us keep him long enough that I can perform for him. Let me make him proud.
“I know it, Alex,” Dad said. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
We sat there in silence for a moment, before the nurse came and I had to leave. My mind was spinning, but I felt . . . right . Suddenly there was a certainty in my heart that I was on the path God intended for me.
But I had no way of knowing all the strange, awful, and awesome places it was going to lead me over the next few years. . . .
Chapter 8
A Beginning, and an End
D ad stayed in the hospital for a while that time, and when he came back, he was a different person. He was still my funny, loving dad, but now the cancer had gotten ahold of him, and it never let go again. He got skinnier and skinnier. When he was awake, he spent most of his time on the couch talking to our minister, Pastor Lee. They spent hours together every week. Sometimes I stayed and prayed with them, but more often I sat in my room with the door open so their conversations would drift in. I wanted to hear their voices, but not the words: no death, or heaven, or sickness, just the comforting sounds of two of the most important men in my life talking. Sometimes, I could almost forget what they were talking about. But it always came rushing back eventually.
I was itching to intensify my study of ballet. I wanted to show Dad that I’d taken what he said to heart, and I knew time was short. Michael offered ballet and technique classes, but her studio focused on competition and jazz dancing. If I wanted to be the best dancer I could be, I needed teachers who specialized in ballet. After all, I wouldn’t expect a math teacher—even a brilliant, talented genius of a math teacher—to help me with my writing. In dance, it’s the same way. It isn’t enough to have a good dance teacher. You need a good dance teacher who concentrates on the right kind of dance.
Leaving Michael’s studio was hard. She was almost family, in a way, especially after Dad got sick. I think she was a little hurt that I needed to move on, but she understood. If I could have continued doing dancing with her while learning ballet, I would have. But ballet isn’t like that. It requires all of your attention, all of your time. It is the most difficult and rewarding kind of dance there is. My father was right: God had given me a gift, and I needed to live up to that responsibility.
There were basically two big dance studios in Iowa City: the National Dance Academy (where I studied with Michael) and the Nolte Academy of Dance. Nolte wasn’t as grand as National Dance Academy back then. But it was starting to be known for its rigorous ballet training. The school had recently brought in a prestigious new teacher named Tad Snider. It seemed like fate that he would appear right when I needed him—yet another sign that this was the path I was meant to be on.
“This is especially good,” Mom said as we toured the studio, “because you need a male mentor.”
Up until now, I’d had only female dance instructors. They were fantastic, and the dance education I’d received was top-notch. But in ballet, men and women have very distinct roles, and they come with different skills that you need to master. If I was going to be an elite ballet dancer, I needed male teachers in my life. Tad seemed like a godsend.
From the beginning, Tad singled me out for special attention. I’d been training for only a few weeks, and I’d already been cast in Nolte’s production of The Nutcracker. I was sitting on the sidelines during rehearsal one day, stretching. Ballet, more than any other kind of dance, requires that your body be able to assume certain positions. Your feet have to be able to point, your hips have to be able to turn out. If you can’t mold your body into the right shape, then your first, last, and constant job is to stretch until you can. Sitting, standing—even sleeping—you should be stretching.
“Hey Alex,” Tad
“I know it, Alex,” Dad said. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
We sat there in silence for a moment, before the nurse came and I had to leave. My mind was spinning, but I felt . . . right . Suddenly there was a certainty in my heart that I was on the path God intended for me.
But I had no way of knowing all the strange, awful, and awesome places it was going to lead me over the next few years. . . .
Chapter 8
A Beginning, and an End
D ad stayed in the hospital for a while that time, and when he came back, he was a different person. He was still my funny, loving dad, but now the cancer had gotten ahold of him, and it never let go again. He got skinnier and skinnier. When he was awake, he spent most of his time on the couch talking to our minister, Pastor Lee. They spent hours together every week. Sometimes I stayed and prayed with them, but more often I sat in my room with the door open so their conversations would drift in. I wanted to hear their voices, but not the words: no death, or heaven, or sickness, just the comforting sounds of two of the most important men in my life talking. Sometimes, I could almost forget what they were talking about. But it always came rushing back eventually.
I was itching to intensify my study of ballet. I wanted to show Dad that I’d taken what he said to heart, and I knew time was short. Michael offered ballet and technique classes, but her studio focused on competition and jazz dancing. If I wanted to be the best dancer I could be, I needed teachers who specialized in ballet. After all, I wouldn’t expect a math teacher—even a brilliant, talented genius of a math teacher—to help me with my writing. In dance, it’s the same way. It isn’t enough to have a good dance teacher. You need a good dance teacher who concentrates on the right kind of dance.
Leaving Michael’s studio was hard. She was almost family, in a way, especially after Dad got sick. I think she was a little hurt that I needed to move on, but she understood. If I could have continued doing dancing with her while learning ballet, I would have. But ballet isn’t like that. It requires all of your attention, all of your time. It is the most difficult and rewarding kind of dance there is. My father was right: God had given me a gift, and I needed to live up to that responsibility.
There were basically two big dance studios in Iowa City: the National Dance Academy (where I studied with Michael) and the Nolte Academy of Dance. Nolte wasn’t as grand as National Dance Academy back then. But it was starting to be known for its rigorous ballet training. The school had recently brought in a prestigious new teacher named Tad Snider. It seemed like fate that he would appear right when I needed him—yet another sign that this was the path I was meant to be on.
“This is especially good,” Mom said as we toured the studio, “because you need a male mentor.”
Up until now, I’d had only female dance instructors. They were fantastic, and the dance education I’d received was top-notch. But in ballet, men and women have very distinct roles, and they come with different skills that you need to master. If I was going to be an elite ballet dancer, I needed male teachers in my life. Tad seemed like a godsend.
From the beginning, Tad singled me out for special attention. I’d been training for only a few weeks, and I’d already been cast in Nolte’s production of The Nutcracker. I was sitting on the sidelines during rehearsal one day, stretching. Ballet, more than any other kind of dance, requires that your body be able to assume certain positions. Your feet have to be able to point, your hips have to be able to turn out. If you can’t mold your body into the right shape, then your first, last, and constant job is to stretch until you can. Sitting, standing—even sleeping—you should be stretching.
“Hey Alex,” Tad
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