Many years ago now, our daughter was in her dance phase. We encouraged it, as one would any activity that gets them out of the house and away from the tv. Dancing will ignite that spark of imagination, grace and agility, and we want our children to grow up having diverse and stimulating interests. At times it works out, other times not so much.
The early dance lessons were enjoyable for me. I’d drop her off, bless her little tap-dancing heart, then drive up the street to the local bakery and pick up a large coffee (a necessity on dance days) and a couple of sweet rolls. I’d return to the studio, which fortunately had a wall of glass, so I could sit in the car and read the newspaper or a book. Ah yes, those were good times. Some of the parents (mostly mothers) would actually stay in the studio watching the lesson. The first part wasn’t bad – they wore ballet slippers, so it was pretty quiet. Once the tap shoes came out, the room sounded a bit like a World War I movie. From the safety of my car, however, I could see when the skirmish was winding down and I could slip unobtrusively back into the room. I could always counter the inquiries (“Hi, Dad. When did you come back?”) with something innocuous like, “oh, a while ago”. If she asked if I’d seen something specific, I could could say something like, “oh, yes – very impressive”. Soccer was a similar experience. A fellow parent and I would get a large coffee and chat away on Saturday mornings. We’d glance at the field from time to time to see if anything interesting was happening. It usually wasn’t, although one parent frequently came with a German shepherd on a short leash. She really got into the game, and would run up and down the sidelines dragging the poor dog, who had an impressive repertoire of choking noises, along with her. That was the high point for me. I’m sure by the time the dog went to its heavenly reward, it looked like a small giraffe.
The spring recital was always a momentous occasion, and we’d set aside a few thousand dollars for the costumes, the photos, the DVD’s, a bouquet of flowers, and of course several dozen tickets for family and friends. The run-up to the actual recital was the “dress rehearsal”. This would be roughly fourteen hours of watching other people’s children perform over and over. The dance company director, though fortunately not our daughter’s teacher, was either ex-military special ops or a former prison guard, and she took her sunny disposition from that experience. The dress rehearsal marathon was always so much nicer amid snarling at the dancers, screaming at the school custodians, and wondering aloud to nobody in particular what she was paying all this money for. She herself mostly taught the adult dance classes, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why these ladies stayed with her. From my humble observations, these dancers were not destined for the Joffre or the American Ballet Theatre. Most peaked in middle school and whatever enjoyment they derived from dance must have been sucked out the instructor. In the final year of dance, we arrived promptly for the 4 PM start. I sat there dozing until my beautiful daughter danced her way across the stage – at 8:15. If memory serves, she was in routine number forty-nine of fifty-two.
The recital typically starts out with several crews of munchkins. They’re adorable, with an occasional toe tap or twirl. Usually one or two, in a burst of curiosity, will look behind the curtain, which is closed to keep them confined to the front of the stage. Their grand finale includes a “forward roll with assistance”. A couple make it on their own, in fact they’re so proud of themselves they keep going and almost go off the front of the stage and into the pit. Others need assistance, much like gymnasts have ‘spotters’. A gentle fanny nudge does the trick. As the dancers get older, their skills mostly improve. The down-side is that the routines get more intricate and considerably longer. The smiles become less and less sincere. What is with those smiles? Dancers and baton twirlers share that same plastic smile that tries really hard to say “I’m having the time of my life”, the message that more typically beams out is, “This was my parents’ idea – sweet Mother of God what was I thinking?” While we don’t often hear about female rooftop snipers, I’d hazard a guess that a healthy percentage took dance lessons at some point. And, of course, every class had its stand-out. This is the dancer that’s one step behind everyone else. She’s usually looking sideways at her peers to see what’s coming up, and by the time she gets there, it’s too late and the others are once again ahead. Her parents only see her in profile on stage. Ours was Jillian, who had thick glasses and the reflexes of a baby seal. All eyes were on her. For some reason, we all focus on that one dancer, don’t we? Sometimes even failing to watch our own child, we fixate on the lone ranger. It’s like watching a car accident. Every kick step is a beat or two behind, and goes the wrong way. If they’re reaching up, she’s touching the floor. If the corps is spinning to the right, she’s going to the left. It’s truly hypnotic. She doesn’t even make it to the final bow with everyone else.
By high school, the dancers are well along and the Jillians of the class have dropped out. I do feel sorry for the parents of these older dancers, and hope that they’ll be able to recoup some of their investment in tuition scholarships somewhere down the road. These young ladies and some men are in eight to ten routines, all with elaborate outfits that must cost about the same as a fighter jet. When our daughter reached that stage, she was mercifully winding down her dance experience and was only in one number. We knew that a career in dance was not in the cards, and her personal audience had shrunk from three rows to just her parents and perhaps a friend who had not previously shared the joy. Our great niece, just finishing Kindergarten this year, has started dance, so we look forward to many more recitals. The warm memories a few weeks ago came rushing back. Our little princess was great, in her purple costume, not her favorite pink but a close second. Ever so fortunately, she was in the early going, and we had to leave at intermission as one set of grandparents had to get back to New Jersey. I know, right? Don’t want too much of a good thing.
I'm Thinking...No! 