I could not help but to gaze at the newly-built building, which contains a twenty-four hour fitness center and a dance studio, as I walked past. It looks a tad like a shopping center- two businesses connected, with big front windows and glass doors- and somewhat boring and unnoticeable. I had always wanted to take dance, so I decided to take a chance and find out what the dance studio was all about.
I thought a dance studio would look a lot different then this one did. It wasn’t at all like what I had predicted. I expected it would be more like a school- older, bigger, and plainer on both the inside and out. Instead, it was smaller, plain on the outside and full of life on the inside. The building was nothing special, a regular brick building with windows and a door, but when you walked in it was totally different. The walls were painted a bright orange with flowers sketched all over them. There were pictures from past dance recitals and of actual professionals hung everywhere. It was decorated so cute, but that was only the waiting room.
At this point I had no idea what to expect as I walked through the white, classy French doors to the dance room. I feared I may interrupt a class, or even be given the look of rejection. Both doors swung open, and everyone’s eyes turned right towards me. The walls were painted a soft, light pink, and the floors were stained gray, smooth concrete. The room had nothing but a stereo, mirrors, and various colored curtains. There was only one purpose for the room, and that was to dance.
I had presumptions about what a dance teacher would look like, but again I was wrong. I pictured an old, tall, and fit woman with long legs. Maybe even a Russian, since the Russian ballet is such a big deal. The dance teacher, Ms. Walker, had a thin, narrow oval face with a somewhat defined jaw line, and a small mouth with wrinkles around it. She had a stern, stressed expression on her face and was very young. Her lips were normal sized, and her chin was small and came to a point Ms. Walker’s small, flat forehead made way to a skinny, but long and pointed nose. She had perfectly straight, white teeth, and a long black ponytail. Her eyebrows were black and thin, her eyes were a deep brown, and her eye lashes were long and curled. She had a fair complexion. She reminded me of a Jewish woman. With a black shirt and black workout pants on, she looked very professional. Ms. Walker was short and muscular. Without a doubt, she did not fit my profile of a dance teacher.
Come to find out, Ms. Walker was not much older than me. She was only older than me by three years. As a dance teacher, Ms. Walker or “Taylor,” was responsible for teaching 108 children. There were about twelve different groups, three dances per group, and there is no telling how many individual solo dances. When a child and their parents decide they want to sign up for a class, the studio will either sign them up for a class, if it is before the school year, or if not, add them to their mailing list. If the child does not sign up in time for dance throughout the school year then there are always summer classes. In May of each year, there is a recital and there are different outfits for each dance. This is the children’s time to shine, and show off what they have worked all school year on. From what I had heard, it is almost like a real Broadway show.
All the information Taylor provided me with was very detailed, especially when she explained the different types of dances she taught. You could definitely tell she knew what she was talking about. We sat and talked for awhile in the waiting room about the times I could take classes. We discussed who I would be dancing with, and what kind of dancing I would be doing. Her mother, who was also the receptionist, told me the available times.
“Wednesdays at 6:00 p.m. are available.”
Her tone was that of a stern business woman. While considering the day I saw a sign hanging on the wall that said “I do not try to dance better than anyone else. I only try to dance better than myself.” I decided that 6:00 p.m. would work out wonderfully.
“You can dance with Taylor. Ya’ll are about the same age and no one else would be close. Taylor has wanted to actually dance and not just teach, and this would be the perfect opportunity. Dance means so much to her, and I believe it would be to you also.”
I agreed with the idea. Dancing with the dance instructor sounded like a privilege. Not only would I be learning from the best, but dancing with the best also. While we were talking, it became time for her pre-school class to start. Parents pulled up in red, yellow, green, black, silver, and every other color car you could think of. I watched as they each came in to drop their child off. The little girls embraced their parents and then ran excitingly into the dance room. All of the girls wore pink tutus or leotards with flowing skirts on them. They were all so cute.
I looked around the room. The girls were all different, but they blended perfectly together. Ribbons in their hair, a perfect diagonal cut at the ends. Some had straight hair, hair that fell perfectly from a tight rubber band and swayed opposite to their bodies. Others had curly hair; the type of hair so thick that they have to tie with several rubber bands. The ringlets formed around the outlines of their face, twisting in the glistening sweat. It was not about looks to these girls. It was about form.
A girl in the corner, around my same age it seemed, rehearsed a dance. Again and again she hit the same moves. She tucked the loose hairs behind her ears, but never took her eyes off her feet in the mirror. She never once looked at her face, or wiped the blurred eyeliner from under her eyes. Her main concern was the move she could not land. Every time she got it right she put her hands in front of her, as if setting a box down and whispered “okay” and began again. Every time she messed up, she squeezed her hands in a tight fist, threw her head back, counted, and started fresh again. It was as if nobody was in the room with her. She was never distracted by the noise of the instructor counting, or the slow classical song coming from a small blue CD player nearby. She never took her eyes off her feet.
I asked one of the pre-schoolers what their favorite activity in dance was and she told me two things:
“My favorite part of dance class is putting on my shoes and doing the Hokey Pokey.”
I could not help but laugh, because I would have never thought putting on shoes could be so much fun. Across the room a group of girls were getting ready. I watched them take their shoes from their bags. They were in all colors and shades: dark pink, light pink, baby blue, pearl, yellow. They were ballet shoes. The long ribbons were coiled around the shoe itself. Some girls carefully un-winded them, shoe in one hand, ribbons in the other. There were a few that held onto the ribbon ends and just let the shoe twist out. They slipped on the first shoe and carefully pulled the back of the shoe over the heel. Some had band-aids on the back of their ankles, covering up the blister beneath or adding a cushion to prevent harm. It dawned on me why this girl enjoyed putting on shoes. It was not about actually putting the shoes on; it was about being with your friends. The girls slowly laced up their shoes, pausing every once in a while to laugh at a joke told between friends, or to look at a girl telling a story of what happened to her the night before. A task that should take no time became an event, a gathering. The fellowship these girls had intimidated me. Sitting by myself, I flipped through my phone.
Finally, I walked back into the waiting room. I registered for dance, paid the registration fee, and thanked them for all their help. Their smiling faces assured me I was joining a kind community. If I never become a great dancer, I thought, at least I will make friends. As I got up and left I was excited. I juggled my keys between my hands. I could not help but smile myself. I could not wait for the chance to enter the world of dance. As I drove away I glanced back at the studio in my rear-view, a sight that would become very familiar to me, a second home. I would never look at the studio the same way I did that day.
I would have never thought a dance studio would look the way this one did. In addition, I would have never thought I would actually sign up for dance classes either. I went in to find out what the studio was all about and now I know. Dance is for yourself; it is not competitive. It is a way to express yourself, and that was what the dance studio did for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment