That’s a picture my proud Pa took of me (and my classmate) in our dance recital way back when (probably 1980). He recognized how much ballet meant to me and took the initiative to document it in film. How important it is to have fans cheering you on in your pursuits. My parents were my biggest cheerleaders, and I couldn’t have accomplished my dreams without them. Find some loving supporters who will applaud you when you accomplish your goals and encourage you when the going gets tough. Better yet, dust off your pom-poms and shout a big “Rah! Rah!” for someone else.
Enjoy the next excerpt of
by Kristi Lynn Davis
The school itself was nothing fancy but, oh, the tales it had to tell and the dreams it harbored within its walls! You entered the front door into a lobby, which led to one large studio and two small studios separated by a pull-out accordion partition. The lobby was festooned with trophies and newspaper clippings of Dallas students winning awards, evidence of the competitive atmosphere. “Teen Miss Tap Dancing Terror” was succeeded by “Tiny Miss Over-the-Top” who was shoved aside by “Little Miss Syrupy Sweet” all of whom lugged back trophies (some larger than they were) and gleefully displayed them at the studio for all to see. My first time entering this place, I could only imagine how glorious it must feel to have your picture on the wall of fame.
Being cute, tall, and naturally thin with long legs, I looked the part of a dancer, and the Dallas duo saw potential. (It didn’t hurt that I was disciplined, polite and well-behaved to boot.) They shoved me into ballet quicker than you can say “plie,” and I started to get serious about dancing. I dove head first into rigid Cecchetti ballet training, taking two levels simultaneously. I had some catching up to do if I wanted to join the other good dancers my age who had started classes when they were barely out of diapers.
In order to move from one level to the next, I had to pass an exam in which I executed specific ballet exercises for a panel of somber ballet experts. The exams were achingly tense and deafeningly quiet. It was a stressful and solemn setting, not for the weak at heart. I had to be perfectly dressed in the required leotard, pink tights, and pink ballet slippers, my hair in a neat bun. I had to study my French terminology and know the moves on my syllabus down to the last minute detail including head and finger placement. The process was rigorous, torturous, and perfect practice for my professional life to come. I couldn’t have strayed any farther from the happy-go-lucky atmosphere at Josie’s Bargain Basement.
The training was undeniably tough, but something incredible happened when things finally came together, and I was properly aligned with every body part in the right place at the right time. I could balance, turn, leap, glide, jump, and soar through the air. The transformation was magical: “And unto this day, in the city of Deerfield, a dancer was born…”
By the time I was eleven, my identity as a dancer was solid, and although I continued taking jazz and tap classes, which were always a lot more lighthearted and fun than the ballet, I really considered myself a ballerina. I was ecstatic when Skye allowed me to start taking pointe, but the day I was fitted for toe shoes marked the beginning of the end of ever hoping to have presentable feet. The satiny pink slippers had ribbons that laced around my ankles and a wooden box that I stuffed my lambswool-wrapped toes into. The box allowed me to stand on the very tips of my tootsies. Bubble wrap would have been a lot more helpful than that meager lambswool. I held back the tears in class as my feet would bleed and my toenails would fall off from being bruised so badly. Soon all my toes were as callused and bent out of shape as a crusty old lady’s. Oh, the agony of the feet! It’s a wonder that Child Safety Services doesn’t deem dancing on pointe child abuse and arrest all the ballet teachers of the world. In spite of the excessive pain, I was dancing on pointe just like the beautiful, diminutive ballerina who twirled on tiptoe when I opened the lid of my musical jewelry box.
Soon I was dancing with the favorites, the “cool” girls, and they fascinated me. They were excellent dancers and gymnasts, and some even did solos in the show. They took every class offered including Hawaiian and Tahitian dance, which made them even cooler. They always sported the latest, trendiest, prettiest leotards and a matching ribbon or flower in their hair. They were generally good students, cheerleaders, piano players, athletes. They did it all. They would rush into the studio, McDonald’s bag in hand, and stuff french fries into their Big Macs before cramming the whole concoctions into their mouths and heading off to class. The cool girls knew survival tricks I didn’t know, like how to pee without taking off your dance clothes: pull leotard crotch over to the side, yank down the top of your tights and carefully go. They were so popular, self-confident, and downright amazing, I was too shy to even try to infiltrate their clique of coolness.
Who do you admire? Who are your biggest fans? Let us know in the comments below!
Thanks for reading. Mosey on back soon for the next exciting episode.
Soar on,
Kristi
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