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 |   Nothing official here; just come chill! |
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Welcome! ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Welcome to my little Den! Here you'll find all sorts of things- mostly blog challenges, but mixed in, you'll notice:  I'm a bit of a fangirl  My life is very busy I enjoy using emoticons  I don't tend to swear, but stuff happens. |
| There's something about hip hop that both intrigues and frightens me at the same time. It looks so free, yet it's hard to do well. I'm not sure if any amount of classes or training would ever make me good-or even decent- at this style, but that's not going to stop me from doing masterclasses and learning as much as I possibly can, in between all the other billion things I've got to do for school. Our studio somehow managed to book Lindsey Sterling for a hip-hop masterclass, and she's just as cool in person as she is in her videos, so I try not to gawk too much. As an introduction, she has us all go around and share our feelings about hip hop. When my turn comes around, I manage to get as far as, "I'm Anna, I'm 17, and-" before I need to control my inner fan girl. Taking a deep breath, I continue, "For me, hip hop is like an art, but at the same time, it's so hard to get it right, or even just learn." Lindsey nods, "Well, we're all here to learn- both dance and ideas. So my other question is, what words do you associate with hip hop?" Most people name moves and people- popping, locking, Michael Jackson, Soulja Boy. I end up blurting out "anger," and immediately regret it, although it seems to get everyone else thinking and nodding, including Lindsey, which I take to be a good sign. "Okay, I'm going to run through a few eight counts of choreo, and try to follow along. I'll go over the steps as I do them, and then break down each eight count after the full dance, as well. Yeah?" She puts on a song with a funky beat- even though I can count the beats, I honestly can't tell if it falls into triplets, quadruplets, or simply eight-counts. Looking around, the rest of the class seems to share my sentiment, though she doesn't seem fazed. Clapping to the beat, she yells out, "Ready and! Hit left, right, look down, snap together, snake back down and up, and triple turn" Turning around, she nods at us to do it. "Now, remember- this is hip hop, not jazz, not ballet, not lyrical. For the turns, they'll be outside turns, flexed foot, leg at 90 degrees. So let your arms hang down behind you," she demonstrates. "Second eight count- you're a big black wild gorilla. From the turn, you're standing on your left leg, right leg in front of you like a table- so bring your hands front, push your thigh down, lean back, catch step. Pivot, back front, back front, arms go left, right, left right, and then jump cross, swoop down and up, and turn around, face front. "Third eight count- swooping should bleed into count one. So on 'and', you'll pulse down midway, right arm will go across, grab an invisible bar, and yank yourself that way. Pulse that, too. So it'll be 'two and'. On 'three', hop, kick front, hop kick back, and use that force to turn yourself around for count six- again, your right leg should be like a table- and then down half on seven, up and all the way down, and eight. And that's the full dance. Three eight counts- but make it your own: put your own swagger into it. Ready?" We run the piece at least ten times- it's definitely not easy to "forget" my ballet training- and Lindsey isn't shy about pointing that out in me, or the other dancers- but by the end of the session, we've got a pretty decent piece to perform if requested. |
| All my friends at school think I'm crazy, delusional, or just a masochist. "Nobody can keep up with your schedule, Anna," most of them like to say. Another variation is, "You never have time to hang out with us anymore." I'll give them that one- it's totally true. I go from school, to dance, to home, and then on other days, from my volunteer job to dance, then back home. On weekends, I've got SAT and ACT classes. So, I really don't blame them. Then, the days after the nights where I fall asleep on my homework, I spend lunch in the library, frantically catching up. "One of these days," I keep promising them, "we'll all hang out." Except, I think they're running out of patience. I don't blame them there, either. I've been telling them that since December and it's almost May. I wouldn't have the patience to stick it out to hang out with me, either. Maybe one day, if dance gets cancelled, or if I decide SAT/ACT class isn't worth sitting there listening to someone drone on about how "C" isn't always the best letter to guess, I'll walk through the mall with my friends. To be fair, I wouldn't need this SAT/ACT nonsense if I were going straight into a dance career, but I still need to keep my side of the promise and prepare for college, in the event that I don't get a professional dancing gig before I graduate high school. I've come close- I got through to the final two out of many hundreds in an open call ballet audition, but my "physique and looks just weren't right for the job." I was disappointed, but realistically, it was my first audition, so, facing the facts, I should just be glad I made it that far. I made it onto the invitation-only select ballet team at the studio; while I'm definitely in way over my head with this troupe, it's a great learning experience, and it pushes me to be the best dancer I can possibly be- which isn't even close to the equivalent of the next girl up after me. I have a long way to go, and I'm not sure how I'll survive, but I know I need to. Not just to prove that the nagging voices in my head are wrong, but to prove that it's never too late to start dancing. Ever. |
