The air is so thick and heavy, draping on one’s skin like an unwanted wool blanket. Despite the shadowy darkness of my parents’ room, it is still unbearably hot for a child cradled in her mother’s arms. Through the venetian blinds, horizontal stripes of a velvety dark sky sprinkled with diamonds are the only source of light other than the glowing outline of the door, which is framed by the golden light pouring in from the dining room. My mother’s crooning voice whispers into my ear as she sings songs to me in a foreign tongue, waltzing around the room in an attempt to put me to sleep. The space dances before my drowsy eyes before they finally close, drifting into a dreamless sleep.
My eyes grow wide in surprise as I stare at the enormous pink and white tissue paper package in the middle of the dining room table, a smooth satin bow pulling the edges of the rustling paper together. The sun shines through the wrappings, casting a pale glow of pink light upon the shiny oak’s surface. My tiny fingers cautiously run down the ribbon that was begging to be untied, just as I hear my mother’s footsteps behind me. As soon as her eager voice tells me to open my present, I rip through the tissue, the rosy colors falling to the floor like strangely tinted autumn leaves. The first thing that catches my gaze are a pair of tiny ballet slippers made of soft peach leather, small enough to fit a doll. They perch upon a dreamy chiffon skirt scattered with miniature rosettes, as sugary sweet as a strawberry-iced cupcake. The next day, I am dressed in my new outfit and placed in a ballet studio for my first lesson, and so my obsession began.
Fear rises up into my throat as I consider the dim hallway, and I wish I were elsewhere. Throngs of people push through the corridor, elbowing and shoving to get past whatever got in their way. The colors are bland tans and muted sage, covering the cool metal lockers and smooth brick walls. My happy yellow shoes look out of place standing on the oatmeal tile floor. The edges of books clutched in my arms dig into my skin, reminding me that this isn’t a nightmare; it is simply my first day in a public school. Upon gathering enough courage and joining the masses traversing to their next class, I begin to notice the strangeness here. People with glued purple hair and ears filled with holes march along side of the prissy sweater-and-pencil-skirt ensembles. Inside the classrooms, teachers sporadically jump onto desks and invent clever songs for learning purposes. Individuality is the only rule here. Continuing down another bland hallway, having aged a year or two, I see the true colors are in the population here, not the building.
Classical music floats through the air as my nervous hands tremble while tying the fraying ribbons on my discolored pointe shoes. Despite the general calm and happy air that all of the other dancers are conveying, the black worry in my stomach knots itself into a tangle and refuses to relax. The stiff skirt of my gold tutu reminds me that this is my first performance in which I would dance an important role, the tulle itching me the way my instructor’s corrections from previous rehearsals scratched in my mind. Although the bothersome netting was uncomfortable, there is no doubt that this costume is a beautiful work of art with its skillfully designed swirls of amber trim, glittering gold fabric, and tiny yellow stones decorating the pancake that circles around me like a barrier. If possible, my guts become more twisted as I step backstage into the cool darkness of the wings, the musty velvet curtains brushing my arm as I prepare to set foot onto the stage for the first time this night. Whispers of good luck break the silence before I rush onto the black Marley-covered floor with the other three dancers, a grin slapping onto my face as soon as I catch sight of the audience. Suddenly, all my fears of making mistakes or tripping over my own feet melt away, and my joy of dancing takes over. Without realizing it, we finish the dance and are making our bows, beaming at the spectators as they clap enthusiastically. This is why I deal with all the nerves, I remember.
I am in sheer paradise, even as the cold seaside wind cuts my face. I wrap my sweater-covered arms tighter around myself, shielding me from the chill, and I carefully place my three waxy playing cards on the forming pile in the center of the plastic table, looking around the circle of my friends doing so. Their faces are content though cast in shadows as they assess my expression, trying to determine if I am lying. From the little balcony of our hotel room in Italy, we can see a sea of fluorescent signs advertising hotels and bars shining against the ink stain of a sky. A few rooms down the hall from ours, another resident is bellowing the lyrics of an unrecognizable French song that crackles on the radio as he showers, the window thrown open to share his performance with the rest of the vacationers. Sick of playing cards, we bundle up in warmer sweaters and jackets and brave the empty night streets for a midnight visit to the beach. We skip upon the sandy asphalt in the middle of the street as we approached the shore, breaking out into a run as the adrenaline kicks in. The sand radiates a pale glow that resembles the moon suspended in the encompassing black sky, which melts into the equally black sea. Waves roar passionately over our laughter as we struggle to continue our swiftness on this obstacle of terrain. My heart rises as I spin around and fall onto my back, the vast sky spinning above me. This is what freedom feels like. |
