All across the city, May is not so much a month in dance studio terms, but a frame of mind.
It’s recital season — the month when students of ballet, modern, jazz and tap prepare to perform on the stage.
Students of the Creative Dance Center rehearse in the Haller Lake neighborhood, while RoseAnn’s School of Dance practices in Magnolia. And they are all filled with the same level of anticipation.
Because in this month, this single month in a lifetime of months, students do not look at the world through the eyes of children; they look at the world through the eyes of performers, picturing themselves on stage with energy and abandon, just as skilled and full of confidence as their supportive parents had hoped and known they could be.
That’s the best-case scenario. There are always the exceptions.
The mothering instinct
Last week, I met another sort of parent altogether. She was not as boisterous as a reality-TV/dance mom, but she was just as blatant.
I was in the middle of a rehearsal when a woman opened the door a crack to ask if she and her daughter, maybe 6 years old, could watch.
She said they were from Beijing. Together, they were smaller than I am — such delicate carriage.
We talked about ballet classes for her daughter. Then, in front of her perfect-in-every-visible-way, little girl, she said, “I don’t think my daughter has pretty hands and feet. I don’t think she can be a dancer.”
I decided not to pay any mind to what she said, not to call more attention to her ridiculous remark. I knelt down, looked directly into two tiny, brown eyes and said, “You have the loveliest hands and feet I have ever seen. You will be a wonderful, smart, beautiful dancer.”
After a brief moment, the mother shook her head “no.” I challenged her: I nodded “yes!”
By the hand, she led her daughter out of my studio.
Why on earth had they come?
Maybe I had gone too far, over-the-top with my American-style, positive thinking. Still, I think a mother like this is the same in any culture.
Hearing a different voice
I did a little research. Apparently, there is an old Chinese custom that teaches girls to reject all compliments, but to heck with it.
If the girl could just believe what I said is true and, in so doing, believe in herself a little more, my work was done.
It was my hope that my voice — and not the voice of criticism — would be the voice she’d hear whenever she entered a dance studio, the charge that comes from a connection with another dancer, that my voice would be the spark she hears whenever she doesn’t feel worthy, whenever she is afraid to go after what she wants.
I wanted the little girl to feel the image of ugly hands and feet dissipate every time she thought about what I said. I wanted to make sure, from where she stands at the barre, that all she can see is self-confidence taking shape.
At least, I wanted to try.
Mostly, I wanted her to know that dance was never meant to be a competition, no matter how many television shows enforce the damaging idea over and over that there always needs to be a winner and loser.
Because I have tried to live my life authentically in the face of a culture that values football over dance, sports over art, with a very limited idea of what “winning” is.
And this is the voice that rose to the surface, the one that wants to express to every young person that “winning” is a private dance with only two steps: First, choose what makes you happy. Secondly, go after it.
No matter what anyone says, especially about your body.
MARY LOU SANELLI’s latest book is “Among Friends.” Visit her website: www.marylousanelli.com.