When I was a kid, I’ve always imagined myself in tutus, dancing in tiptoes, splitting on air and landing beautifully on the ground. I’ve always envisioned myself exuding the grace that of a ballerina’s- elegant, beautifully dressed, always prim and proper.
It was my young heart’s dream to be in a huge crowd doing my pirouettes. I knew it would be fun. I imagined it to be a magnificent, beautiful experience.
Until one day, mom went home with an unbelievable surprise! She had me enrolled in a ballet class! You can never imagine how excited I was. I was really exhilarated!
Just upon knowing that I would finally be learning how to dance ballet, my imagination brought me to places. I imagined myself doing my splits and turns, perfecting every ballerina move; I dreamt of receiving a gigantic trophy for winning in that prestigious ballet competition; I even saw my face featured on a magazine cover for being the country’s prima ballerina!
Mom always wanted to see me at my best so she bought the best ballerina dress, the best leotards, and the best ballet shoes she knew. And when I tried them on, I felt wonderful, more wonderful than what I’ve imagined. I felt beautiful and dazzling!
I knew I would be in class a week late but I vowed to myself I’d do my best so I could learn all the dance steps I’ve missed fast.
I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep the night before my ballet class begun. I recalled how my dream of becoming a ballerina started. Then I have realized that it actually started from an old video I watched which my mom took in Sydney, Australia many, many years ago. It was a beautiful ballet dance video featuring The Princess Swan. “I’ll soon be like her,” I thought. “A princess swan prima ballerina!”
My first day in the dance studio was rather more memorable. I stepped in the class when everyone knew everyone because I started late. Trying to look cool, I stood in-front of the class flashing my widest and friendliest smile. And when our dance instructor introduced me, I smiled wider but I saw everyone whispering with snooping stares. Until a harsh voice yelled, “Look at you overdressed, you’re like a princess in a swamp! Hey, you don’t wear that in an ordinary school day– you wear that in a dance recital– I mean in CCP– I mean during a grand ballet performance!!” And then I have heard everyone laughing. And laughing. The class ended with them still laughing at me.
I looked at myself. I was indeed in that shinning, shimmering pointe shoes, princess-like tutus, and an over-sized ribbon. The thick make-up om my face covered the innocence of my childhood. I looked at them, they were all in their comfortable every day rehearsal clothes– simple ballet skirts and black tights. No fluffy ribbons, no make-ups.
And that was the lowest moment of my life. Instantly, the magical feeling of dancing in tiptoes disappeared. My imagination of becoming a prima ballerina vanished. And the excitement of being in that ballet class got lost.
Until I started to hate my ballet shoes, my leotards, and my ballet dress. And I especially disliked that girl with big eyes. I vowed to myself that if I would die, I would still hate her even in heaven when I see her.
I told mom I wanted to quit my ballet class but she disagreed. I tried to explain but she never listened. She wanted me to become a ballerina. “You have good bones,” she said, “strong and lean, so apt for a ballerina.”
My three-week ballet class seemed like a life-long agony. Ever day was full of suspense and undesirable happenings. I never had a friend there. I was dancing alone on air, like an ugly duckling.
I’ve never learned how to dance well since my annoyance always outweighed my desire of becoming a great dancer. I was laughed at because I often swayed out of rhythm, I was laughed at because I made the worst splits. I was laughed at because they practically turned me into a big joke even from the very start.
I cried and cried each night but I felt I had no one to share my wretchedness.
Soon I found a pen and an old notebook. Then I have started writing how I felt. I spilled my innermost on that old notebook. I never kept a secret. Somehow I felt relieved. Then I have found comfort in writing.
From that day on, I scribbled every incident in class. It was a wonderful, wonderful feeling. Soon I have realized I was actually writing my own story. I was the protagonist and that little girl with big eyes being the antagonist. And I turned her into all the horrendous characters I have imagined.
Then I grew up holding a pen and paper. I even took up Journalism in college. In writing, I’ve found a true friend.
Writing brought myself to places. I wrote a story about how I beautifully performed ballet in Paris, London, and Germany. I even wrote about all my joys, frustrations and dreams. I made everything possible. My imagination brough my paper to greatness. I even shared my pinch of learned-lessons in life with each story I wrote.
My ballet class ended but the joy I found in writing sustained. Now, I am grateful to that little girl with big eyes for showing me my true happiness. I may have never really performed in a grand ballet recital in CCP but I’ve found audience in allover. They read me. They hear my voice. In writing, I became more than just the world’s prima ballerina.
