S.O.S.

The dancers have commandeered the light.

I don't see any justification in dancing for people who hate us, for teachers who have a disgusted attitude towards us because we have been labelled "Level 2 technique" which they themselves put on us. It's like they chose who they wanted to be worthy. Level 3 is on their way to NYC, Level 1 is potential-striken, and Level 2...purgatory. We're not good enough to be allowed to move on, but too good to go home. I used to be hell bent on convincing them that I was something special, but I stull wanted to do it my way and not be made into something my predecesors just wanted to see pirouette. So I got blacklisted, yet respected, maybe even feared in some cases. Not exactly what I was going for, but I took it over being someone's silent muse.

They don't like Michelle because she has a big butt. They don't like Emily because she has big boobs. They don't like Zig because she has a big heart and they don't like me because I have a big mouth. Who at the beginning of ballet time decided teachers got to say what size was acceptable? I know plenty of things that are big AND wonderful: Texas, elephants, Eddie VanHalan's hair circa 1985, the Civil Rights movement, Melana's cankles, the Rocky Mountains, the Sistine Chapel, and Andre's ears. Big is not always bad. Maybe Eddie's hair was a poor example.

The dance studio was bleak and attic-like when we walked in this morning. Our darling instructor had already started class with but 3 students out of obvious spite that he was assigned to teach the Level 2's today. Two of us have doctor's notes urging us not to dance, but we are here anyways. Michelle whispers about a wish that she could just melt into the floor. I wish I could give that to her.

Katie's drum beat is perfect for the next scene. It puts soundtrack to the evil persona Nancy has all too pleasantly taken on: An undercutting lioness, cruel from jealousy that she is not heir to a throne and hell bent on the redemption of her shortcomings. She yelled at Michelle for blowing her nose in between exercises, making her demonstrate the correction alone. Then she covers it up with false sweetness that makes me sick- asking Michelle if she is okay. if she was truly concerned that a runny nose might jeopardize Meesh's health. Then Nancy goes after me. She draws the class's attention to me, who can't dance today. I am clearly miserable to not be twirling and leaping with my peers, still she upbraids me for attitude I have not even given her yet. When I remind her of my note and injury excuse presented the first day of classes (a time she when she also publically embarrassed me), she at first pretends she knows nothing of my injury and asks sweetly if I am not feeling well or something. She makes me say 'hernia' and point out where it is. My humiliation angers me but my irises only drain their colors. "I was only asking, honey." I hate sugar names dripping with disdain. My mother gave me a name. I sass back, "And I was just telling you." My delivered attitude earns me evil eyes but no more words. I wish I was brave enough to do something more; like make a scene and walk out. Or describe how I've been throwing up from the pain I'm in and the extra meds I've been swallowing. But I don't. I just write. And I take out my bun to release my dance-defiant hairstyle.

The room is dark and dreary, not ominously but mundanely. I will not raise my eyes from this page, whether out of shame or embarrassment I know not. Suddenly a burst of light! It robs me of my seclusion and I look up to see 3 dancers ripping open the corded curtains from the wall-length windows with neither permission nor approval. Our instructor goes on giving the next combination, not wanting to acknowledge the disobedience of his authority. But I see the panic on his face. The dancers are ripping those cords- there are 10 curtains total- and the room becomes alive with light. I smile at the rebellion and immediately begin to scribble these very words. I was meant to notice this small but bold act of resiliency. I was meant to record the movements of spirits that juse refuse to die.



...Ricky.
"Love Story" by: Taylor Swift.