Envisioning the Dancer
I am a ballerina, a dancer in the Nutcracker. This is how I envision myself as this year's Chinese dancer:
The ballerina stands on the edge of the metaphorical cliff, and she about to jump off into the thrall of the music. The first beats come up to caress her toes: a familiar melody to all enthusiasts, a new delight for the captive audience of the mall, center court, two weeks before Christmas, three weeks before the insanity of the holidays comes to a rest and the tilting axles of the jingling merry-go-round grind to their final halt and wait for the next November to call them back into rotation.
Dum-dum, Dum-dum, Dum-dum, and the dancer flies in a little fluttering step, poised on the toes of her shoes, a precariousness about her, yet utter stability is exuded from her every pore. This is magic. This is what makes the world go round.
It does not matter in that moment that she should be pale; it does that matter that her skin is as Mediterranean as it could be. She is so in character, from her angelic and innocent cherub smile to her shuffling meek manner, so unlike her true self, that it does not matter to those who watch her: to them she is the perfect example.
They nod at the chopsticks that criss-cross her elegant bun, smile as they note the spread fans, the ones she has worked months to hold properly, but they don’t see that, they see perfection. They see something they would never pray to achieve, not even in their wildest dreams.
They ignore her too large feet, how she is too tall to be a true example, as the one on stage always looks tall, always stands with the utter confidence that does not allow for second guessing.
She is blind to them; she is blind to the faces, the eyes that watch her in awe. In the back of her mind she can remark on the difference of this stage, can remark on the difference of the lighting and how she could see them if she wanted to, if she would only look.
But she is too caught up in the spell, too lost in the moment, the music, the steady beating on her temples from the sound system. She is lost enough to ignore the fact that she is wearing the shortest dress she has ever; she is lost enough to ignore everything, if she wanted to. Her body moves itself, carries itself to the final completion, the final smile, the final note.
She is done, she has triumphed the impossible. She is perfect, and she revels in it. For one dance, she is perfect. She waves goodbye to the terrible flightiness of the feeling, disguising it in a casual flick to the audience, acceptance of the applause and admiration. She is glad for all the fantasies in the minds of little girls that she has created today, she is glad for all the dancers she has made.
She is me.
The ballerina stands on the edge of the metaphorical cliff, and she about to jump off into the thrall of the music. The first beats come up to caress her toes: a familiar melody to all enthusiasts, a new delight for the captive audience of the mall, center court, two weeks before Christmas, three weeks before the insanity of the holidays comes to a rest and the tilting axles of the jingling merry-go-round grind to their final halt and wait for the next November to call them back into rotation.
Dum-dum, Dum-dum, Dum-dum, and the dancer flies in a little fluttering step, poised on the toes of her shoes, a precariousness about her, yet utter stability is exuded from her every pore. This is magic. This is what makes the world go round.
It does not matter in that moment that she should be pale; it does that matter that her skin is as Mediterranean as it could be. She is so in character, from her angelic and innocent cherub smile to her shuffling meek manner, so unlike her true self, that it does not matter to those who watch her: to them she is the perfect example.
They nod at the chopsticks that criss-cross her elegant bun, smile as they note the spread fans, the ones she has worked months to hold properly, but they don’t see that, they see perfection. They see something they would never pray to achieve, not even in their wildest dreams.
They ignore her too large feet, how she is too tall to be a true example, as the one on stage always looks tall, always stands with the utter confidence that does not allow for second guessing.
She is blind to them; she is blind to the faces, the eyes that watch her in awe. In the back of her mind she can remark on the difference of this stage, can remark on the difference of the lighting and how she could see them if she wanted to, if she would only look.
But she is too caught up in the spell, too lost in the moment, the music, the steady beating on her temples from the sound system. She is lost enough to ignore the fact that she is wearing the shortest dress she has ever; she is lost enough to ignore everything, if she wanted to. Her body moves itself, carries itself to the final completion, the final smile, the final note.
She is done, she has triumphed the impossible. She is perfect, and she revels in it. For one dance, she is perfect. She waves goodbye to the terrible flightiness of the feeling, disguising it in a casual flick to the audience, acceptance of the applause and admiration. She is glad for all the fantasies in the minds of little girls that she has created today, she is glad for all the dancers she has made.
She is me.
