This is a quote I’d like to share with you. I found it in an article I read quite awhile ago.

“Therapists who remember that humans have bodies as well as minds are much likelier to routinely inquire about ongoing self-care, including sleep and exercise.”

A dance teacher, in today’s environment, wears many hats….teacher, mentor, choreographer, bun fixer, bathroom cleaner, floor sweeper, comedian, bill collector, costume consultant, rule enforcer, need I go on…..because I could! I am very proud to have my college degree, however it does not include therapist or psychologist. It should. Dance teachers today are doing much more in the classroom than teaching dance. We have no choice. Now, more than ever before, we are encountering a staggering number of students with anxiety, panic attacks, and depression. It begs the question, if a child is prone to anxiety, is a dance class the right place for them? Is it a help or is it a ripe setting for a full on panic attack? I don’t have the answer to that, only my opinion. I ask you to go back to the quote, because I fully believe that managing anxiety and the stress it puts on the body, can be controlled, to some degree, with movement, exercise, and proper breathing techniques. Yes, a dance class can make us feel vulnerable, but it also offers endless valuable rewards. I have witnessed dance as the salvation for many young people in distress.

In the past decade, the number of parents who have come to me to share that their child is suffering with anxiety, has escalated at an alarming rate. It has been my experience that there is no common denominator from one child to the next. Yes, the end result is a panic attack in some form, but it seems to manifest itself differently with each child. I once had an email exchange with a parent who said to me, well, you don’t know what anxiety is like. Her child never displayed any outward behavior of anxiety in my class, so I was confused. However, I did not feel the need to go into my own history with her. I absolutely know what anxiety is like. I absolutely know what a full on panic attack feels like…..before, after, and during. It has personally given me a great sense of shame, and indescribable fear. But I have not let those moments control my life. I feel great empathy for a student when I see evidence that something is wrong, but I do not want them to let that anxiety control or conquer them. It seems that on a weekly basis I am saying to my classes, no matter what went on today, no matter if school was rough, you got a bad grade on a test, or you had a fight with a friend or your mom while driving here, we leave it at the door. We have an hour to focus on ourselves, our dance skills, uninterrupted, and we must use this time wisely, positively, productively. It is a brilliant reminder for us all, that we never know what is going on in someone else’s life. The teen in distress thinks they are the only one in the room feeling that way. Well, sadly, that is no longer the case. I can look around my room and sometimes it takes two hands to count the number of students I know are having issues. And dollars to donuts, those issues ARE NOT exclusively in the dance classroom. They are revealing themselves in all aspects of a child’s life.

Anxiety is a painful subject. No easy answers. I am not arrogant enough to believe I have solutions. However, I am alert enough, conscious enough to see what I see, and when necessary, I ask for the help and guidance from those who are the mental health professionals. I want my students to be “warriors not worriers” (another perfect stolen quote). I want my students to be fierce in the most productive ways, respectful towards the teachers, the art form, the process, their fellow classmates, and most of all, themselves. Respect that they were put on this earth, in this human form, for some incredible reason. It doesn’t matter that Susie Q on the barre next to you has more flexibility than you, it doesn’t matter that Sally Ann can do the coveted triple pirouette, and it really doesn’t matter that Penelope Pea seems practically perfect! (stole that from Mary Poppins) Each one of us has gifts to share, and we all grow and develop at our own rate.

All I want to do is help. My name is Debbie and I suffer from anxiety. The best coping mechanism in my life has been dance. Dance contributes to keeping me healthy in mind, body, and spirit. My fervent wish is that it CAN and WILL do the same for my students.

It’s the last day of December, the holiday season has come to an end, and tomorrow, we say Happy New Year. It was this time last year that I made a New Year’s resolution to start blogging. It only took me about eight months into 2019 to achieve that, but proudly, here I am with my tenth story. One would think the holiday season would inspire this dancer to tell a Nutcracker story, or something along those festive lines. Of course not. Must have something to do with the need to feel warm, but my story today is about summer jobs. Still brain surfing the college memories, so summer it is.