| Turns out Ms. Elena was right- I collapsed in bed later that night, and fell asleep in the middle of doing my AP English homework. Thankfully, I still had lunch and nutrition periods to frantically finish the three-paged essay on which I fell asleep- and coincidentally, filled with "z"s. Unfortunately, I've got nothing to say on the topic- whether or not people should use the Oxford comma. After looking up its definition and usage, I decide to take the offensive position- Oxford commas are not useful, and should therefore be abolished. Just reading through the essay makes me laugh- my argument is completely whack, but I think Ms. Teoh will at least give me points for creativity: why would we keep with an English tradition in grammar, when our grammatical structure doesn't even make sense in the first place, and we fought the Revolutionary War for our freedom against Britain/England? It's the best I can do, under the circumstances, and as I pay the 40c to print the three and a half pages, I can't help but laugh when the librarian reads the last page and shakes her head. I'm just glad Ms. Teoh has a good sense of humor. If I hadn't lucked out with her, Mr. Warner, the other AP Language teacher, would probably just return it with a 0, and then tell me to take the assignment seriously. With Ms. Teoh, if our main points back the thesis, that's what matters. Plus, on the AP test, she tells us, it's more about knowing how to write a good essay than actually writing one- with a good structure and strong support. And she knows we wouldn't dare to write something weird for the College Board to read. |
| There's something about people doing foutté turns that always gets the audience all riled up. It's almost as if you only need one look, and you're hypnotized. I'm in the studio an hour early today, to practice them on pointe before Baby Ballet starts and I can give my toes a break by teaching the toddlers instead. By the thirty minute mark, I've started falling out of almost every other turn, much to my growing frustration. Ms. Elena, my co-teacher and ballet mentor, walks in as I'm falling out of the sixth turn. At that point, it's something I should be celebrating, not scorning. "Whoa! How long have you been here?" She gives me a once-over, taking in what I presume to be a mess of a 17-year old. I trudge over to the side bench, sit down, and take a large gulp of water. "About a half hour. Probably a bit longer." "And you've been turning for that whole time?" "More or less." "Girl, you're going to overwork yourself. Seriously. With all the work you do for school and dance, it's a miracle you're still alive!" I shake my head. "I keep thinking I had to pay the price when I decided I wanted to pursue dance. I never realized it would be this hard." "You're a strong girl, but everyone has their limits. Just remember that. I know you're trying to prove you can be Supergirl and do everything, but you need to remember self-care, too. Why don't you just watch the Baby Ballet class today, instead of teaching it. You can still help adjust the students' posture and positions, but I think you need to take it slow." "No, I'll be fine." "That's how all catastrophes begin," Ms. Elena warns. "Seriously, I promise I'm not gonna die on you," I joke, trying to get her to let me teach again. "One Baby Ballet class is not going to kill me," I protest. "You need a break," she firmly pushes me back down to the bench. "If I deem you ready for it, I'll let you take over the second half. Otherwise, you're either going to rest yourself or help with the kids' corrections." Obviously, I'm not going to win this one. "Fine. I'll be watching every kid and nit-picking on them, though!" She laughs. "Trust me, your body will thank me-and you- later." |
| I once read an interview with Katerina Martínova, in Dance Magazine, and one line really stood out to me, because it's how I feel right now. "You live in your own world when you become a professional dancer. Even when you're training to become one, it's like the world you knew before never existed. You don't have time for old friends or a weekend trip to the mall. Every day, it's just training, conditioning, rehearsal, and then more of the same." I collapse in my bed; my calves are exhausted from the intermediate pointe class and my toes are rubbed almost raw against the hard wood of the point in the pointe shoes. We worked on turns today, which is especially brutal because you're essentially putting 75% of your weight onto that one leg, all of which culminates and accumulates at the feet- the point. I look up at the various posters I have on my walls: the ballerinas in them are frozen in various poses- arabesque; a tight fifth; a regular, turned out first position, and so many more. They're all in pointe shoes. "I wish I could be like you," I say to none of them in particular, yet all of them just seem to stare back at me, gracefully holding their positions for me to admire and envy. |
| Volunteering at the local homeless shelter: just one of those many other things I have going on in my life that will "launch me straight into college," says my mother. She's still assuming dance isn't a viable career for someone who fell in love with dance at sixteen. Still, I've kept up my grades and infinite other extra-curricular activities, so there really is nothing for her to complain about: I'm doing all she wants, and more. Today, Emily and I are the volunteers on duty in the youth section- we're playing hide and seek with the younger ones. "I think we should give up," I tell Emily loudly. "They seem so hard to find." We see the kids right there, but our poor seeking skills never fails to entertain them. "No, we're so close! I can feel it," she replies, as a giggle escapes from behind a tree. "But we haven't even found one of them yet! How can I even try to go on?" I complain as we walk around the garden, pretending we can't find the kids. "Boo!" The giggler jumps out from his spot, and we both feign shock. "There you are, Michael! I thought I heard someone giggling... Now where's the others?" I ask, as the supervisor rings the bell for the end of playtime. The other six kids reveal their spots, grinning at their hiding ability. We head inside, and I rush off to co-teach baby ballet, a job that helps pay the dance tuition. |
