all my life . . . but something or someone always told me I couldn’t. I guess I just can’t give up on the idea.”
As we stretched our hamstrings, she continued to delve into my history. “I see. Tell me more about you. You’re married?”
“Yes, second time, blissfully. He supports my projects. He’s an amazing man,” I said. I felt like I was chatting with a friend instead of my teacher. It was the most personal conversation we’d ever had between us.
“How long were you married before him?” Sybil asked.
“Fifteen years. Two children,” I replied as we shifted to chest movements. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me why I was out of marriage one and into marriage two. From what little I’d learned, she was in a healthy, long-term, high school, Annette Funicello relationship. I’d hung on to the first marriage longer than I probably should have. My thoughts briefly wandered to my first marriage, back to when my children were the priority and I was a servant . . .
“Hey, kids are in bed. Can we discuss something?” I’d asked Chris.
Silence and folded arms had answered me as Chris watched television.
“I’d like to take a painting class. It starts next Wednesday,” I’d continued.
“How much? What time? And who’s gonna watch the kids?”
“I’ve got money saved. You don’t have a class, and you can watch them for an hour. It’s just ten minutes away, and once a week for three weeks,” I’d said.
“Why’re you wasting money and pressuring me to stay home if work needs me?” he’d demanded.
Yep, that was my world in marriage one. But today was good, and the journey had made me who I was. I hoped Ameera was headed toward emancipation too. Maybe marriage one was the South and marriage two was the North.
Sybil must have noted my silence. “Let’s chat about what you’re having trouble with.” She glanced at the mirror. “Anything in particular?”
That was a loaded question. “I guess I’m not sure when I should see some improvement on transition . . . like from hip lifts starting from front to back or chest slides,” I said. She nodded. Encouraged, I continued. “And I can’t find the line between new-to-dance or just plain stiff.”
“It’s certainly helpful if you’ve had dance or cheerleading in your past, Kat,” Sybil began. “But bad habits actually end up being more of a problem for women who think they’ve got lots of experience. So on the positive side, you’re a clean slate. But some muscle memory would help with choreography memory because you wouldn’t be thinking so much about movement.”
“Okay, then I guess I need to treat private Monday as a honing class. I wanna keep up with Polly and Cheryl,” I said, staring at the notes on the mirror. “It feels like we’re moving so fast, even though I know we’ve barely started.”
Sybil’s face softened. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be giving up my time if I didn’t see something in you. Let’s go over what we learned last class. We’ll go slower.”
I smiled at her, grateful for her understanding. We ran through confident walk and drills more slowly and with more personal direction. Negative energy was expelled before I took on another task. Posture and arm positions were explained in greater detail. I even learned that my arms are double-jointed— I’d had no idea—which meant I had to work much harder to give them the soft, bent, floating look. Otherwise, I looked like an airplane gliding on a dance floor. Information lowered my inner voice’s discouraging words and gave me room to grow.
After a short cooldown, I grabbed my shoes and bag so Sybil could get to work. Opening the back door, I looked over my shoulder and said, “Thanks, Sybil, this helped a lot. See you tonight.”
“No problem, Kat. We’ll get there,” promised Sybil before she disappeared through Pappy’s hallway door.
Between classes, I was called to duty for the Charleston Ballet Guild, which was requesting that our
As we stretched our hamstrings, she continued to delve into my history. “I see. Tell me more about you. You’re married?”
“Yes, second time, blissfully. He supports my projects. He’s an amazing man,” I said. I felt like I was chatting with a friend instead of my teacher. It was the most personal conversation we’d ever had between us.
“How long were you married before him?” Sybil asked.
“Fifteen years. Two children,” I replied as we shifted to chest movements. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me why I was out of marriage one and into marriage two. From what little I’d learned, she was in a healthy, long-term, high school, Annette Funicello relationship. I’d hung on to the first marriage longer than I probably should have. My thoughts briefly wandered to my first marriage, back to when my children were the priority and I was a servant . . .
“Hey, kids are in bed. Can we discuss something?” I’d asked Chris.
Silence and folded arms had answered me as Chris watched television.
“I’d like to take a painting class. It starts next Wednesday,” I’d continued.
“How much? What time? And who’s gonna watch the kids?”
“I’ve got money saved. You don’t have a class, and you can watch them for an hour. It’s just ten minutes away, and once a week for three weeks,” I’d said.
“Why’re you wasting money and pressuring me to stay home if work needs me?” he’d demanded.
Yep, that was my world in marriage one. But today was good, and the journey had made me who I was. I hoped Ameera was headed toward emancipation too. Maybe marriage one was the South and marriage two was the North.
Sybil must have noted my silence. “Let’s chat about what you’re having trouble with.” She glanced at the mirror. “Anything in particular?”
That was a loaded question. “I guess I’m not sure when I should see some improvement on transition . . . like from hip lifts starting from front to back or chest slides,” I said. She nodded. Encouraged, I continued. “And I can’t find the line between new-to-dance or just plain stiff.”
“It’s certainly helpful if you’ve had dance or cheerleading in your past, Kat,” Sybil began. “But bad habits actually end up being more of a problem for women who think they’ve got lots of experience. So on the positive side, you’re a clean slate. But some muscle memory would help with choreography memory because you wouldn’t be thinking so much about movement.”
“Okay, then I guess I need to treat private Monday as a honing class. I wanna keep up with Polly and Cheryl,” I said, staring at the notes on the mirror. “It feels like we’re moving so fast, even though I know we’ve barely started.”
Sybil’s face softened. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be giving up my time if I didn’t see something in you. Let’s go over what we learned last class. We’ll go slower.”
I smiled at her, grateful for her understanding. We ran through confident walk and drills more slowly and with more personal direction. Negative energy was expelled before I took on another task. Posture and arm positions were explained in greater detail. I even learned that my arms are double-jointed— I’d had no idea—which meant I had to work much harder to give them the soft, bent, floating look. Otherwise, I looked like an airplane gliding on a dance floor. Information lowered my inner voice’s discouraging words and gave me room to grow.
After a short cooldown, I grabbed my shoes and bag so Sybil could get to work. Opening the back door, I looked over my shoulder and said, “Thanks, Sybil, this helped a lot. See you tonight.”
“No problem, Kat. We’ll get there,” promised Sybil before she disappeared through Pappy’s hallway door.
Between classes, I was called to duty for the Charleston Ballet Guild, which was requesting that our
Similar Books
