You’ll Never Be A Dancer

Nervous? Not enough to stop me. I stepped into an enormous studio at the prestigious private arts school. An empty chair waited near one of the barre’ lined walls. A grand piano across the room waited for hands to grace its keys. One more glance in the mirror. There I was. Sixteen years old, hair slicked back and pinned in a low bun. Braces. Tights, leotard and ballet shoes. I certainly looked like a dancer.

Footsteps grew louder in the hallway and into the studio. The dean of dance silently made his way onto the floor and sat in the chair. There was no introduction. He appeared to have better things to do that day. My heart beat like I’d danced a lengthy allegro combination and I was certain he heard the echoes pounding from my chest in the empty room.

As I recall he dictated an entire ballet barre’. No other dancers. No accompaniment other my rhythmic breathing and sounds of footwork on the dance floor.

The private audition continued with center work, turns, adagio and leaps. Just the two of us never speaking until I was told to sit on the floor.

Questions came with little eye contact in rapid succession. “Do you like hamburgers, french fries, milkshakes? Are you taking birth control? What are you running from back home? Bad social life, problems with your parents, a break up with your boyfriend?” He flicked an ink pen between his fingers.

Tears tried to make their entrance but somehow I refused to let them flow. Confused and embarrassed I managed to answer each question with assertive dignity all while fighting the urge to run out of there and back to my parents waiting in his office.

His final critique cut into my soul.

“Well you’ll never be a dancer. You don’t have the right body, you have terrible turnout, not enough flexibility and bad feet.”

I don’t remember details after that.

On the drive home I decided I no longer wanted to attend the school but rather focus on my senior year of public high school. After all that’s what we all dreamed for eleven long years. Besides I had great friends, a cute popular boyfriend, drama club, cheerleading, I was class treasurer and I had a photo shoot scheduled for Dance Magazine with a well known premiere danseur from NYCB who’d chosen me as his partner for a performance of Les Sylphides. Once home I never spoke of the school, the audition or how broken I was by the cruel encounter with the dean.

Ten days later I received my acceptance letter into the high school ballet program of the arts school with a date of orientation less than one month away.

Now came my declaration that wasn’t enrolling. I raged at my parents that I was going to my current school’s senior year and had no desire to leave my life for a boarding school hundreds of miles away. I’d already bandaged my crippled ego by convincing myself the idea was ridiculous to begin with. What was I thinking?

Years later I acknowledged deep gratitude for my parents’ steadfast insistance that I go to that arts school, no discussion.

Sharing this, that maybe another dancer somewhere will read it and understand one person’s opinion doesn’t have to crush a dream, is my deepest hope. If I had taken to heart the declaration of my flaws, so harshly bestowed upon me that day, my flame of passion for dance would likely have extinguished, never to glow again.

Instead I aspired and continued to honor my calling and thrive as a professional dancer. Along the journey I share my gift by teaching dancers the knowledge I cherish and I choose my words carefully so as not to squelch that burning desire to move to the music.