Non-fiction / Pursuing My Dream (Analysis)
CHAPTER ONE
My new pair of pointe shoes slithered out of their mesh bag into my hand. They fit inside each other like matrioshka dolls, although they were both the same size. I buried my nose close to the smooth pink satin and inhaled the smell of fresh leather and glue. This pair was still virginal, as yet uninitiated into the world of worn pointe shoes – not yet cut and sewn, no frayed satin, no dark streaks on them to mar the beautiful craftsmanship, no sticky rosin at the tips or on the heels. I couldn’t wait to actually wear them, to break them in. It wouldn’t take long. Despite repeat hardening inside the tips – I poured floor wax inside the shoes, and stood them upright in the oven on low heat until the wax hardened – they still didn’t last very long. Last month’s pair died quickly from so many rehearsals, and I was sad to see them go, as they’d fit particularly well. This pair though, I knew just by looking at them, would do nicely.
I took out a needle and thread, and a pair of scissors. I measured the elastic that would hold the shoes on by slipping my foot in the shoe, placing the elastic around my ankle and positioning it where I would attach it to the shoe. I then pinning the elastic down in place with the needle, careful not to jab myself, and slid my foot out of the shoe. I began to stitch. Right side, left side. Right shoe, left shoe. Then came the ribbons. Those were always quicker to sew. They were ready to go in no time. This was a good thing, as it was already 10 p.m. on Friday night and I had class early tomorrow morning. Saturday, no time for sleeping in.
At 8 o’clock my alarm woke me from a very deep sleep. Groggily I glanced at the clock, hoping there was a mistake. Maybe the 8 was really a 6? Maybe I had the luxury of two more hours’ sleep? My eyes came into focus slowly, with much blinking, and I saw that the alarm was correct. Saturday, 8 o’clock, time to rise. But rising from a warm bed, the closeness of dreams still in my consciousness, was painful at best.
I had been reading Dostoyevsky for my senior year Honors English class until 2 in the morning. I was not behind schedule, in fact the class would only begin discussing Chapter 4 that week, but I’d almost finished the book, partly because I knew I’d be busy in class and rehearsals all day Saturday. And then, Dostoyevsky, who could put him down?
As I rolled out of bed, literally, I felt the familiar, gentle ache in my leg muscles, behind my knees and at the tops of my hamstrings. I had never been an early riser, but there was one thing on earth I for which I would gladly sacrifice sleep: ballet class. Even on a weekend morning.
That gentle ache was also a reminder that I would feel better after stretching my legs. For some reason that was always the case, as soon as I stretched, and took class, the soreness went away, I felt invigorated and strong.
I kept my socks on. I always slept with socks, they kept my Achilles tendons warmer and looser the next day, I’d found. I slipped on my leotard and tights –the latter were footless, so that I could easily bandage any toes that needed attention in the course of several hours’ worth of class and rehearsals. I threw a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt on over the other clothes, grabbed my coat, and put on warm shoes – the morning would be chilly.
I tiptoed into the kitchen, grabbed some canteloupe and chicken, packed them to go, and walked carefully to the front door. Not a soul in the house was up. I’d been the last to bed and the first to rise. Just like every weekend.
I arrived at the ballet school early; the owner had just opened the doors and turned on the heat. “Morning,” I said as I whisked by him to the dressing room. I changed my street clothes for proper warm-ups, put on ballet slippers with ankle warmers over them, and trudged into the studio to grab a place at the barre and warm up.
Since I wasn’t blessed with as ideal a body as I’d hoped, I did my best to always warm up and stretch extra. By the time class began, I felt ready. I hoped for slow tendus though. Tendus: leg movements to the front, side and back, with the knee straight and the foot pointed, the toes never leaving the ground, but using a gentle pressure against the floor to strengthen the insteps and warm up the feet. If I didn’t have a good set of tendus, the rest of the ballet class always felt off for me. It had to be some weird sort of physiological superstition, for I didn’t understand it myself.
By the time 10 o’clock came, the barre was full of other dancers. The class began, and before I knew it we were in the center of the studio, doing pirouettes.
“Katreen,” my Hungarian teacher would say, “arms.” I knew instantly what he meant, my elbows had to turn out just like my hips did. I corrected the position.
“Yes,” he said, “and use the other arm too, when you close it, to gain momentum.”
I did as he said, pulling my left arm towards my center as I began to turn to the right. I sailed around on my leg slowly, three times, perfectly on balance. “I told you so,” he joked, with a singsong tease in his voice. He was always jovial in class, it made the 90 minutes whiz by.
Zoltan spent quite a bit of time correcting us on pirouettes. As a result, his students always turned better than any others their age, at least from what I’d seen in larger public classes elsewhere in San Francisco.
“Temps lié means you have to point the working foot when it peels off the floor,” he said, as if we hadn’t heard it before. Several girls nodded and tried the step as he walked back to the record player. The school didn’t have money for a pianist, unlike many of the larger facilities in San Francisco. “And that means point it evvvverrry time,” he continued, trilling his “r” slightly as only Europeans can. It was a good reminder to us all as we shifted to petit allegro. We knew. But if you were lazy, it showed. And it was very easy to be lazy on a Saturday morning after a week of long days and little sleep.
