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similar to my inability to comprehend advanced French ballet techniques—with uncontrollable tears

Time:2019-02-23 18:03Shoes websites Click:

Dancer Life Dance failed

Editor’s Note: Slam books are a thing of the past, but there is one question that has remained unanswered: What is love? In an attempt to answer that this love month, the Scout team writes personal essays about the troubles and bliss brought about by this thing called love.

I was eight months old when I danced for the first time.

Before I can walk from down the crib or crawl to my parentsʼ arms, before I uttered the words “mama” and “papa”, and before I learned my ABCs—I knew how to shake it to Aquaʼs “Barbie Girl.” It dawned on my mother that maybe I am a prodigy of dance. That at the age of six, I would cry if I am parted from my pointe shoes or maybe break my ankle for doing toe-pointed turns wrong. But I was too busy smiling to know all of that.

I was three years old when I danced in front of my relatives for the first time.

Like any other parent, they paraded their child during reunions and birthday parties. They found me adorable and chubby. My minuscule frame held my doll dress from OshKosh perfectly. Surrounded by my uncles and aunts, I swayed to whatever music they played. Maybe they were hits from pop groups like Spice Girls or Steps. I didnʼt know exactly which artist it was; I just knew that following the beat and letting it dictate my body movements made me feel happy. In return, they gave me money, but I didn’t know what colored paper was for back then.

Dancing is the one thing I canʼt fuck up. It made the people around me happy—and that made me happy.

I was seven when I danced for a ʼ70s themed school program for the first time.

Hearing vintage music for the first time didnʼt feel like listening to tracks from a forgotten era. When I was younger, I didn’t have a hard time swaying my hips to bass lines and spinning my fists around each other, for god knows what. Teachers complimented my ability to pick up choreography easily. As they play “Baby You Can Drive My Car,” I eerily pictured a music video in my head, starring me and my classmate whose name I canʼt recall.

For a while, I thought I existed to dance forever. Dancing is the one thing I canʼt fuck up. It made the people around me happy—and that made me happy, too.

I was eleven when I danced in school functions for the last time.

Looking back, the fourth grade seems like a moment in time I didn’t bother to remember all that well. One memory served as the only exception; my junior dance squad days. We danced in school fairs and functions. During a school fair, I remember Gwen Stefaniʼs “Sweet Escape” playing as we enter the stage. Sadly, I canʼt remember the rest.

I only remember how I barely smiled. A friend of mine, who was also my bully, told everyone I was a bad dancer for the corners of my lips barely move upward as I moved. This used to bring me joy—when did it stop? When did the beat of a good song no longer jolted my nerves to move?

This used to bring me joy—when did it stop? When did the beat of a good song no longer jolted my nerves to move?

I was fifteen when a friend dragged me to modern jazz with her.

In high school music classes, we used to choreograph steps to ’70s music together. She thought it was because I loved vintage music ever since I was seven. As she observed my movements, how my hips easily swayed and how my body grooves to the beat, the thought of my “pointe shoes destiny” never crossed her mind. Was it intuition that pushed her to grab me by the wrist, pulling me to absorb French ballet terms that I will only use for prose in the future?

“To Build A Home” by Cinematic Orchestra filled the dance studioʼs corners. I gasped. “I sleep with this song playing.” Cold stares greeted me before everyone proceeded to shadow our instructorʼs movements. When I was younger, my agile body mimics flowers in our garden—graceful, feminine, and naive. Ballet is an art form that demands this energy.

From the start of those lessons, I learned these French terms: My plié, passé, arabesque, and chassé. It’s strict, precise, and graceful. My technique only absorbed those first two words. I have gotten more aggressive than graceful since then.

Somewhere, somehow, I found myself alone with my instructor when I was fifteen.

Nowadays, I can’t remember what those French terms equate to. But it was the only language I spoke back then.

“Observe your movements,” she instructed as she made me face the mirror. She calmly instructed, “Plié in the third position.” My hands were on my hips as I slowly bent my knees, with my right foot in front of my left. “Demi plié in the second position,” I slid my left foot away from my right one, making me look like a cousin of Kermit. “Transfer the weight up,” I pointed my right toes, lifting my body upward from squatting frog-like position. “

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