After my freshman year at college, sixteen hours away in Indiana, I didn’t want to stray too far from home that summer. So, I chose to get a real, normal job that had nothing to do with dance. I did not enjoy the work….it was Burger King, by the way….but I did enjoy the paycheck. However, after the independence of college, then being being home for ten weeks, I knew that the summer after my sophomore year I needed to branch out and spread my wings. One day I was looking at a job board in our music school building and I came across an audition for a huge, well-known amusement park. They were looking for singers and dancers for their summer shows. The extra added bonus was they were doing an audition tour stopping at various college campuses, and they were coming to my school that spring. Hard to make an excuse not to go since my travel was limited to walking across campus! I threw together a song and dance and somehow summoned up the courage. As far as auditions go, it was mediocre. Fortunately, all the demands of the end of the semester kept me occupied, so I quickly stopped obsessing about the audition. May came, school ended, and I headed back to upstate New York. Shortly thereafter, the phone rang, and a lovely woman said, “Debra, we would like to offer you a position as a dancer in one of our summer shows, and we’ll teach you how to sing.” I got the job….and an insult…..all in the span of a three minute conversation, but I was thrilled to be employed. So, off I went, to my very first theatrical summer job, five shows a day, six days a week. It was four girls backing up one featured guy, and a piano player. Patrons threw their peanut shells on the floor and we shared the dressing room with a magician and a rabbit. But it was show biz!! Ya gotta start somewhere!

Here’s the thing, once you’ve had a taste of being away, and someone has actually paid you to do the thing you love, you want more. During my junior year, I pondered what I might do the following summer. At some point, a friend told me about a professional summer stock theater in Indianapolis, that held local auditions for the dancing ensemble each summer. Great job, great salary. They were doing two shows I loved, Funny Girl, and How to Succeed in Business. My friend said they were hiring six female dancers and one alternate. Actually, three of the dancers had already worked there the year before and were automatically rehired without auditioning. So, three dancers were needed. I, of course, being the incredibly confident person I was (that is a joke), said THREE?? Doesn’t sound like great odds. My friend responded with, you are a tap dancer, and you must go. She eventually wore me down. The first hurdle was talking my dad into letting me stay two extra weeks at the end of the semester to attend the audition. That was fun. He finally said okay. When the day came, I took the hour bus ride, met my friend there, and I will never forget walking up to the gate of the theater. There must have been a hundred girls standing there. I turned to my friend and said, didn’t you say they only needed three dancers? Look at all these girls! I’m not staying. I am NEVER going to get this. My friend was understandably annoyed with me, and spent ten minutes playing psychotherapist to convince me to stay. I did. Very unhappy about it. I signed in. The audition commenced. I made it through the first cut which was an extensive ballet combination, and now there were half the girls remaining. My friend was cut immediately, and I felt horrible, but she was so amazing, she stayed to support me. The next cut followed a musical theater jazz combination. They kept me. Tap shoes were required for the third combo and suddenly I found myself standing there among the last seven girls. It had been several exhausting hours and I assumed we were done. But oh no, they said, ladies, please put your ballet slippers back on. We had to execute an adagio, which is slow, technically demanding, and arduous. My legs were like rubber. Suddenly, it was all over and three of us were ushered over to a grand piano and told to sign contracts. I was so confused. I looked at my friend, who had waited all this time for me, and she mouthed, you got the job! I could not believe it, and was in complete shock that I was going to sign a contract without permission from my dad! Let’s remember these were the days of no cell phones. The long, and the short of it was, it was an amazing summer job. I became a member of the Actors Equity Association. I was a union member. I had no idea at the time what that was or how important it would be to my future.

My senior year was busy with ballet company auditions. As much as I knew my destiny was the world of musical theater, my heart still wanted the experience of a ballet company. My professors encouraged me to think of going to Europe where the dancing opportunities were plentiful. I almost considered it. However, I narrowed it down to five auditions closer to the home front. One was a total bust. Two said, we would love to have you join us and dance in some of our season, for no money. A fourth was a thrill because it was an offer of an apprenticeship with a reputable company in Chicago, but even back then sixty bucks wasn’t going to go very far. Lastly, the offer I accepted was a full position, with more money, and teaching opportunities, and felt like the right fit for me. I happily spent a second summer with the summer stock theater, as one of the lucky dancers who were automatically rehired, then that fall I went off to the ballet company. I didn’t end up staying long, but never regretted the decision.

