Dancing Through Life

I grew up without the presence or guidance of a father; he passed away when I was four, due to a massive heart attack. It was unfortunate, but my life was not over, and I had to live on. And so I did. My incredible mother gracefully took on the role of both mother and father, of both nurturer and protector.

She always have great advice. She funded whatever I wanted to do, including gymnastics and dance. At least up until the seventh grade, when I spotted dancing. It happened one night right before I was scheduled to leave for a jazz class. "I just don't like it anymore!" She saw right through it though. "Are kids in school picking on you?" she asked. I said no. I lied.

It was no more that I no longer wanted to dance. However, it wasn't because I didn't enjoy it; I loved dancing. It was because, walking through the halls of my middle school, I had to pretend not to hear kids shot things like "queer" and "fairy." It was because I hated being asked if I was a ballerina, a question always accompanied with some stereotypical twirling motion to reinforce the insult.

One day, I just couldn't take it anymore. For over a year, I had held it in, pretended to not hear it, ignored it. That day I ran home from school, the my head into my pillow, and cried for thirty minutes straight, until my tear ducts were physically incapable of producing tears. Of course, my mom was there to comfort me. I would have told her why I was crying, but she seemed to already know. It was like this superpower she had. She always knew.

In a quick aphorism, she said "Do what you love, and only good can come."

The next night, I packed my jazz shoes and danced my way through life. I chasséd through the insult, glisséd through the taunts, and rond de jambed through anything that stood in my way.

"Do what you love, and only good can come."

This, I Believe.