I learned to dance when I was
fifteen.
In an attempt to avoid the stresses
and heartache of high school, my friends and I accepted an invitation to a
local hip-hop workshop. They were excited, enthusiastic and I tried my best to
mirror their energy. But this was a façade and I was cowering with fear. Unlike
them, I had neither the experience nor the swag to carry out an urban routine. In
fact, I was terrified of crowds and dreaded being the center of attention.
So when the day of the workshop
came, I covered my long and lanky limbs with oversized sweatpants and an extra
large sweatshirt. It was a warm autumn morning in a crowded, unconditioned room
and my outfit defied all logic. Yet, I refused to remove an ounce of clothing.
I was comfortable in my back left corner and away from most of the dancers. Everyone's
eyes were so intently focused on the choreographer that no one even noticed me
butchering the routine. When he would perform a move, the class would respond,
and then I would respond with a twenty second delay. To my own demies, the
class was fast paced and the clock was unmoving.
As I counted down the minutes, I
grew more eager to leave. My excitement, however, was shattered when the
choreographer announced it was time to audition for Nerdz Dance Crew. Since when was this a tryout? Is everyone
required to perform? What have I gotten myself into? These questions echoed in
my head and before I knew it, I was being sectioned off into a group. With
unease, I joined Group Three, a band
of beginning dancers who all found comfort in the back left corner. Just my
luck!
When we were given the chance to go
over the routine, the members of Group
Three all agreed to not audition. So, as the choreographer invited our
group to the stage, no one responded. His unanswered calls prompted the other
groups to chant, “Group three! Group three! Group three!” I looked over my
shoulder and noticed that even my friends had jumped on that bandwagon. Traitors.
Mortified, I searched the crowd for
the infamous Group Three. Our eyes acknowledged
our defeat and we retreated to the dance floor. Interestingly enough, we all
gravitated toward the back of the room leaving an awkward gap between us and
the choreographer. So when the music
dropped, there was no one to hide behind. I became a performer (and a really
rotten one, at best).
My movements were uncoordinated and
my frame? Contorted. But the audience still responded; they still clapped,
hollered, and cheered. And at this crossroads between hardship and humiliation,
I learned to do the same. I learned to take things easy and even laugh at
myself. I learned to shed my excessively baggy sweats and conquer center
stage—to not blend in with the crowd, but to capture its attention. Although I never
learned how to dance, I learned to dance.