Each summer dancing job prepared me for the adventures of my future. I have loved spending my career as a professional dancer turned singer, actress, director, choreographer, and teacher. I cannot wait to share the NYC chapter of my story. Please stay tuned. Happy New Year to all!!

My last story left off at college. So, college is where I am today. I am connecting the dots one story at a time. I am not interested in regrets or playing the ‘what if” game. But I am most definitely feeling nostalgic as I look back and contemplate. Small decisions, big decisions that guide us through our personal architecture. Life does unfold in mysterious ways. This story is one of my absolute favorites. I’ve often wondered why it happened the way it did, but I am so glad it happened exactly as it did.

It was the start of my senior year. The fall ballet concert was a biggie, Coppelia and Les Sylphides. It doesn’t get more classical than that! I do believe I previously mentioned that our casting was assigned. We were in ballet class one afternoon, and I was vaguely aware that one of my fellow classmates, the gorgeous and talented M, had stepped out of class. She returned as we were executing a grand allegro combination across the floor. She sidled up to me and whispered, “The casting for Coppelia is posted. Guess who’s playing Swanhilde?” Swanhilde was the coveted leading role. I shrugged and she excitedly continued with, “You and me!” I have never been more stunned by three little words. I wish I could remember more elation than shock. Being riddled with insecurity, all I was concerned with was that everyone would be thinking, Debbie is cast as Swanhilde?? Really!?? Class ended. There was no way way to avoid the cast list since you had to walk right by it. Everyone was crowded around, and I passed quickly, on the peripheral edges of the group. One glanced up proved what M had said. There I was, top of the list, my name in a starring role. It was my senior year. I had worked my tail off, and even though I had earned it, I still could not let myself believe I deserved it. I quickly ran up the stairs to our changing room and buried my head in my locker. My classmates filed in, one after another, and everyone made a point of singling me out with a hug, a congratulations, a happy grin, and every sign imaginable that said we are so happy for you. (yes, I’m an idiot) By the end of the day, I finally allowed myself to feel the joy of the moment, and called home to share the good news with my family.

Rehearsals for Coppelia started immediately. I was also cast in a nice role in Les Sylphides, so long and exhausting days were ahead. Our Coppelia rehearsals started out as private rehearsals with our choreographer, CR, who was also playing the role of Dr. Coppelius. I revered this man, and was thrilled for this opportunity. Just me, M, and CR in the studio. In very short time, I became aware that he was continually pulling M forward, working with her, talking to her, and I was politely, yet most definitely, being ignored. I thought it was odd. I complained to a very close friend, who said keep working hard, it’s just in your imagination. One week later, completely out of the blue, a new cast list was posted. At the top it read, Swanhilde – M, and at the very bottom of the list it read, Understudy to Swanhilde – Debbie. No explanation. No discussion. No this is the reason we are tearing your heart out of your chest and stomping it on the floor. I was beyond enraged, humiliated, and my pride was deeply wounded. Why give it to me then take it away? The next step was obvious to me, I was absolutely going to quit. There was no way, in my senior year, that I was going to put myself through anymore heartache. My dearest friend and confidante was wise beyond his years. He said, sure you can quit. That’s one way to deal with it. Or how about this? Don’t quit, and show them you can be the best dang understudy they’ve ever seen. Here is that pivotal moment. Here is the important decision that connects the dots. I swallowed my pride and became, if I do say so myself, an outstanding understudy.

Several weeks of rehearsals ensued. Grueling college schedule. Twelve hour days, minimum. Nearing our final two weeks before performance, we were in rehearsal one evening for the second act of Coppelia. I love this act so much, because it requires the ballerina to be an actress. That was my forte. The storytelling is so detailed, so layered, and very comedic. Well, there I stood, at my usual post, way the heck in the back of the studio. The dancers complete the act, then suddenly CR says, in his fabulous Cockney accent, “We are going to take a quick break, then repeat the act again, this time with Debbie.” No warning. No fanfare. I have not even received a sidelong glance during this entire rehearsal process. Why now? My eyes desperately sought out my friend across the room. I will never forget our brief locking of eyes and his expression which said it all….You’ve got this, Debra. He nodded. I adjusted my pointe shoes, and became Swanhilde for the next half hour. It was exhilarating. When it was over, there was no gushing praise from CR. It simply had to be enough that I was proud of myself, and I could leave the studio with my head held high.

