I'd have to say that I looked forward to ballet today just as much as I look forward to menopause. I feel so terrible. Maybe I have mono....you know, due to all those non-existent kisses from my many non-existent boyfriends. Whatever I have, I hardly feel up to make a complete idiot of myself on any day, let alone a day where my stomach acids are making volcanoes for the science fair.
This week at my dance school, you are supposed to wear a costume for dance class since Halloween is on Saturday. So I, being the bright, creative youngster that I am, put on the same leotard, and now that I think about it, my only leotard that I have and a bandana that I tied with the tails up at the front. Then I threw on some basketball shorts over my tights. I was Tupac. See, I thought it was funny, but I immediately regretted my decision to look like a gangster as I walked into the studio and saw everyone in these super cute tutu get-ups. Some of the tutus were checkered and multicolored, others were big and white and awesome, but at the end of the day, I was still Tupac...I should have gone with Notorious, what was I thinking.
Today, we basically did the same thing as we always do. I'm getting frustrated now, not because I can't do it, but because I'm not being challenged. I mean, don't get me wrong, I still can't do it, but I'm not learning how. They just go through the motions and I go through those same motions except 60% less graceful as them, and I'm not getting any feedback. For the love of dance, I know I'm bad, don't pretend like I'm not, tell me how to get better. The way I see it, if I am doing this for the sole purpose of getting better, because it certainly isn't for fun, then I don't want to be wasting my time.
We learned the rest of the Chinese Nutcracker today. It's pretty easy. We hold our pointer fingers up the whole time because, evidently, that's the universal sign for Chinese people....??? Who knew? My teacher has told us about 56 times that that's true, so, i guess, it is.
(My dad tells me that part was racist, sorry if you were offended.)
Next week is viewing week, which basically means that viewers, like people, like other people, get to watch me dance like a fool to the Chinese Nutcracker. I'm stoked. I'm going to practice this week. It needs to be video taped so that I can record my progress in this journey of ballet for my senior project. Oh dear....I'm overwhelmed and I'm sure you can tell by the short length and passive sentiment of my blog this week. I really wish that I could tell you that I'm still hopeful and I know that it will be worth it, but I am going to be real and honest and let you know that right now, I am in a period of doubt. Maybe tomorrow I'll be encouraged but now, I'm going to go get a brownie because this Biggest Loser episode that my parents are watching is making me hungry. Pray for me.
Love,
BalleBREna
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Day 3: War Head
I write this week sucking on an extremely sour war head that I bought at Rite Aid. I guess I didn't realize that I was still wearing my leotard and tights as I got the "up-down" look and the eyebrow raise from the clerk.
"99 cents," she stated in a tone that really said, "I hate my job and I hate my life. Please go away and take your tights with you." I smiled and paid.
War heads are wonderful...and horrible....at the same time. You all know what I mean, you put the circular goodness in your mouth with anticipation that your taste buds are about to go through a sour-tastic experience and your mouth is going to be so raw when your done, your not going to taste anything for a week...and you are gonna like it. Your saliva glands activate with the closing of your mouth and so do your pain receptors. It's awful, you try to suck off all the sour-ness as fast as possible to get to the sweet goodness of what lies beneath the sour layer, but when you get there, you immediately wish that it was still sour and you rush to eat it so you can restart the process with watermelon flavored war head.
Ballet is kinda like a war head. Every week I am excited/anxious for ballet. I know that this class is going to put me one step closer to becoming a dancer, but meanwhile, I'm going to look like a total doof.
Today, the teacher was gone. Let me just fill you in for a second. I'm 93.56 percent sure that all the girls in the class (except me) are on the dance school's competition team, meaning, they dance every day all year around, hence, they have ballet class down to a schedule. I, on the other hand, am on my third round of ballet class...in my life. The substitute teacher pushed play, and everyone started plié-ing and kicking and tombe-ing and here's me, going 3 beats behind everyone else because I'm trying to figure out what the heck to do. Across the floors were the worst. Normally, we do exactly what the title says, we go across the floor. Today, we went halfway across the floor, back to the start, did a little switchy leapy, a doohicky, and a turn kick mhogggy and then went across the floor...It was glorious. I could've done the hand jive while walking across the floor and looked cooler. It was like the never ending sour horrible-ness of the war head. You know the picture of the man with a pinched faced, sucked in cheecks, wrinkled eyebrows and red forehead on the package of warheads? I looked WAY stupider then that during the sour of ballet.
Thankfully, just like the candy, the sour concluded and the sweet began. I got to know the girls in class a lot more than ever because, while missing a teacher, we just talked the majority of the time. I'm one of the oldest in the class which is cool because now, when I watch them do everything better than me, I'll remind myself that I can drink, smoke, drive, and go clubbin' before them, (not that I will, but it's the fact that I can) HOLLA! Also, I knew the choreography to the Chinese Nutcracker surprisingly well, and did it surprisingly well, which was a relief considering that the class had been watching me prance around like a brainless idiot for the majority of the class. I am getting better people and that is beyond encouraging.
