I used to dance because it was exhilarating. I danced because it made me feel strong and powerful and beautiful. Dancing made me feel like, behind the shy, introverted girl that showed herself to the world, I was actually something special and different and alive. For a long time I danced like this. For six years, I danced because it felt good. But then something shifted; my world changed abruptly. New teachers were brought to me, and they were stricter and at the same time more helpful than my old one. These new teachers, alongside my old one, decided that they wanted us to perform. So we started working on “The Nutcracker.” I diligently gave up my Saturdays and my school friends to dance, but it already felt more like an obligation than something I actually wanted to do. I was given small parts. Important parts were given to me, sure, but they were still small. I worked hard and long, I tried to make them notice me, but I had become part of the ballet corps, the mass of people who aren’t all that important to the directors. I started to think that I wasn’t all that special or beautiful anymore. And when they looked at me and told me that I was wrong, I felt even worse. For a girl with low self-esteem, nothing can be worse than direct criticism. So maybe I didn’t do anything too wrong, but each correction was a blow, each harsh word a strike. But then I danced on the stage for that first show and felt amazing. I loved knowing that it looked right, that I danced well (even though I really didn’t). In that first show, I felt amazing again. I didn’t doubt returning to do a second show. I was given more mediocre parts, and the same girls were given the lead roles. My mom was mad, but I didn’t mind. It seemed to me that they were better dancers than I was. I worked even harder for that second show, once again paying the studio for me to give up my Saturdays and my friends. I didn’t mind so much, because I knew that I would get to dance again on that stage, even if I hated dancing up until that moment. I silently endured the pain of not being a favorite, of harsh criticism and long, long days. My bones would ache, my muscles would ache- even my face would ache. But still I worked hard, I worked because I wanted them to see how badly I wanted to perform. I didn’t care about my parts, but I wanted to dance more. I spent too much time sitting around. And then the show came again and I felt incredible. Adrenaline rushed through my body with every step, invigorating and exhilarating me. So I returned again, like an addict, to do “The Nutcracker” again. The same girls got the lead parts, and I started to get mad. Was there something wrong with me? Was I somehow not good enough? They pretended to notice me and gave me a slightly bigger part. A part that I shared with another girl and that they didn’t work with me on. I looked terrible. From my head to my ankles I looked fine, but my feet were awful. And they didn’t tell me how bad it looked. They didn’t tell me even once that I needed to make my feet look better. But later, after I’d learned that my feet just needed stretching, I made a comment about my bad feet and my teacher replied, “Well, you’re working on them.” Couldn’t she have told me before? If they were really that bad, that she couldn’t say even one good thing about them, couldn’t she have at least made a comment? But it felt good, even if it didn’t look good. The long hours didn’t mean anything, or they didn’t mean much, anymore, once I was onstage. So I walked back into the trap. I stepped eagerly back up to the plate, tying on my pointe shoes to audition once more. They put me back in the same place I’ve always been, returning the same girls to their lead positions. How can they do this when they advertise fun and caring environments? I go to class every day I’m expected to; I only miss a few. I go to every Saturday rehearsal, even though I spend a significant amount of time sitting around. I’m the understudy for Cinderella, but no one cares. It’s something just to make me feel good. It works, for a while. I start to get tired of begging out of every social event, every family dinner, because I’m obligated to go to dance. My feet hurt and my homework is done late at night. Sometimes the stress gets to me and I just cry. I blame it on other things when my mother comes wondering, because I want to get up on that stage. They don’t even look at me. I’m not a favorite, but I’m not disliked, either. It’s the same as school, now. I’m an introverted girl, afraid of doing anything wrong. I try and try to get noticed. I learn that my feet are bad and I stretch them. My solo still sucks and no one tells me. I work on it once alone with a teacher, the day before the show. It helps, a little. Summer begins before dance ends, so while everyone else is dancing in the sun, I’m dancing in a stark room in front of a mirror that reflects my every flaw. I spend so much time standing in front of that mirror, examining each inch of my body that is no longer special or powerful. I feel weak and ugly. I feel like I do the rest of the time. The only thing that saves me now is writing. I go to the theater and dance, but the exhilaration is not so strong, the feeling of freedom more limited. I move my hands and feet, but I know that it doesn’t look good, because no one cares what they look like. It feels nice for a while, until I see the video and I look like crap. I don’t understand why nobody told me. My teacher reproaches me for not selling enough tickets to a show everyone has already seen, and one in which I look bad. Now I’m given the opportunity to leave, to abandon this vicious circle. But, like a young woman returning to an abusive partner, I feel obliged to continue. It’s a matter of loyalty and pride. Would I be able to hold my head up, knowing that I’d abandoned them? I don’t know. I know that I won’t ever be the lead, that I won’t ever be beautiful enough for them. Loyalty is a strange thing. How can I leave now? After nearly ten years, two-thirds of my life, how can I just abandon a world I know so well? I’m torn, shredded, ripped to pieces. I want to dance and I don’t want to. How can I be free when the very thing that sets me free is the thing that is the cage in the first place? All I want is to feel beautiful again.
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