| Collin and I are sitting in his car, in front of my place, when he suddenly breaks the silence. "Remember when I made you learn how to do a bunch of complicated jumps so I could use to practice my catching?" He chuckles, "Mom was so scared when she found out- 'Anna's not a dancer!' she'd always say, 'You're going to hurt her, Collin!'" "Really? She knew? And warned you against it?" "Yeah..." "And you never told me?" I feigned astonishment. To be fair, it was fun. "Well..." he fumbles, probably trying to explain himself. "Yeah?" "You were good, though! And small enough to not hurt me too badly if we fell." "Which we did. Many times." I remind him. "Hey, I'd bet if we tried again, I'd still be able to do the classic lift we always did." I arch an eyebrow. "That sounds dangerous." "But now you dance." "Still dangerous." "C'mon, Anna. Once?" I can't believe I'm letting him convince me into doing this. Just like before. It's like the history book on the shelf, with Collin's and my past, is opening itself back up, and rewriting the ending. Except, this time, the ending is always repeating itself from the beginning of the book. "Sure," I hear myself saying. "Why not?" Just like before. Just like all those other times. |
| Collin hops off the stage after the band's set, and I rush to greet him. "Hey!" He hugs me. "Thanks for coming. I wasn't sure you'd make it or not." "Of course I'd make it! We were the best of friends. And unofficial dance partners." I look down. I hadn't seen him in forever, but once upon a time, he was also the one who got me dancing. We would play together when we were younger, and I'd let him practice his lifts with me. He was the one who encouraged me to join a studio, which was a suggestion I never took seriously until this year, when I ended up at his studio. "Oooh, Anna and Collin are dating!" We spin around, to find Katie taking pictures of us. "Don't you have somewhere better to be, Katie? Like your home?" Collin snarks. He grabs his phone and punches in a few numbers. "Hello? Yeah, hi, Mrs. Larson, it's Collin. From the dance studio? Oh, Katie's missing?" He gives her a pointed look. "Don't you dare!" Katie hisses. "Funny, actually, yeah, Katie's right in front of me. We're at the ElCo auditorium. Fuel to the Fire, my band, we just played a set and I guess she came to watch us." Katie's eyes widen and she makes a grab for Collin's phone. "Oh, you're saying she didn't have permission to come watch, and that with her current foot condition, she shouldn't even be out of the house?" Katie huffs. "Drive her back home? Yeah, no problem. See ya soon, Mrs. Larson." He hangs up the phone. "Car. Now." He returns Katie's pointed glare with his own. "You want a ride back," he asks me. "Sure, thanks!" I'm not sure that's the best idea, but after dropping off Katie to a livid Mrs. Larson, the car settles into a comfortable silence until we get back to my place. |
| "What are you doing here?" Katie narrowed her eyes at me. "I came to hear him play." I nod towards Collin, one of the few guys who hadn't quit dance once his puberty hit, and dancing was no longer a cool thing for guys to do. He was in a start-up band, too, and he'd invited me to come along to watch their first professional gig. It was a good distraction from waiting for audition results. "And what, might I ask, are you doing here? Aren't you a bit.... young to be at a community college, alone? Do your parents even know you're here?" I look her up and down as she leans on the crutches she's still dependent on since the accident. "Ugh, what-ever." Katie swung away. Looks like she won't be bothering me anymore. I turn my attention back to the stage, where Collin and the other guys are about to get started. "Hey, uhh," Collin starts, before the mic screeches its feedback, "Hey everyone! Thanks for coming out tonight. We are Fuel to the Fire, and our first song's name is 'Dancer'. I hope you like it." Everyone cheers as the boys begin their set, and I'll admit, I think Collin has a real knack for performing. I could see the fire in his eyes as he embraced the mic and released the band's soul into the audience- the same type of fire I'll see when he's dancing. It's subtle, but it's there. And I wonder if he knows. |
| "Why do you dance?" Apparently, it's the question people ask at auditions nowadays. I can see that, because it separates the ones who do it because they just do, and the ones who can't live without dance. For me, I'm the latter. "I dance because I can't fly. For me, dancing is the closest thing I can think of to being weightless, especially when I'm dancing ballet. And I can go anywhere that I please when I'm dancing." I start off. "Ballet, for me, is like I'm dancing in a dream, and I dream I can spread my wings and just soar. It's as if I'm living in a fantasy world, where anything and everything I imagine myself to be, I can communicate it and be it through dance. For me, dance is more than just expressing myself. I think it's when I feel the most free, and the most like myself. I mean, yes, I excel in school, and I have other commitments outside of dance, but when I'm in the studio," I shake my head, "it's like no other feeling. I feel like I'm safe, and nothing can stop me from doing that extra turn or leaping that much higher. Dance, for me, is everything, and I'm not sure what I'd do without it." I end. At this point, I feel like I've just left my soul out there for them to examine, and I hope it's not overkill. I wait as the other nine dancers answer the question- practicing my interview skills and nodding as each answers the question in turn. "Thank you very much for your answers. We will let you know the results of your audition by the week's end." The lady in charge pushes up her glasses and nods for us to leave. We exit, and at this point, it's just a waiting game. Who will get the part? |
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I wish you all the best, my friend. May all your dreams come true. 
