Beautiful by McKenzie

Beautiful by McKenzie - January 2017 Scholarship Essay

    “How do you spell beautiful?” A piece of paper and a purple crayon tucked behind her back, my dancer twiddled her toes as her curious, blue eyes looked intently into mine.

    “B-E-A…”

    But there is more than one way to spell beautiful.

    I love to dance because it tells a story.  The music literally sweeps you off your feet and your motions paint an experience or emotion better than any words could.  It's empowering. When I started dancing at age three, I instantly fell in love. My body was made to move to music. I can’t stop myself from penché-ing when I open the fridge and chaîné-ing to the toaster with the electrifying pulse of a melody. Naturally, I wanted to pass on my love of dance, but teaching three-year-olds was not as easy as I had expected.  They were bubbles of curiosity, but also whirlwinds of distraction, which didn't complement my ambition for perfection. I felt the eyes of the onlooking parents piercing my self-worth, criticizing my lack of control over the thirteen toddlers. Just like I wanted each of my performances to be a ground-shaking platinum production, I wanted my students to be perfect.  Instead, I couldn't convince them to stand in a line. A line.

    Seemingly in vain, I held hands, rearranged feet, patiently waited for ‘listening ears” and drilled basic tendus and pliés. I cried on several occasions. With the performance just weeks away, I was reviewing a tendu when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl licking a mirror. We had just overcome the sequin-eating phase, yet there she was, a tongue and its reflection.  Horrified, I pulled her away and the tears began; hers, then mine.  Why was this so difficult? Was I not qualified enough? Were they just not ready for dance? Do sequins really taste that good? It seemed I would never keep them in the studio for the entire class, and certainly never lure them onstage. They weren't perfect. Slowly, I was realizing, neither was I.

    Although the night of the show brought anxiety, their awe of the stage lights and sparkly costumes extinguished all my fears. Their pure wonderment and enthusiasm was contagious, transporting me to my first recital. When my little students finally entered the stage, my heart melted. Were they perfect? No, but they had improved. Holding hands, they shuffled into their spots. The click of tiny tap shoes could be heard over anxious giggles.  When the music began, the fire, the spirit, the love of dance, ignited in their beaming visages. They stood in a line, feet and arms pointing in different directions like they were flagging a plane rather than dancing, but it didn't matter.  All that mattered was the bona fide joy that radiated from my shining stars.

    “Beautiful” is spelled with the smile from a girl bubbling with enthusiasm about the performance. Beautiful is the grateful hug from little arms that barely reached around my waist. Beautiful is the handful of genuine “thank you’s” mouthed by all the proud mothers. Beautiful is the full circle; someone with a love of dance who cared enough to teach me, stick with me, love me at a young age, who inspired me to dance and teach others. Then, I inspired those little girls, hopefully enough to send the circle of love and inspiration around again.

    Beautiful is the carefully-crafted, heart-shaped card with purple crayon etching: “You are beautiful. Thank you for teaching me dance.” I had made an impression on a girl’s life. The girl wasn’t a prima ballerina yet, but she could be. I had inspired a young mind to learn, and gave her the drive to keep dancing and telling stories. I had completed my circle. This is my dance story. This is how I spell beautiful.