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
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