Ballet

Like most other high school seniors, college essays have recently been a part of my life. Along with applications, portfolios, class work, work, club responsibilities, and dance, I haven’t really had the time to come up with a super creative and original blog post. Instead, you get to see my common app essay about failure and learning from failure! Amazing, I know. So, without further ado, here it is. (Be warned: there are lots of ballet terms aka French words.)

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“Alright. We’ll do: Five, six, preparation, seven, eight. Sissonne, sissonne, sissonne land in arabesque, pas de bourrée. Glissade, assemblé. Glissade, assemblé to the left. And then the other way. Good? We’ll do it one at a time.”

My eyes widen, and I can feel pressure behind them as I try not to lose it in the middle of the dance studio. I’ve been dancing again for less than year; I know only the basics, and anything away from the barre sends my heart racing.

One at a time, each girl does the combination across the floor, every one looking flawless to my untrained eyes. When my turn comes, I mess up immediately.

“Will you do it with her?” the teacher asks the best dancer in the room. She does, but even with the help I can barely stumble through. Once we’re back against the wall, I ask her how long she has been dancing. “Eleven years,” she replies.

Later that night, in the safety of my home, I mull this over. She’s been dancing for eleven years, I think. I’ve been dancing for less than one. By comparing myself to the other more skilled and more trained dancers, of course I felt that I had failed. But when compared simply to my own abilities? I had worked as hard as I could to learn the combinations quickly, to pick up steps I didn’t know, and to make any corrections to technique and form that I could.

The next week, I went back, even more determined to do well. I promised myself that I wouldn’t hold myself up to the standards of others. Did I live up to this promise completely? Not entirely, no. But I tried. I tried to think only about my dancing, and I tried to make my dancing better, and I tried to have fun. I began to shrug and laugh off my mistakes. You’re new, I told myself whenever I butchered a step. You’re allowed to mess up.

 “From the corner. It’ll go: tombé, pas de bourré, glissade, assemblé. Balancé, balancé. Piqué turn, piqué turn, chaîné, chaîné, and pose. Good?”

I nod and mark the combination with the other dancers. I’ve been dancing for three years now; I know more than just the basics, and I’m comfortable being away from the barre. Even with three years of experience, though, my pirouettes are frequently terrible. I sometimes do a grand jeté when I should be doing a saut de chat. I don’t have my splits. And my turn out is not great. But. I have excellent feet. I can remember combinations. I move gracefully. And I try.

Talking Too Much

Last month, I conducted a little experiment and asked some of my friends and family to describe me in one word. Seven out of the eight individuals I asked chose words that described how talkative I am. I won’t claim that I was surprised, but I was a bit annoyed by the results. I have to have other traits. Then again, when I think about it, my babbling mouth has caused me some trouble in the past.

    It all started in kindergarten when I first learned that I could not always talk when I pleased. That was one of the hardest discoveries I’ve ever made. Before entering school, I could speak whenever I wanted, but those were not the rules of Kerr Elementary. Our class used the red, yellow, and green light system, and if I remember correctly I was put on the red light a little over twenty times. I really did not care about what the teacher was saying, so I just talked over her. When it was time to nap, I only ever wanted to talk about the cool shapes and patterns that we made earlier in the day. It turned out that we were essentially forced to sleep during that time, so that would also bring me from a yellow to red light. From what I can recall, kindergarten was when I really started to get in trouble for my talkative nature.

    About five years later, I was sent to the time out room for getting into an argument with my teacher. I couldn’t tell remember what we were arguing about, but it was most likely something very insignificant. I was very adamant to prove my point, but my teacher was not very pleased to be arguing with an eleven year old. Needless to say, writing an apology letter to my teacher really taught me to bite my tongue.

I still struggle with this in high school. There have been countless times in which I wanted to tell someone that they have never been more incorrect, but I’ve learned that sometimes people don’t want to hear my opinion. However, there are times when I still talk too much, and that still gets me into trouble to this day. 

My Hair Has Deceived Me

When I reflect and reminisce on my past hairstyles, though I not often do, a pressing question that seems to flood my mind: will any hairstyle stand the test of time? I’ve watched as my hair changed from a cute curly top to a typical-high-school-girl style, and all the abhorrent styles in between. Each time, I seem to remember thinking my hair actually looked good, though I now see I was fooled by a huge act of deceit.

Stage one, I was Shirley Temple. You may think you know what she looks like, with her springy curls and dancing ringlets, but you’re wrong; I was Shirley Temple, or at least I should have been. For every befuddling, bouncing bit of hair on Shirley Temple’s head, I had twice the befuddling, and twice the bouncy bit right on top of my head.
 

Stage two, I was a poodle. Some might call me curly top, or refer to my hair as “that mop on your head,” but it was all the same to me. I was no longer the image of that dancing singing sensation, I was a composite of frizzy, puffy, and overwhelmed. My own hair was out to get me, and it barely even hung past my chin.

Stage three, I was mistaken to be a boy. When my dad was given the freedom to cut my hair for me-- meaning he took the liberty to do it himself no matter what anyone else said-- he discovered he was not meant to be a barber, at my expense. My hair was short and thin and lacking in so many voluminous ways, because now my beautiful curls were taken from me.

Stage four is what most would call a “half-Shirley”, because although I’d like to pretend my cute stage lasted forever, I know that it actually deteriorated as I got older. Thankfully, I still had a “half-Shirley” left on the first day of Pre-Kindergarten, because I don’t think it was my dashing charm that first wowed my teachers. I thank my hair for my generous treatment that year.

Stage five was the Great Depression. From first grade to seventh grade, my hair fell flat. The curls were feeling too heavy to bounce back up, so instead they hung with droopy arches and burdened excitement. No haircut would ease the turmoil. No braid, pigtail, or headband could put an end to the overwhelming hopelessness. It was hard to tell if we’d ever get out of our slump, my hair and I, but we found a light at the end of the tunnel.

          Stage six, I discovered that short hair isn’t for everyone. Short hair certainly wasn’t for me, despite the thirteen years I spent trying to convince myself that short hair was a good look for me. I often contemplated telling people I was Medusa, just so they wouldn’t look at me. I’ve gained some valuable insight from my middle school hair extravaganza; always tell the barber to cut off less hair than you actually want cut. They struggle with the concept of specific inches.

Stage seven, I figured out the key to my never-ending puzzle of hair. Maybe it was the new-school adrenaline pumping through my veins, or maybe I finally had some sense knocked into me, but I made the important discovery during freshman year. My hair needs to stay long. After fourteen years of uncertainty, good fortune, and shame, I finally just let my hair grow, and in turn, my contentedness too. My hair finally hung with purpose and poise. The frizz and the bouncing manifest itself in tamed curls. It was time for a comeback.

          Stage eight continues to surprise me every day. Each morning is like waking up on Christmas day to see all of the presents under the tree. However, I never know if I’m going to end up opening the big box from my parents, that is exactly the right size to fit the gift I wanted, or the little box from my Great Aunt I’ve never heard of before, who lives on a farm in Nebraska. Sometimes my hair is just how I want it to be, but sometimes I end up with messes and situations I’ve never encountered before. It’s a confusing ride with my hair, but I can’t really get off, unless I decide to go Lindsay Lohan on the whole mess, but even I know that that is a point of no return. No matter what horrendous or despicable stages I encounter, it never seems to last very long, though, so I just hope that in the mean time my hair doesn’t do anything too hideous, destructive, or unbearable.