Tuesday, December 3, 2019

Ballet

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When I was six years old, I wanted to be a dancer. I rented movies about dancing, watched ballets on television, and liked to dance around my room to classical music, pretending I was the star of a beautiful ballet. I had always been too young to join a real dance class. Of course there were those "Mommy and me" classes for babies, and then the "creative dance" classes that consisted of toddlers spinning and hopping around a dance floor, following no set chorography. But, now, being six, I could join a real dance class, where the beginnings of a true ballerina were born.


"I'm going to be a dancer," I said confidently to my mother in the kitchen, as she made dinner and I practiced plies.


"I know, I know, dear," She replied, having heard this from me many times before.


The next day was a Saturday. My mother came into the living room at around eleven ‘o clock that morning. I was watching weekend cartoons when she came in.


"Get dressed, we are goin' to register you for ballet," she said, grinning.


I flew from my seat on the couch to my bedroom. I dressed myself in a flower- print, summer dress and brushed my teeth.


When we arrived at the dance studio, I was shaking with anxiety and I was glowing with excitement. My mother opened the glass door to the studio and I stepped inside. While my mom walked over to the receptionist, I stood, frozen, staring at the inside of the building in awe. The walls were paneled in honey-colored wood, and the floors I stood on were a short, rough, black, carpet. To the right of me was a big, glass window. I walked over to it, stood on my tippy-toes, and peeked inside to discover a dance class in session. I stood there watching the ballerinas spin across the slick, hard-wood floor, one-by-one. I watched their delicate feet daintily brush the floor, before flying swiftly into the air, as they leaped, their light, sheer skirts flowed with their movements, until they again returned lightly to the floor, completing their jetes. I longed to be in that room with them as I listened to the muffled sound of their classical music. All the while, I was unaware that my mother was registering me for class, I remembered, and turned around. I returned to her side, only to hear "…And what will she be needing?"


The receptionist was a large lady, with a kind smile and sweet voice, "It's all on the blue paper, Miss."


"Thank you," said my mom, as she pivoted towards the door, "See you Wednesday then." My mom said to the receptionist, as the put her back against the glass door, slowly opening it.


The receptionist returned her comment with a smile and a nod.


"Did you sign me up?" I asked restlessly.


"Yes, your first class is Wednesday, and we have to buy to a few things," she replied.


Next, we drove to a dance store. I found a little powder blue leotard and soft, pink ballet shoes. I was so excited. When I came home, I put on my dance wear and danced around my room. I continued doing this until Wednesday.


I rushed to my mother's car after school that day. We went home and still having two hours before my lesson started, I began getting ready. I put on my blue leotard, along with my white tights, and my ballet shoes. Then, my mom put my hair up in a tight bun and I waited for the time to come. Finally, it did.


When I arrived at class I was so thrilled and energized. I loved my first class. However, my attitude soon changed. I felt like the class was so childish compared to


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Zora Neale

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