Commitment

The first scene is in a Swarthmore dance studio. I'm nervous; it's one of my first dance classes. I am the only guy there. Clearly not quite sure what sort of comfortable clothes are appropriate for dance class. During the warm up, we're asked to kneel, to sit on our heels. I do my best, but the pain in my ankles is unbearable after a few moments. The skin over the joints of my metatarsals is pinched and stinging. I try again, then adjust onto my ass. Try again, get off my feet and back onto my flank. I fidget in discomfort watching everyone else still as yogis. After just this one class I have tiny, oozing scrapes on the top of my feet. It would take two years to develop the appropriate calluses to protect the skin on my feet. Another two for the position to be comfortable, with weight evenly distributed and joints aligned without strain. No pinched skin. Every time I settle into it, it feels like a miracle.

I decided to become a dancer after seeing a performance. I'd been in a couple musicals before, nursed a secret desire to be in the limelight, but never anything serious. What captivated me in this particular show was not an over-arching artistic statement, not even the choreography, per say, but the execution. The mastery of the dancers in their bodies, the sheer athleticism, something pure about what was happening that made my body feel charged, tensed and forward in my seat before even realizing what was going on. And something in my head said "You can do that." Not just a voice, but something I knew. Just like that, without understanding anything that was involved. I wanted that command, or felt like it was some potential I had within me, or something. Presence of mind and body, over myself, over the lyricism of the thing, over the space around me. Luckily enough, I was at the same time sufficiently prescient and sufficiently ignorant to go for it.

Another scene, this time in the hallway of my freshman dorm. At this point in my life I am all about the social dancing. Life has been too kind in introducing me to alcohol and rib cage isolations all at the same time. It should also be noted that I am a member of the varsity soccer team, and consider myself the pinnacle of youthful fitness. The girl across the hall is telling me about yoga class and how great it is. She shows me her favorite position which is downward dog. Psh, I can do that. So I try. She looks at me kinda funny and says, well, ok, but you have to make this small adjustment, and move your hips this way, and press your heels towards the ground... at which point I lose all conception of the outside world because my mind is utterly consumed by the hellfire rising from my calves and hamstrings. Perhaps "pinnacle" was too strong a word, I think to myself.

Dance training meant I had to learn about release. Release the tensions induced by environment, because suddenly straight white guy means curious minority. Release pride, because however fast or strong I was didn't matter when I couldn't touch my toes or coordinate myself to learn fifteen seconds of dance phrase. Release myself to the conclusion that I didn't have to perform for everyone else, or outperform anyone else. Rediscovery of a genuine personal process. And whether a product of perversity in my mind or in my circumstance, I was thrilled to be starting off with the absolute basics, ill-suited feet and tense musculature and all. Oh, there would be wonderful, daunting obstacles!

And there still are. But the moral of the story is, at least my feet aren't leaking pus.