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.