My mother paid for me to take ballet lessons when I was ten years old. I was going to be a ballerina. Of that, I was sure. I was enrolled at the best ballet school around, and they took dancing very seriously. The teachers trained each and every student to be primas. The girls mostly came from ten-cent millionaire families, and all went to private schools. Some were more stuck up than others, but we managed to coexist.
I wasn’t a very good dancer. I could hardly remember the steps, or in what sequence the steps should be performed. I am dyslexic and struggled with telling my left from my right, and knowing which foot to start on, or what arm corresponded with what leg. My only asset was that I was flexible and at ten years old, had the legs of a twenty-year-old woman. This particular asset earned me the nick name of “Legs” among the teachers. But even these assets couldn’t help me keep up with all of the girls who took 5 or more ballet classes a week and just had a natural knack for dancing.
When I was thirteen, I was allowed to start taking my ballet lessons on Pointe. My parents took me to a dance store and bought me the most expensive, not to mention painful, pair of shoes I have ever owned. They were beautiful, creamy-pink, satin toe shoes. I liked the look of my legs when I stood up in them. My teacher reminded me that they were not just shoes; they were an extension of the body.
That year, things changed. My teacher became ill, and ceased to teach classes while she was receiving treatment for her cancer. Other teachers came in to take her place, but they were not the same. One instructor was unaware that as beginners on Pointe, that we were not supposed to be on our toes for more than thirty minutes. She worked us in our Pointe shoes for an hour and a half. No one said anything, because we all wanted to be brave ballerinas, like the “big girls,” as we referred to any one of the classes ahead of us. One thing I was always taught during my ballet years was, “Smile! Don’t ever let anyone know you are in pain.”
I dropped out after that year. My teacher was still ill, and would not be returning anytime soon, and I wasn’t a very good dancer. The childhood allure of being a great ballerina no longer had the same appeal to me, nor was it a future possibility. I knew I’d never be a prima ballerina. I accepted it, and left ballet behind, along with the painful toe shoes, the tiny black leotards, and the worn-out pink slippers.
I didn’t touch ballet again until this year, over eight years later, when I was asked to be in a local production of Brigadoon. When I accepted, I had no idea that I would be re-immersed in ballet. Suddenly, I found myself thrown into both group dances and solos where I had to arabesque, plie, and rond de jambe. At first, I struggled, just as I had when I was a child. I couldn’t remember what step to perform next, or which foot to land on when I jumped. It was a dyslexic’s nightmare. Even so, I had missed ballet after all those years, and a small part of me wanted to do this, and do it right. I wanted to prove to my inner child that I still could be the ballerina that I always dreamed of being.
Then I began to practice. I practiced over and over and over. I took my digital camera to rehearsal and I filmed the choreographer, I filmed my fellow dancers. I filmed anyone who was willing to dance in front of my camera. I practiced backstage with my dance partner, and the other girls. I rehearsed at home in my kitchen. When I realized that I needed more space, I took my laptop out to the garage, opened up all the doors, swept the floor, and put on my worn-out slippers. Daily, I went through my dances until I knew them by heart. Every day before the show started, I rehearsed on stage when no one was around. I had so much help from my friends in the cast who never said no to my question, “Do you want to rehearse this dance with me?”
Finally, it paid off. For the first time in my life, I felt confident in my dancing. I’ve never felt that way before, even when I was taking lessons. This time around, something just clicked. Certain steps that I could never do before, such as a grand jetes, pirouettes, and shanay turns, I could do now effortlessly. I’ll never forget the way it feels to twirl across the stage, or completed a full leaping grand jete. So many times in the past, I had dreamed of leaping across the stage with perfect ease. In the dreams, it had felt like flying. Now, I was living that dream, and nothing could equal that feeling.
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