So, I absolutely hate it when people say that war heads aren't sour. Sweet baby Martha, are you nuts!? Have you lost your mind? Do you have a tounge, or do you just swallow them whole? They are terribly sour... I don't think you are cool or tough just because you claim they aren't sour. But apparently if you eat enough war heads, your taste buds are utterly destroyed and they really don't taste that sour. Hopefully ballet will be like that. Maybe trial after painful trial, I'll one day be numb to the challenges of ballet and whip through the across the floors like my 9th grade co-ballerinas. One day I'll look like them, minus the small butts and blonde ponytails.
I'm takin' it one switch leap at a time. Pray for me!!
Love,
BalleBREna
"99 cents," she stated in a tone that really said, "I hate my job and I hate my life. Please go away and take your tights with you." I smiled and paid.
War heads are wonderful...and horrible....at the same time. You all know what I mean, you put the circular goodness in your mouth with anticipation that your taste buds are about to go through a sour-tastic experience and your mouth is going to be so raw when your done, your not going to taste anything for a week...and you are gonna like it. Your saliva glands activate with the closing of your mouth and so do your pain receptors. It's awful, you try to suck off all the sour-ness as fast as possible to get to the sweet goodness of what lies beneath the sour layer, but when you get there, you immediately wish that it was still sour and you rush to eat it so you can restart the process with watermelon flavored war head.
Ballet is kinda like a war head. Every week I am excited/anxious for ballet. I know that this class is going to put me one step closer to becoming a dancer, but meanwhile, I'm going to look like a total doof.
Today, the teacher was gone. Let me just fill you in for a second. I'm 93.56 percent sure that all the girls in the class (except me) are on the dance school's competition team, meaning, they dance every day all year around, hence, they have ballet class down to a schedule. I, on the other hand, am on my third round of ballet class...in my life. The substitute teacher pushed play, and everyone started plié-ing and kicking and tombe-ing and here's me, going 3 beats behind everyone else because I'm trying to figure out what the heck to do. Across the floors were the worst. Normally, we do exactly what the title says, we go across the floor. Today, we went halfway across the floor, back to the start, did a little switchy leapy, a doohicky, and a turn kick mhogggy and then went across the floor...It was glorious. I could've done the hand jive while walking across the floor and looked cooler. It was like the never ending sour horrible-ness of the war head. You know the picture of the man with a pinched faced, sucked in cheecks, wrinkled eyebrows and red forehead on the package of warheads? I looked WAY stupider then that during the sour of ballet.
Thankfully, just like the candy, the sour concluded and the sweet began. I got to know the girls in class a lot more than ever because, while missing a teacher, we just talked the majority of the time. I'm one of the oldest in the class which is cool because now, when I watch them do everything better than me, I'll remind myself that I can drink, smoke, drive, and go clubbin' before them, (not that I will, but it's the fact that I can) HOLLA! Also, I knew the choreography to the Chinese Nutcracker surprisingly well, and did it surprisingly well, which was a relief considering that the class had been watching me prance around like a brainless idiot for the majority of the class. I am getting better people and that is beyond encouraging.
So, I absolutely hate it when people say that war heads aren't sour. Sweet baby Martha, are you nuts!? Have you lost your mind? Do you have a tounge, or do you just swallow them whole? They are terribly sour... I don't think you are cool or tough just because you claim they aren't sour. But apparently if you eat enough war heads, your taste buds are utterly destroyed and they really don't taste that sour. Hopefully ballet will be like that. Maybe trial after painful trial, I'll one day be numb to the challenges of ballet and whip through the across the floors like my 9th grade co-ballerinas. One day I'll look like them, minus the small butts and blonde ponytails.
I'm takin' it one switch leap at a time. Pray for me!!
Love,
BalleBREna
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Day 2: Smokin' Crackers
The wet, 35 degree air of Yakima that charged into my car as I slammed the door shut reeked of fear and dread. I blasted my music in hopes that I could drown out the miniaure devil on my left shoulder. A fun-size version of myself dressed in a red tutu with flame decorated tights whispered into my left ear, "Why are you doing this to yourself? Your back hurts like crazy, your hips are going to break, you're never going to be able to dance at UW so why are you even trying?" I turned the music up louder. The little mexican man in the low rider next to me looked in the direction of the blaring techno. I figured I would soak in as much of the goodness as possible before I stepped into the studio where the Chinese Nutcracker would practically drive me Nuts enough to smoke Crackers.