The very next morning, I was sitting on the floor next to the grand piano in our studio, putting my leg warmers on, preparing for class. In walks CR. He pauses, looks down at me, and says “Very good job last night, love. We have decided to split casts. You will be performing Swanhilde.” Then he just walked away. I’ve often wondered, in that tiny moment, did he know he had just performed emotional heart surgery? Did he know he had taken the fragile pieces of my soul and made me whole again? Did he know that I would repeat this story hundreds of times over the years to my own students, a story of not quitting, of not giving up, of not walking away when things got rough? Sticking it out, putting in the work, being prepared. You NEVER know when your opportunity is going to present itself. The decisions we make affect how our dots will connect throughout our lifetime.

I shared performances of Coppelia with M. It meant the world to me that my parents could travel out to see me in that role. It was the fall of my senior year, and my success with Coppelia set me up for the best year of my college life. In my final spring semester, I was cast in the title role of a full length ballet, Ondine. I did not split casts with anyone. It was my role.

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.

College auditions. Ouch. Glad I got through it, but thrilled to never have to go back there again! Certainly not in today’s college audition climate. The students of today, hoping to pursue their performing dreams, start planning very early on. I don’t think I obsessed throughout my sophomore and junior years? Of course, the options for reputable, solid dance programs were far more limited back in the 1800’s. (insert chuckle) Also, I don’t recall any of my dancing peers applying to sixteen colleges! The poor kids today. I do not know how they do it. I have no recollection of writing fifty thousand essays and applications as thick as manuscripts. Nowadays, there’s this thing called the prescreen. That’s fun. You send in a video to see if you will even be accepted to audition. Yikes!! An audition is like nothing else. If you’re smart, you’ve spent years of training and preparation just to be ready when the moment comes. That’s just it. It’s a moment. You need to do it, on the spot, . You need to produce, right then, what you hope they are looking for. Here’s how it went in my house. I knew the intention was to go to college, but in my delusional teenage brain, I actually thought I might convince my parents to let me go directly to NYC. Duh. My dad was like, think again, you are going to college. (see blog # 6) He preferred I pursue English, I preferred I pursue dance. I won that mini battle. So, he said if you are going to go to college for dance, we better find an excellent program. We found three that looked really strong. Only one problem, all of them were out-of-state. Gulp. I had to be accepted academically AND artistically. I was also required to audition in person. I admit, the whole process was scary. College means change. And, Debra was not a fan of change. But this small town girl took the big steps, pulled up her big girl panties, and danced into her unknown future.

This might seem slightly off topic, but it’s really not. I would like to briefly mention that I went to my junior and senior proms in high school with the same boy. He was my high school boyfriend. When I went into college, he enlisted in the armed forces. We managed to maintain our puppy love romance for my entire freshman year of college. The relationship arrived at it’s logical conclusion, falling squarely into the “it wasn’t meant to be” category. (that’s code for I finally gained some maturity and outgrew him) The night before I left for college, I was an emotional mess. It was a full on dramatic meltdown the likes of which would rival Shakespeare. In my defense, I was young, and deeply heartbroken. My freshman year was great, don’t get me wrong, but it would have been so much more amazing if I had ditched the the fella much sooner!! That’s harsh, because he was a great guy. But at eighteen, my identity and self-worth seemed to be wrapped up in whether a boy liked me. That is sad on so many levels. After one year of college , it suddenly dawned on me that I could be my own person. The college auditions and the high school boyfriend, they’re stuck together in my brain. Can’t think of one without the other.

Road trips. Love them. But they are not so much fun when the stakes are so very high. I know I talk a lot about my dad, but he is a champ. We piled into the car, and he drove me to Ohio and Indiana for my college dance auditions. We brought one of my brothers along as company for my dad. We had narrowed the field down to two schools, that’s it, with the third as a possible backup. The first audition was in Ohio, on a Sunday, very urban, not much of a campus,. The little I saw of the city seemed industrial and kind of boring. Not a lot of action. My dad quickly pointed out, that’s not why you’re here. My audition was a company class, in which I was the ONLY dancer auditioning that day. Very intimidating, to say the least. I was impressed with the caliber of the students, loved the teacher and the class. Of course, this was my first rodeo, so I had no idea what to expect, no preconceived notions of how this day would proceed. Little did I know, they would waltz me into an office immediately after the audition, for a sit-down conference, to tell me, WE WOULD LOVE TO ACCEPT YOU INTO OUR PROGRAM!!! I can’t see the man’s face, I don’t remember actually leaving the office, or how I got back to the car. All I remember is raw emotion. When you don’t believe you are good enough, then you suddenly receive validation, it is indescribable.

