This is a story about my arms.

Here are some details to guide us through. One, my college dance department was divided by the performance majors and the teaching concentration majors. I was a performance major. There was no discernible difference, with the exception that possibly the performance majors were favored in casting. Two, our faculty was a true cast of characters. The head of our department was a Russian dynamo, very intimidating, extremely dramatic, and she scared the ever loving bejeepers out of me. She was Madam. This story is incomplete without also mentioning our guest choreographer at the time, a well known British ballet master, who had perfected the withering stare. He was Mr. D. Three, our syllabus was intense, and of course, required rigorous pointe classes. There were twenty five of us. We were split into two groups. I will call them A and B. Twelve students in A, twelve in B, and yours truly. Madam made the decision to challenge me, so off to the A’s I went.

This particular semester, we were going to be learning and performing a very famous, classical piece entitled “Pas de Quatre”. The simple interpretation is a dance for four people. More specifically, this ballet was based on four famous ballerinas, Carlotta Grisi, Marie Taglioni, Lucille Grahn, and Fanny Cerrito. I was acquainted with the piece and excited to be learning it from the famous Mr. D. So, one day Madam was teaching our pointe class. I was at the barre, and she came strolling in my direction. She stopped in front of me, and observed me until the music came to an end. The room went silent. She stared at me, I stared at her. Gulp. She said, “Debbie, Mr. D likes you. He likes your legs, he likes your body, he likes your face. He does not like your arms. You come to rehearsal. You sit on bench and watch.” Imagine all that in a Russian accent, and it has a much more devastating impact. Pas de Quatre, a dance for four. Three casts rotating. Thirteen dancers in my class. Do the math. At my young and eager age, it was very difficult to be the only dancer sitting on that lousy bench, watching rehearsals day in and day out, not allowed to dance a step of that dazzling choreography. I wanted to wallow deeply in my misery. I wanted to wail and carry on about the injustice of it all. But when you’re forced to sit and observe, low and behold, you can actually learn something. When you’re forced to get your ego out of the way, you can have an epiphany. Up until then, I thought my arms in ballet class were perfectly fine. I was so focused on my scoliosis and various other alignment issues, my arms seemed secondary. I did not see any room for improvement, because like so many young, inexperienced dancers, I thought I knew better. If my goal was to get on the floor with the rest of my classmates, I had work to do. And work, I did. Fiendishly. There was no turning this around overnight. With time, my arms acquired the lyricism to look like an honest-to-God ballerina.

The casting in our college program was assigned. We did not audition for each concert. Well, let me rephrase that, we were actually auditioning every single day. Our technical progress was scrutinized on a daily basis in our classes. I am also positive our attitude and maturity level were instrumental in how much performing responsibility we were given. We accepted these decisions, and although we might question them and boo hoo behind closed doors, we never approached our teachers for a confrontation. It all comes down to trust. I want my students to be confident and take on the world like the warriors they are, but I don’t want them to assume their teachers don’t know anything, don’t like them, or believe in them. That is simply not true. A truly devoted and dedicated teacher wants the best for each and every student. They have hopefully trained diligently to help prepare their students for the path ahead. I didn’t always appreciate it at the time, but I know my college professors did that for me. I was properly applauded and awarded for my efforts WHEN I WAS READY! I never got to perform “Pas de Quatre”. Instead, I was gifted a life lesson so valuable, it contributed to bringing me one step closer to my professional goals. A painful episode about my arms made me a better dancer, a better team player, a better human being, and gave me a history to call upon to try to be a better teacher. It is with eternal gratitude that I thank you, Madam and Mr. D.