The symphony of swelling violins, the labored breathing, the staccato of wood smacking linoleum in time to a choreographed rhythm inside the mind...I am swept up in it all.
I remember the smell of shoe resin and elastic and wood and sweat. I remember the feel of smooth wooden bars, muscles stretching taut, satin rubbing on my ankles, pressure on my toes inside their pointe shoes. I remember the nerves right before the music began, running through step after step in my head and wishing that my arms and legs could express the jubilation of flight found in dance.
Last night I went to the Nutcracker ballet for the first time in three years. I helped pass out programs, and as line after line of young girls in their finest dresses passed me, their faces all smiles and radiance and hope, I remembered being that age. I remembered the awe at watching the dancers leap and twirl with grace, the burning desire to be like that someday. It was once the only future I could see for myself. Ten years of ballet lessons and the only thing I still carry with me is a love for the art and, occasionally, the quiet wistful wish that things had turned out differently.
I auditioned for a part in the nutcracker three or four times. A ladybug, a party girl, a fairy. All were denied me as I stumbled through each audition, my nerves and my general lack of grace making me an easy target for disqualification. Each year I would get my hopes up, only to see them dashed by the dismissing hand of the ballet master and an apologetic smile from my ballet teacher, Mrs. Bean. I had trouble remembering fast combinations of footwork. Always had. If I practiced long enough I could always appear decent in our spring performance next to all the other girls in my class. But it seemed the Nutcracker was just too high a bar for me to clear.
And then in my sixteenth year a miracle happened. Now fairly confident on pointe shoes, I decided to try to audition for a part as a waltzing flower, knowing that if I failed this fourth and final time I might never try again. The ballet master stood stern and intimidating before us, his great muscular strength and grace evident even in the way he was standing. There were eight of us altogether in the room, most of the girls in more advanced classes and years than I was. After stretching and going through a few warm-ups, the ballet master lead us through the first few steps of the dance.
He would begin a sequence of steps, showing it to us slowly first, then up to speed, making sure we could see clearly each transition from one movement to the next. We stood behind him in a line memorizing what we saw and trying to copy it in the row of mirrors before us. I knew that I wasn't the most graceful of the girls there. I knew that I was messing some of the steps up, slopping through a few in a rush to get to the ones I remembered best. After almost an hour of audition, I could feel tears building in my eyes, impairing my vision and furthering my frustration with myself for not being able to keep up.
After half an hour more the ballet master gathered us around him, looking each of us in the face. "Ive decided...to keep all of you. I think that with a little work all of you will do the company proud."
At this I cried freely, disbelieving the impossible. Ecstatic girls rushed out to the foyer to be congratulated by Mrs. Bean and our parents. I lagged behind the rest, still in a state of shock. The ballet master approached me and asked me why on earth I was crying. "This is a happy thing!" he said, a look of concern on his face. I confided in him that I didn't expect to make it, and at this he seemed to grow visibly more wise and aged before my eyes, contemplating what I had said. Finally, he replied:
"I could do this performance with seven girls. Or six. Or five. But I could see that each of you wanted this so badly, and I know that it's this desire which will make you practice and become perfection at the performance. Will you do that for me?"
I nodded yes. Over the next two months I practiced like I had never practiced for anything in my life. I listened to the music as I fell asleep, and woke with dreams of dancing figures still in my head. I practiced wherever I could--in the living room, at the studio, in empty rooms after school. When it came time for dress rehearsal I felt ready. My mom video taped the whole thing and we watched it together. I was amazed to see that I looked no different than the other girls. I did not stick out like a goose on a stage of swans.
The actual performance, I'm sorry to say, I do not remember much of. I know I didn't trip. And I know that my legs only shook a little. My family and friends came out to see me, and I got a bouquet of orange roses at the end.
After that triumph I made the decision to stop going to ballet lessons. My job, my school, and my other commitments took up so much time that I knew something had to give. I knew that I would be kidding myself if I thought I could be a professional dancer, although I still love ballet. I ended my ten year struggle with success, and rarely look back.
But sometimes, like last night, I watch the curtain go up and hear the cues of the music and watch the dancers in perfect harmony with the stage...and I wonder. What if?