Food. Hotel. Driving, and driving. We pull into Indiana. Now, this was more like it. A beautiful, massively huge college campus on a rainy Monday morning, buzzing with activity. The excitement of one astounding acceptance quickly faded as my nerves kicked in, all over again. I thought I had the worst luck in the world when the dance professor, who was teaching the ballet class, told me I would be the only one auditioning, in a room full of college students. How could this be happening twice in one whirlwind, nerve-wracking audition weekend??!! You can’t help but feel very exposed and vulnerable. You feel like everyone is staring at you. It was a similar experience to Ohio, very challenging class, proficient dancers, and I do remember that I stayed focused and kept my cool. After the audition, I was treated to another bewildering sit down, and the long and the short of it is, I was two for two! Two college acceptances, two great schools. Choices. When we got home, my dad actually said to me, if you want to go back to the third school(also in Ohio), we can do that. Not necessary. I don’t remember the exact moment I made my decision, but I do know my world grew bigger that day. I stood up a little straighter. I was the conquering heroine of my own story.

We arrived back home during school hours. My dad did not expect me to go to school after a long, exhausting ride, but I wanted to. You guessed it….I had to see my boyfriend. So many details that are so hazy, and yet, this one is crystal clear, the look on his face when I walked into the one class we shared together. I sat down, he whispered, “Well?”, and I said, I was accepted and probably going to Indiana. His face spoke what my heart knew…this was the beginning of the end.

Hard to accept the change. Hard to let go. So very difficult to embrace the unknown. That kind, sweet young man deserves my gratitude. I suppose he was wise beyond his years, because he never would have said, please don’t go, and as much as I didn’t want to leave him, I knew taking another path was never an option for me. I was going to be a dance major in Indiana.

My dad was an elementary school teacher for over thirty years, raised five kids, and taught dance every single night. Regardless of the fact that dance was an important part of our daily life, no one stepped a foot in the studio if their grades weren’t satisfactory. My brothers didn’t dance, so this did not impact them. The studio represented a playground, where they rode their bikes in circles on bad weather days. It is where they set up the ping pong table, and many tournaments ensued. It was the same ping pong table where our huge, extended Italian family gathered for holiday meals. My sister was the family brain, so I have no recollection of her missing any dance classes due to academic failures. However, yours truly, was on the receiving end of these consequences. It only took once to never happen again.

When I reached high school, my dad thought it would be a great idea to send me to the local girls Catholic high school. I was adamantly opposed. But at fourteen, I did not get a vote. Off I went, with my ugly uniform, and attempted to make the best of it. I was a good girl. A rule follower. My grades throughout my freshman year were satisfactory, but my sophomore year……oh, dear. I took two state regents exams that spring, and when we received the grades in the mail, my father almost had a coronary. Abysmal. Disastrous. This was not the norm. There were extenuating circumstances for this speed bump in my academic journey, but to wax on about that would only sound like excuses. Suffice to say, I knew I was headed for trouble, and my fatal mistake was I did not ask for help.

Remember, less than satisfactory grades meant NO dance. It was excruciating. I spent the entire summer at the public high school taking two courses. Not a step of dance, no summer workshops, nada, zippo. I was miserable. I literally had approximately three hours of homework per night for a six week period. Of course, the goal was to retake the regents exams. I did. I brought those grades up about thirty points. Better late than never, right?

I recently shared this story with a friend. When I told her how my summer ended, she asked if my father had planned it that way all along. I don’t know the answer to that. All I do know is I had absolutely no idea I was to be rewarded for my efforts in a very big way. My dad approached me and asked, would you like to go to NYC for a week, with your mom and sister, and study at the American Ballet Theater summer dance program. Is the Pope Catholic??!! Needless to say, I was stunned, thrilled, and had the pointe shoes in my bag before he changed his mind!! That week solidified my desire to become a professional dancer. It confirmed for me I was on the right chosen career path. My dad never dangled that carrot in front of me. But he was a very fair man. The message was loud and clear, I hope you have learned an invaluable lesson, Debra. I had to put the academic work in because it was necessary to do so. I was college bound. I was going to get an education. That was the primary focus in our household. My friend asked, what if your regents grades hadn’t improved? Would that golden week in NYC actually happen? Of course, we’ll never know the answer to that.