Class ended and we had a short break to change our shoes. Pointe class for an hour and then another break and group rehearsals began, so that those only in group dances could leave early. By three o’clock the group rehearsals were finished and individual rehearsals began. I only had another hour left –one rehearsal for my solo in the upcoming performance—before my dancing day was done and I would have a full 48 hours off. Already my feet were swollen, but I wasn’t about to remove my shoes now or I would never get them back on.
“When you extending your hand to him,” Carmela coached me through a partnering session without the partner, “Think about why you’re doing it. What is going through your head, what is the meaning of the movement,” she continued. Motivation, the reason for a gesture, was everything in ballet, the art of silent movement. We could speak only with our bodies, our heads, our arms, our eyes. Never with words.
I tried again. Wouldn’t you like (pause, coy glance) to dance … with me? I tried to say it with my eyes and my arms this time.
“Better,” Carmela said. “That was better. Then, be sure when you take the next position you go all the way onto your leg – keep your weight forward, otherwise you’ll not be placed properly for the promenade.”
I nodded and tried the movement again. It worked better that time when I thought of throwing my body weight further forward than it was.
“Good job,” Carmela said. “I think that’s enough for the day, I fear we’ve worn you out.”
I smiled weakly. I was tired but happy. “No, it’s never too much,” I said. “I just wish it looked better.”
“ You’ve got it, you just have to increase your stamina.”
She was sweet. I wondered though – I was a mess in the mirror, and I knew it. It had to be better, faster, cleaner, sharper. I prayed for a list of physical characteristics I didn’t have. No matter, I could gain them in time: more flexibility and stronger feet. Determination and hard work could, I knew, compensate for many things that more gifted dancers took for granted.
I trudged back to the dressing room, physically exhausted but satisfied. I’d given my all, done my best, and now I could turn to the next item on the weekend’s agenda with no regret: hours of homework.
The twenty minute drive home always went by too quickly. I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to dance or shop or read a book. But, I reminded myself, once I finished the homework, I could watch ballet videos. That was enticement enough to speed through the necessities.
I walked in the house, immediately heading up the stairs to my room, past my mother in the kitchen. I wanted to lose five pounds before spring, so snacks were out of the question. “How was it?” my mom would shout after me.
“Great,” I shouted back. “Zoli gave me several good corrections and the rehearsals went well.”
“Good…” I heard the distraction return to my mom’s voice. She was again out of the range for proper in-house shouting.
I tossed my dance bag in the corner, removed the wet leotards and tights, and took out the pointe shoes. They were damp from wear, and now inaugurated with several gray streaks on the formerly pure pink satin. Another hearty pair. I set them aside to air out properly.
As I opened my textbooks, I was glad I’d read ahead on “Crime and Punishment”. We had a paper to write on it, so I began work on that with the reading for the next two weeks already out of the way. About an hour later I was interrupted by the call for dinner.
“I fixed chicken and broccoli,” my mom began, “and there are potatoes in the oven.”
I’d pass on the potatoes, but inhale the rest and stop myself before I was too full. I’d noticed with time that after a day of physical exercise, I would want to fall asleep just two hours after eating, but I had much more homework to finish, so I’d have to wait to curb my hunger.
By 8 p.m. I was sleepy anyway, so I’d interrupt homework again for a quick shower. I’d then work until I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Typically that would leave only an assignment or two for Sunday.
Sunday.
My one day of the week to sleep in, and for some reason the house was up earlier than I was. I guess because they’d all slept late on Saturday, they were ready to roll. I wasn’t. But at least I could laze around doing homework all day long. Then it would be another 6 a.m. alarm on Monday for school, and the routine would begin for one more week.
The singular day off from physical activity always felt good at first, but by Monday morning I was aching to get back to class. It was hard sitting still through four hours’ worth of school. As it was my senior year, I had successfully maneuvered my schedule so that I could leave at noon. It had taken me four years to be able to do this in my high school. Other schools allowed it earlier. For some reason I was never quite that lucky.
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“As I rolled out of bed, literally,...” I like this.
“Since I wasn’t blessed with as ideal a body as I’d hoped…” When was she hoping for a nicer body? As a child or as an adult…?
“I heard the distraction return to my mom’s voice. She was again out of the range for proper in-house shouting.” This is very well done. I can really see what happened.
I hate to say it, but this has a very real “Dear Diary” sound to it. Nothing has happened yet to make me curious about this girl – there’s no conflict, no drama. I’m hoping that her classes go well and that she is able to raise her level of performance in ballet, but that’s it. This kind of writing might do well to flesh out the character a bit at the beginning of the book, but really i’m not very tempted to read on. This is about 8 pages in novel form, and nothing has grabbed my attention beyond a vague curiosity.
The sentences are cleverly written. Forming useful prose is certainly not one of your weaknesses.
Travis
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The pacing of this story works. Just as I was wanting you to move on from the description of the shoes at the beginning, you did. The action moves on toward the ballet school nicely.
I lose the focus of time when Carmela is coaching. Perhaps mentioning Carmela in the transition so that the reader is with you from the moment Carmela speaks?
What this is missing is a plot. What is the narrator rehearsing for? The readers needs to know where this is going. This will also make this sound more like a story and less like a journal.
Notes:
” . . . bed, literally, I . . .” (This is the tone you want to eliminate from this well-written story. The word literally is superfluous. Also: “For some reason”. Your prose will be stronger without these phrases.)
with as ideal a body as I’d hoped (Better? . . . with the ideal body I’d hoped for.)
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