Your Mama Can't Dance

Beginning at age 7, I took dance lessons. In the early years my mom had to drag me there some days. Later I enjoyed it, and then I loved it. I studied for 10 years, and taught beginning ballet and tap to younger (and sometimes older) students.

My teacher was terrific; I adored, admired, and emulated her. However, despite my grandmother having been a professional dancer and teacher, and my mother also teaching ballroom dancing in college, I was never particularly talented. Rather it was something I enjoyed and something that I worked hard at. I had the heart of a dancer, but the talent of an audience member. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t awful or anything and I don’t consider those 10 years a waste. I learned a lot from taking dance lessons; I learned confidence, presence, grace….French. I was flexible and fit. It opened opportunities for me in community theater, which led to some important and lasting friendships.

Recently I went to one of my nieces’ dance recitals. It wasn’t your typical 3-hour clap-n-nap, with endless Disney music or worse yet…little girls dressed and dancing like strippers. It was just two small groups performing 1 routine. It was nice. At the end the teachers invited the audience to get up and join the dancers in learning a few steps. My boys were up there in a heartbeat, and my sister too. I didn’t go. I couldn’t. I sat glued to my seat, a smile on my face and tears in my eyes.

I’ve thought a lot about my response that day. Embarrassment and regret are the words that came to mind. When I was younger I presented myself as “a dancer” but I’m not anymore. Maybe I never was…but I worked hard and that was enough. I haven’t mastered a step, learned a routine, or sweated through a rehearsal in 12 years. I am not a dancer. I couldn’t get up that day to dance, because I’m a Used-to-Be, and somewhere in my mind, I thought that everyone would be able to tell….