Blonde ponytail girl's black and pink polka dotted bra was half clasped underneath her backless leotard this week. It was really bothering me so I fixed my eyes on it as I did my pliés. When you take into consideration the fact that pliés are just bending your knees while holding onto a bar, you'd figure that I'd do better, but it has become devastatingly obvious that I am possibly the most ungraceful person....ever. Tell me to "stanky leg" or "jerk" or "crip walk," and I will walk it out, but ballet isn't something you can figure out. Somebody is going to have to tell you how to breath and what to flex and how to flex it, I flexed muscles that I didn't even know existed tonight. It is a whole new world of technique that I couldn't have imagined and along with the respect that I have gained for every single ballerina from Preschool to Julliard, I have learned that it doesn't matter how much natural ability you have or do not have, ballet takes a lot of practice and dedication and is very rarely something that you can just "pick up." This is a new thing for me. I am not used to being so freaking horrible.
My favorite was when the teacher told everyone that they had 30 seconds to teach BreAnna how to do the...somethingsomethingsomething... I don't know what the word is and even if I did, I would probably spell it just as well as I did it across the floor tonight...not well at all. If someone could do me a favor and tell my arms to please communicate with the rest of my body, that would be awesome. It's like they have their own little minds located in my armpits or something. On the plus side, my turns were pretty bomb.com this evening. I've been practicing my turn out so I pop locked and dropped some of those doubles.
For the most part, this week was a step in the correct general direction. I left the studio frustrated and confused because I just can't get down the choreography for the Chinese Nutcracker, plus, I missed out on a performance for my dance team that I actually wanted to be at, but when I got home I was comforted by my mom's voice telling me that it will all be worth it. I notice that unlike on sitcoms, my fun-size self is only one sided. There's mini-me with a pitchfork on my left shoulder, and my mom on my right shoulder. I would rather listen to her than a little me in an angel costume anyways so I guess it all works out.
Goal this week: stretch toes as to avoid another fatal pointing-toe cramp incident. Pray for me!
Love,
BalleBREna
Blonde ponytail girl's black and pink polka dotted bra was half clasped underneath her backless leotard this week. It was really bothering me so I fixed my eyes on it as I did my pliés. When you take into consideration the fact that pliés are just bending your knees while holding onto a bar, you'd figure that I'd do better, but it has become devastatingly obvious that I am possibly the most ungraceful person....ever. Tell me to "stanky leg" or "jerk" or "crip walk," and I will walk it out, but ballet isn't something you can figure out. Somebody is going to have to tell you how to breath and what to flex and how to flex it, I flexed muscles that I didn't even know existed tonight. It is a whole new world of technique that I couldn't have imagined and along with the respect that I have gained for every single ballerina from Preschool to Julliard, I have learned that it doesn't matter how much natural ability you have or do not have, ballet takes a lot of practice and dedication and is very rarely something that you can just "pick up." This is a new thing for me. I am not used to being so freaking horrible.
My favorite was when the teacher told everyone that they had 30 seconds to teach BreAnna how to do the...somethingsomethingsomething... I don't know what the word is and even if I did, I would probably spell it just as well as I did it across the floor tonight...not well at all. If someone could do me a favor and tell my arms to please communicate with the rest of my body, that would be awesome. It's like they have their own little minds located in my armpits or something. On the plus side, my turns were pretty bomb.com this evening. I've been practicing my turn out so I pop locked and dropped some of those doubles.
For the most part, this week was a step in the correct general direction. I left the studio frustrated and confused because I just can't get down the choreography for the Chinese Nutcracker, plus, I missed out on a performance for my dance team that I actually wanted to be at, but when I got home I was comforted by my mom's voice telling me that it will all be worth it. I notice that unlike on sitcoms, my fun-size self is only one sided. There's mini-me with a pitchfork on my left shoulder, and my mom on my right shoulder. I would rather listen to her than a little me in an angel costume anyways so I guess it all works out.
Goal this week: stretch toes as to avoid another fatal pointing-toe cramp incident. Pray for me!
Love,
BalleBREna
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Day 1: AY DE MI
I started the car and reached into my lap where my ipod lay on top of the black tights that so beautifully complimented my first-day-of-ballet get up, complete with my new black leotard and my excited/nervous attitude.
So here's my dream. I want to dance...for the rest of my life. I want to dance from now till I'm old and insane and I don't care if dancing is the sole factor that drives me to insanity. Problem: I am not good enough. When I look at myself and my ability, I think Rudy. You all know the movie about the wannabe Notre Dame football star that never had a chance to begin with, except when I think of the movie in terms of my situation, you can take out the part at the end when he gets his one shot at being a hero and sacks the quarterback to win the game. The end of my mental movie looks more like a crowd of tall, skinny, graceful white chicks shanea-pata-blah-blah-ing and smothered in the center of this balleriot is my little 5' 4", big bootied, African American self in her silly little drill team outfit lookin’ up in terror at them. Just because that is the reality of my attitude doesn't by any means make it right. I admit, my attitude is wrong, but my dream hasn't changed and even if my film concludes with an aerial shot of me on my knees reaching towards the heavens screaming, "WHY!?!?!?" surrounded by a sea of white chicks in 323rd position, I'm still going to work my tights off to become a dancer until I can't no more.
