She waltzed in last year in the early spring, fresh from southern California. I was in pit orchestra at the time, and was missing a few classes because of shows, and I heard from my other dancer friends that we had acquired an amazing new dancer over the weekend. Nobody knew how old she was. Nobody even knew her last name. But she said that she had been dancing for thirteen years, and, based on her perfect turns and natural grace, it looked like she had been doing it for twenty.
In my several years of dancing, there have been some wonderful dancers who kind of led the way, trailing scores of hopeful ballerinas behind them. When I was seven and just starting, it felt like there were so many older girls, with their prim buns and tight leotards and shiny pointe shoes that just dazzled on the rosin-smeared marley. It's true that there are a lot less now than there used to be, but it just seemed so amazing when I was younger. It's not like we're hardcore Russian ballerinas or anything. I live an extremely artsy community, actually, and the standard uniform of a dancer was commonly replaced by ripped tights and loose shirts (as much as they could get away with without my teacher getting annoyed), and dreadlocks and messy braids instead of buns.
Dancers are some of the most interesting people in the world, next to orch dorks, in my opinion. There are so many different kinds, each with a different story to tell, but we all have one thing in common, and we can all tell those stories through dancing (or music). There are people who immerse themselves in song and just move along with a flow of energy, and there are those who carefully count beats and focus on technicalities, making every turn and fouetté perfect. (Actually, perfect is a funny word. They don't achieve it, necessarily, but to someone else it might appear perfect, while to the dancer him or herself it's far from it. Either way, they're mostly always striving towards that intangible concept of perfection). And then there are those of us who dance just for enjoyment, just to have fun while leaping through the air, to have that feeling of being in control (or out of control), and to be able to sweat buckets and still feel happy about it.
I used to love watching ballerinas. Whether it was onstage or in books, they always seemed so beautiful to me, and so amazingly ethereal. When I was finally going to get my first pair of pointe shoes at age eleven, I couldn't stop talking to my cousin about it. It was something I had literally dreamed about for years, and it was unthinkable that it was actually going to happen. Finally my cousin, who is six months younger than me, said, "Why do you even care so much? They're just shoes". With her being a competitive swimmer, I racked my brains for something to compare it to in her sport, but I couldn't think of anything. What a non-dance doesn't really grasp, I guess, is that these shoes are a rite of passage. Not every girl has a a ballerina dream, but a lot of young dancers do, and pointe shoes, being on TOE, are like a gateway to becoming one for real. Your work becomes a lot more demanding, and you're serious about what you do. And it's a wonderful feeling to actually be on your toes, spinning around the stage, the lights streaking and blurring in front of your eyes, hearing that beautiful clunking sound beneath you. I took a year of beginning pointe in fifth grade, a year before I actually got the shoes, and I couldn't wait every week to get to that class, just so I could stare at the shoes and the perfectly angled feet inside of them, wishing that they were mine. It really was a dream that came true, only a dream with blisters and tendonitis threats.
I wrote this last Thursday, after living through a torturous P.E. class with idiots who think that football makes them the strongest and coolest people in the world.
I laugh at those people who say that dance isn't hard at all, because in truth, we work almost harder than them at times. I'm sure that the snobby volleyball girls would stop laughing as soon as they started trying the stretches and bar work, their smirks replaced by grimaces. I'm sure that the supposedly strong football boys would think twice about snickering after an intense hour, sweat pouring and showing through their clothes. I'm positive that my mom couldn't get through an entire class of even the easiest work, and would stop telling me that dance isn't considered an aerobic activity that requires lots of work. It's not looking pretty that makes my muscles ache for days, or gets me blisters on my feet. I didn't suddenly become flexible just by putting my hair up and wearing satin shoes. I spend several hours almost every day at the studio, and I'm proud of what I do. So be quiet, hypocrites.
I know it's kind of narcissistic to agree with myself like this, but hear, hear! We work hard at what we do, and there's so much work behind the prettiness. Yes, it was my dream when I was small, and it still is my dream, but now I know the truth of it, and, if anything, that makes me enjoy it and appreciate it even more so.
Last year, before my pointe dance, I was standing backstage with a two other dancers my age. Wearing our tutus-the only tutu I've worn in dance in the past five years-and covered in sparkles and silver glitter (we were supposed to be stars), we watched as this ballerina girl, who is so good that she's now an assistant teacher, chassé and leap and piqué around the stage, looking just amazing with all those years of serious ballet training. She was like an alien dancer to us, who had always worked with contemporary styles rather than Russian form, and we were just enthralled. She made me realize that no matter how many other dreams I have or have had, dance has and will always be one of them.
I miss dancing.
ReplyDelete