Floating or Flying?

Maria Pauer

When I started ballet, all I could focus on was getting my pointe shoes. I wanted to be like the big girls. Graceful, elegant, poised, with perfect posture. Hair tucked into a bun without a single strand out of place. Wearing black leotards, and pretty pink shoes. I looked up to them in my neon purple leotard, and hair that was always falling out by the end of class. The big girls would walk through the door to the dance studio, heads held up high, brows furrowed already thinking about the dance before the class even started. I trailed after them stumbling with every step, jumping to put my shoes on so I could catch up with them. I would look at them and think I couldn’t wait to be just like that.

Every day in ballet class I would daydream about the day I would get my pointe shoes. I would watch videos of ballerinas constantly staring at their feet, their arms, their faces. Every step they took was graceful.  They were beautiful to me. They were everything I could be. I proclaimed to my mom that I would be a principal ballerina for the American Ballet Theatre. I danced down our small wooden hallway, moving my arms just like they did. I would stand on the tips of my sneakers to try and be on pointe. So even for a split second, I was everything I wanted to be. 

But I wasn’t like the Sugar Plum Fairy, or the Swan Princess. I moved like the Rat King, clumsy, hands everywhere. A wild child. I loved to dance, I couldn’t contain myself whenever the music started, but if I wanted to be a ballerina. I had to be disciplined and poised. Every barre exercise, every leap, every pirouette was getting me closer to my dream of being a prima ballerina. A ballerina isn’t a ballerina without her pointe shoes. 

I had the build of a ballet dancer. Not too tall, and not too short. Skinny, long legs, small boobs, and a small ass. However, the discipline, the structure, of ballet itself was hard. I wanted to move to my own beat, to leap with my legs bent, twirl with my knee inwards. I was always told by my teacher that the plie wasn’t deep enough or the kick wasn’t high enough. Every class I would beat myself up, because I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t pointe material. I was not beautiful when I danced. I was choppy and all over the place. I was ugly. I couldn’t focus on how my dancing had improved from when I first started. I focused on the future, and how I would never be good enough for pointe shoes. 

All the other dancers around me were perfect. They looked like ballet dancers and danced like them. Black leotards, expensive cloth shoes. Buns without a hair sticking out. I wore a black leotard, but my hair barely stayed in the shape of a bun. I tried to blend in, but I always stuck out. Everyone wanted to do exercises in the center of the dance studio, slow, gentle, and graceful. I wanted to leap across the room, loud, brash, and reaching towards the sky. But leaps were for boys, and we were all girls, working for our pointe shoes. The pointe shoes that were my entire future. 

I practiced at home every day. Even after class, I would practice, ‘til my arm was in the right spot, my body held up high, until my toes were perfectly pointed. I would practice ‘til my legs grew sore and I couldn’t stand anymore, and I would have to force myself to take a cold shower so I could feel them again. At school, I would walk around in the first position looking like a penguin, until it came naturally.  I constantly watched videos of ballerinas from England, Australia, and the U.S.A dreaming of the day I would be in their shoes. It would all be worth it, once I had the pointe shoes. I would be everything I should be, perfect, poised, elegant. Someone who could learn a dance in a matter of seconds and perform it without flaw. Someone who is the epitome of beauty, and everyone loved. Someone young dancers could admire and aspire to be. A grown-up. 

Thirteen years old. The faithful day came. Everyone else in my class had gotten their pointe shoes already. They were strong enough. Perfect enough to earn them. My hair tucked in, my black leotard hugging my body, my teacher looked at me, smiling. Finally, I could get them. My dream. The shoes that would make me who I am. I could hardly contain my excitement as my mom drove me to the dance store. Ten years of my life had led to this moment. The store smelled of satin and dreams. The shelves reached to the ceiling filled with ballet shoes. A whole counter dedicated to hair accessories. A small corner towards the back, with boob tape in it. But I ran into the room, where the pointe shoes lived. A mirror and barre built into the store, to test the shoes out. A lifelong dream about to come true. 

The clerk could tell by looking at me and my uncontained excitement that it was my first-time buying pointe shoes and was very patient with me. I hardly listened to a word she said though. I kept imagining myself as the Sugar Plum Fairy, dancing to gentle, and quiet music.  Applause as I finished, ending with my arm perfectly lifted. Light, and soft. Toes perfectly pointed. The perfect ballerina. We tried on dozens of shoes, until the last pair, I rolled up, and it felt like I was floating. I was bobbing in the ocean, the sun kissing my fair skin. Congratulating me on finally achieving my dream. We bought them, and right when I got home, I sewed in the ribbons. Every ballerina sews in their ribbons. And that is what I was.

I went into class and kept thinking about the moment my instructor would tell us to put on our pointe shoes for our exercises. I wanted to float again. I wanted to be the Sugar Plum Fairy. I wanted to be the Swan Princess. I wanted to be the elegant ballerina I’ve dreamed of being since I was three years old. She told us to change, and I raced to my bag, tying the shoes on like second nature, since I practiced tying them the night before. I ran to the rosin box, dipping the ends of my shoes in the rosin, so I could maintain my grip on the floor and ran up to the barre, my shoes clanking with every step I took.  

We began to rise, and as everyone rose onto the ends of their boxes, becoming the ballerinas they were meant to be, I rose up and immediately fell back down, clumsy and loud. I didn’t understand. I tried once more, and I fell again. My ballet teacher had to guide me up, and even then, I could only stay up for a second before falling. The entire class I struggled with my balance and kept on falling. With each fall my dreams slipped further away. I got home that night and threw my toes shoes against the wall. Why couldn’t I be like the Sugar Plum Fairy, why must I always fail at everything I want? I cried myself to sleep that night and dreamt of dancing on stage, with no applause at the end. Just standing there breathless all their judging eyes on me. 

Every pointe class was a struggle. As my fellow dancers excelled, I failed. The only thing I could do in the damn pointe shoes was leap. Jump across the floor, higher than anyone else in my class. Every time I leaped, it felt like I was flying. I soared, my hand reaching to touch the ceiling as if I was trying to catch a cloud and bring it down with me to earth.  If I tried to turn in them, I would fall on my ass. If I tried to walk in them, I would not be fully on the box and be off-balanced. I tried to dance in them, and my whole body would be clumsy, and heavy, while everyone else floated. They would dive into the water, and their bodies made of light would bob to the surface. Effortlessly floating, becoming one with the water. When I dived in though my body made of lead would sink right to the bottom. Kicking, flailing, trying to bring myself to the top, but nothing would ever bring me to the surface. They all floated, while I drowned. And every day after class I would cry. Realizing I would never be a ballerina. 

I never did become a ballerina. I may have the body for one, but I do not dance like one. It took a long time for me to realize that, and years of experimenting with other kinds of dances such as tap and jazz.  I am not the Sugar Plum Fairy or the Swan Princess. I am my own kind of dancer. I’m still grateful for ballet. It provided me the structure, and the discipline you need as a dancer, but it is not who I am. As cheesy as it sounds, I dance to my own beat. I dance to the beat of my heart. And while all those dancers with their black leotards and perfect hair, floated in their pointe shoes. I wore my neon purple leotard, and let my hair be free. I did not float. No. I flew.

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