I am often told that I look like a ballerina. By that, I mean that one time someone saw me wearing tights and slurred drunkenly that I looked like a nutcracker—but I like to cling to that moment as evidence of my undeniable elegance. Sometimes, when people don’t ask, I like to tell them: a graceful strength like mine is something you’re born with, but it dies unless you cultivate it. And then they don’t ask me, Sofia, how did you cultivate this God–given talent? And I tell them, well, friends, my artistic development as a dancer was like a candle burning bright in the long darkness of my tweenage years.
I fell in love with dance when I was 12. It was, as the French say when referring to things that are not this, un coup de foudre: love at first sight. My little sister had just started taking ballet and tap. I remember the jealous nausea that took over my body when we visited the dance store. She got to pick out different shoes and tutus, and looking on all these sparkly material possessions, I suddenly discovered my passion for la danse.
I enrolled in a ballet class taught by a beautiful Ukrainian woman. Contrary to my high hopes as an awkward 12–year–old who just kind of wanted a leotard, Tuesdays from 5–7 p.m.became the most miserable time slot of the week. The class was in a basement, a “Silence of the Lambs”–esque hole where girls who maybe enjoy a Pop–Tart every now and then can go to hate themselves. The beautiful Ukrainian woman was named Tatiana, and from her I learned many valuable lessons. For instance, that fascists invented ballet. Also, that I was way too fat for that shit. Further, that skinny but insanely muscular Eastern European women will be making appearances in my nightmares until I die.
So I quit. Before my last recital, Tatiana yelled at me that my bun was too low on my head. I sort of fixed it, muttering to the girl next to me how not worth it ballet was. She looked upset and told me she loved ballet; it was her life, apparently. I thought she was dumb at the time, but looking back, I don’t begrudge her this passion. After all, are we human, or are we dancers? Or are we chubby seventh–graders coveting our little sister’s “Dance Princess” tote bag? Definitely ponder that.
