Finding my dancing legs

I remember my first dancing disaster. It was during my Epsom Elementary days, on a rainy afternoon that prevented my class from playing our daily kickball match. Recess was relocated inside, and while a nearby boom-box played MC Hammer’s “You Can’t Touch This,” my classmates and I formed a circle in the back of our fourth grade classroom. In our rendition of Soul Train, we clapped our hands as each schoolmate awaited a turn to dance in the hip hop hoedown. Our then-fashionable flat-tops and side ponytails bounced as we boogied, cheering each performer in the dance circle. From bee-bopping to break dancing, my classmates danced to the beat of “Hammer Time.”

And then it was my turn.

My Reebok sneakers shuffled, my sweatered arms swayed, and my side pony-tail bobbed to the beat of the boom-box. I jived, grinning so wide I could barely see through the slivers of my squinted eyes. And my happy heart pounded to the beat of my feet — until our “Don Cornelius” pulled me from the dance circle. My classmates, whose cheers and clapping had long ceased, snickered as my sneakers squeaked to a stop. My replacement took center stage to a revival of cheers, while I pacified my embarrassment with a Nutty Butty ice cream.

And so began my fear of public dancing.

“I’m warning you, I can’t dance,” I wrote in an e-mail 20 years later, still scarred by the fourth grade boogie turned bad.

“You’ll be just fine,” my soon-to-be dance instructor reassured me, before ending with, “see you in a few weeks!”

Although I was eager to combat my dancing disability, my family was less encouraging of this endeavor — specifically, my much older sister and her co-conspirator, our baby sister.

“Gina’s taking ballet!” my much older sister scoffed, followed by hyena-like laughter. The baby sister likewise bellowed, rolling in the floor as she kicked her legs. 

Mama’s nostrils flared in her failed attempt to shield amusement, while Daddy joined the cackles with a few slaps to his knee. 

I grabbed my ballet slippers and drove from our “house of hilarity” to dance class.

Although I’d joined an adult dance class, I quickly realized that I was the only pupil with no prior dance experience. And after accepting this handicap, I decided to make friends. And fast. I would need several allies to survive my approaching battle of ballet. 

My classmate camaraderie proved advantageous. Despite my weekly blunders, my classmates didn’t openly laugh at my lack of coordination or my occasional run-ins with poles, mirrors, and walls. And when I nearly fell during one classroom exercise, twisting my foot in a curse-worthy position, a nearby classmate made certain that I was okay. 

As the semester progressed, I watched the lithe lifts and flittering footsteps of fellow classmates, while my own feet awkwardly resisted cooperation. Leaps proved nearly impossible as I struggled to uproot my clumping, cement block feet from the studio floor.  

“I feel like I’m learning to walk!” I laughed, as I tried to convince my legs to cooperate with my brain. 

I have stubborn legs.

Despite my weekly dancing collisions, I enjoyed our weekly stretches, which consisted of hoisting my leg onto a bar in a position that bulged the roll of my growing waistline, while convincing my inner thighs that they were ripping apart from my torso. 

Yet, as each week progressed, my flexibility improved. Likewise, my clumsy dance steps moved from their 1 - 10 rank of “10” to a “9.5.” Although I finished my first year of dance lessons lacking the grace and skill of my other classmates, I triumphed in a personal victory. With my instructor’s never-ending encouragement, my Don Cornelius flashbacks eventually vanished. 

And for the first time, I was center stage, in a circle of cheers and applause.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Finding my dancing legs