proves to me that I’m the one with the limitations. They might not be physical, but they hold me back as if they were.

I have also questioned if we would finish our story, as there have been long periods of silence. As a mother of two teenagers and a full-time student myself, I’ve had plenty to keep me busy. But I did wonder at times if we would ever see this project through to the end. And that’s when Uriah surprised me.

In the radio interview, she talked about her heightened sensitivity to what other people are feeling. Born a month before Kiera caught pneumococcal sepsis, which resulted in the amputation of her hands and legs, Uriah grew up learning to be attentive. Now, as a young adult, she recognizes the need to turn inward and forge her own path. What impresses me is her determination to succeed.

Perhaps what I’ve learned from them is that I will do far more than I think I’m capable of if it’s in service to a greater good. In the past, I’d just pay for everything myself, but this project is too big. We have to raise money to complete it, and because I want all the net profits to go to Kiera and Uriah, I’m finding the courage to reach out to people I never thought would respond to me. I can’t say it’s fun, but I will be a better person when it’s over.

When we first met, we talked about finding another opportunity for them to perform their duet “Soar.” It would allow us to assemble the Portland dance community that has fed their souls, and it would be a fitting third act to end our documentary. With the theater booked, and the other dance companies committed, I can relax, knowing that soon, more people will know these two courageous and beautiful young women.

Photos by Anaka Morris