Open stage- 2016 

I ask the greasy-haired coordinator pestering me about where my solo begins if, “stage left” is considered to be left from the audience’s perspective or the performer’s perspective. One patronizing fake-smile and annoyed eye-roll later, Greasy tells me that of course stage left and right are from the performer’s perspective. Don’t be ridiculous! Now which way do you enter, other people are waiting?

I suppose it is rather silly that through twelve years of being alive, ten of those years spent dancing, not a soul has found it important enough to tell me which viewpoint left and right stage are in relation to. Pity. I stalk away, rolling my eyes, letting my pointe shoes hit the floor in a sort of sullen stomp. I bet Greasy wouldn’t know the difference between a pointed or a flexed foot if one kicked him in the face.

My tutu--the first tutu I have ever worn--brushes against the wings amidst my pacings. Baby blue and glittery, and the envy of every girl who has wanted to feel as ethereal as a ballerina. My fingers brush my hair and I feel a new tiara--mine, all mine--an elegant and sculpted crown. Fit for the princess I know I will become when it is my turn to perform. This is my first competition, and I’m excited and nervous all at once. 

From the wings, I walk the perimeter of the stage until I reach the curtain. It’s closed, as it should be; the competition hasn’t started yet. There’s a small sliver in the space between the curtains, one that intrigues me deeply. I align an eye with it and peer out. Even through the darkness, I note the liveliness of the audience. All crackling snack wrappers, chatting with friends, turning playbill pages. In their moments of idleness, they stare at the curtain, expectantly.

Backstage- 2017

Behind-the-curtain anticipation is felt in films between the heartbeats of swells of the most elegant of orchestras. The reality is less glamorous, as reality so often is. The only thing between you and the audience are curtains, but these curtains are woven with incessant what-ifs and dark, tangible barriers of incompetence and self-doubt. 

I only hear footfalls, amplified by pointe-shoed girls. They mark their variations backstage, tense but determined. Talk to someone here, and you are considered lazy.

But it is so quiet. And this quiet gives way to toxic, problematic thoughts:

Last year was my first year competing. 

I walked onstage:

A name. A number, and a jittery movement to the spotlight. Before the music starts, I am fixed center stage, every eye in the audience and the judge’s panel trained on me. Their bated breaths--I can feel them. 

 When the moment came, I-

-step up to pointe, and promptly fall off my box. Then the moment is over, and it is like nothing ever even happened. 

From the audience, there is a hint of polite applause that dies almost as soon as it has been ignited-

To myself, I repeat, over and over: Penance with the past. Penance with the past. Penance with the past. I can’t mess this up again.

I stand there, motionless. 

(It was never going to be perfect, anyway.)

Paralyzed. Petrified. 

Darkness- 2018

It was here, in the darkness, that I first coveted the spotlight, a brightness from where I stood shuffling in the oblivion of the wings. When I was younger, about eight or so, I would watch the feet of the older dancers through a maze of moving legs and ask myself how do they stand on their toes like that? For a long time, the only thing I wanted was to step out in front of everybody and show them: I can do that, too. 

Now, I find myself in the darkness again: This quiet before the crescendo and the suspense before a storm. The lights go out, the theater stills, and the world stops.

Everything could go wrong.

I press my hands to my chest and tell myself that it will be ok in the end. 

Spotlight- 2019

As I wait for the routine to begin, there is a stage in my mind. The dimly lit studio becomes the Mariinsky theater; the mirror melts to an audience. It’s not much, but it’s mine. 

I remember when I used to think that I needed to make penance with my past. I needed to reimburse my psyche for my failures or else I would crumble. But life kept going, and I was still there, still fighting. The truth that frees me is a realization that I owe the past nothing. It is gone, gone... racing away from visibility as fast as the people we watch turn into ants in airplanes.

I have started to embrace my failures, accompanied by my belief in determined girls who claim their own I can do that, toos. These mistakes strengthen me if I choose to learn from them; they shouldn’t be something to fear. Failures should be embraced, yes, but never accepted, because excellence--not perfection, but excellence-- is always attainable. I still question my ability to succeed, but I’ve been learning to keep my hopes high. Everything can go wrong, yes. But everything can go right.

It is all this that races through my head in the moment before the music. When I look for my audience, the only person I catch is my reflection. She is smiling. Her approval is a standing ovation.

When I finish, my teacher has many corrections to make. This part was wrong, she tells me. Fix it.

So I do.