Walking into the mirror filled room, I was shocked to see my surprisingly legit reflection. Who woulda guessed by just looking at all of us sitting down and stretching that I had never taken ballet before? Let me tell you, there's nothing like a leotard and some tights that will make you feel like you belong with the white tall chicks, but let me remind you, there is nothing like a bar bolted to the side of the wall that will just as easily knock you out of that delusion.
I stared with utter concentration at the blonde ponytail of the girl in front of me, copying her every tricept and bootie flex. My efforts proved to be futile as I was greeted by my drunkard reflection flinging its leg in the air. I could hear my hips popping in fury with every botma I attempted to do. Following the painful leg lifts and confusing numbers that apparently had correlating foot positions, we did across the floors. Think of the most embarrassing thing you have ever done and then do it repeatedly across a floor with a partner and an expert audience, three words: AY DE MI. And to top it off, here is my teacher explaining the sequence in practically a different language, "tombe pata bu ray glishad granshatay!" ...For the love of dance, Give a home girl a break!
Moral of the story, the first day of ballet proved to be just as hard as it looks.
Even though it was frustrating and I held back tears on 3 seperate occasions during the hour session tonight, I know that this is going to be worth it. I am not a ballerina. I don't like ballet, I don't do ballet, I don't want to do ballet, but I need to and I know I will get better. I'm going to practice this week and hopefully by next Tuesday I’ll be able to master the 5th, 5th, 5th, 5th, 2nd, 5th, 4th, 5th, 4th, 4th, 2nd, 4th, somethin’...somethin’...somethin’...sequence just as well as blonde ponytail girl in front of me. Pray for me!
Love,
BalleBREna
So here's my dream. I want to dance...for the rest of my life. I want to dance from now till I'm old and insane and I don't care if dancing is the sole factor that drives me to insanity. Problem: I am not good enough. When I look at myself and my ability, I think Rudy. You all know the movie about the wannabe Notre Dame football star that never had a chance to begin with, except when I think of the movie in terms of my situation, you can take out the part at the end when he gets his one shot at being a hero and sacks the quarterback to win the game. The end of my mental movie looks more like a crowd of tall, skinny, graceful white chicks shanea-pata-blah-blah-ing and smothered in the center of this balleriot is my little 5' 4", big bootied, African American self in her silly little drill team outfit lookin’ up in terror at them. Just because that is the reality of my attitude doesn't by any means make it right. I admit, my attitude is wrong, but my dream hasn't changed and even if my film concludes with an aerial shot of me on my knees reaching towards the heavens screaming, "WHY!?!?!?" surrounded by a sea of white chicks in 323rd position, I'm still going to work my tights off to become a dancer until I can't no more.
Walking into the mirror filled room, I was shocked to see my surprisingly legit reflection. Who woulda guessed by just looking at all of us sitting down and stretching that I had never taken ballet before? Let me tell you, there's nothing like a leotard and some tights that will make you feel like you belong with the white tall chicks, but let me remind you, there is nothing like a bar bolted to the side of the wall that will just as easily knock you out of that delusion.
I stared with utter concentration at the blonde ponytail of the girl in front of me, copying her every tricept and bootie flex. My efforts proved to be futile as I was greeted by my drunkard reflection flinging its leg in the air. I could hear my hips popping in fury with every botma I attempted to do. Following the painful leg lifts and confusing numbers that apparently had correlating foot positions, we did across the floors. Think of the most embarrassing thing you have ever done and then do it repeatedly across a floor with a partner and an expert audience, three words: AY DE MI. And to top it off, here is my teacher explaining the sequence in practically a different language, "tombe pata bu ray glishad granshatay!" ...For the love of dance, Give a home girl a break!
Moral of the story, the first day of ballet proved to be just as hard as it looks.
Even though it was frustrating and I held back tears on 3 seperate occasions during the hour session tonight, I know that this is going to be worth it. I am not a ballerina. I don't like ballet, I don't do ballet, I don't want to do ballet, but I need to and I know I will get better. I'm going to practice this week and hopefully by next Tuesday I’ll be able to master the 5th, 5th, 5th, 5th, 2nd, 5th, 4th, 5th, 4th, 4th, 2nd, 4th, somethin’...somethin’...somethin’...sequence just as well as blonde ponytail girl in front of me. Pray for me!
Love,
BalleBREna
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