At some point, before my junior year began, I had a very brave moment. I went to my dad and pleaded my case. Please let me go to the public high school. I did not want to return to the Catholic high school. He needed me to understand the expectations if he allowed me to make this change. I learned so much about myself that summer. I learned what I was capable of, I learned that it’s okay to ask for help when you need it. I also learned that dance was so deeply rooted in my soul. I would never take that detour again. The whole point was bringing those grades up. I desperately wanted to, and the sense of accomplishment I felt was worth it. I am truly grateful I had no idea that NYC was to be my amazing bonus. My dad really listened to me, and said yes to the public high school. I don’t think either of us have ever regretted that decision.

I feel like I spent the entire summer digging for buried treasure. I’m sure many can relate to the purging that happens when you make a big move. Time consuming, exhausting, daunting. We spent the better part of this year moving out of our family home/studio after sixty plus years. A gargantuan endeavor. My sister and I began by tackling a giant closet in our attic space. We pulled an endless number of boxes and bags out, and almost every time, my sister said, “Yours!”. I truly lost track of the number of boxes we hauled out of that closet, down two flights of stairs, and into my car. I knew it would take months to sort through it all. But oh man, the startling discoveries!

My college diploma…..how does one misplace a college diploma??!! All these years, I mourned over the loss of my diploma. Of course, I considered getting a copy but never got around to it. Mystery solved. A simple document holding proof of four impactful years. I now hold it my hands with such pride.

A handwritten note from Ginger Rogers. THE REAL, ACTUAL, LEGENDARY GINGER ROGERS!!! What?? My dad was appalled that it was buried in a box. (and yes, dad, I will get around to framing it) I was blessed to work with Ginger Rogers not once, but twice, in my career. I hate to tease you with the mention of her, but of course, she will return in one of my future blogs. To my students who have never heard of Ginger Rogers, please google her!!

The program from that time I tap danced at Carnegie Hall. What else can I say about that? It was Carnegie Hall! I tap danced on that acoustically perfect stage. What’s that saying…..how do you get to Carnegie Hall….practice, practice, practice! That incredible moment in time……in a box.

It was exhilarating to discover these treasures. I opened all the doors to my past, the memories and mementos, the proof of a life lived on so many highs and lows. I won’t bore you with the entire contents, but there was one extraordinary find, that for me, stood out above all the rest. I must interject here that when I started this blogging journey, it took me awhile to get up the nerve. I sent my first draft to only two people, my dad and my sis. My dad, for some computer glitchy reason, did not receive the attachment via email, however, my sister did. Her response was filled with oh, oh, ohs and love, love, loves. She gave me two thumbs up and the confidence to go forward and share. Once that first post went live, my dad finally read it. His reaction was one of pride, and he also reminded me how much I have always loved to write, as far back as elementary school. Other kids ran outside and played, but I was glued to my desk in the little bedroom I shared with my sis, writing up a storm. I wrote books. As I got older, I wrote in an endless number of journals. I wrote letters to myself. Writing was, has always been, and continues to be, therapeutic. So for years, I lamented over what happened to the books I wrote. Each one handwritten, over a hundred pages long. It was a series about one young girl. Each book focused on a different theme. I loved those books. I cannot even fully articulate how much I missed them. One of the first boxes I started to dig through was a very old, white, wardrobe style box, with handles, and on the top in big bold letters, it said “Debbie’s Stuff”. Prom pictures, high school yearbooks, etc. But on the very bottom was what looked like a gift box. I lifted it out. It was heavy and cumbersome. I opened up the top, and it was like every Christmas morning of my entire life all rolled into one. My books. MY BOOKS. My books had been waiting patiently all these years. Forgive me my drama, but my hands actually shook.

The next part of this story is a little bit sad. I took that precious box home. It sat in my living room for days. After decades of waiting, why was I prolonging the thrill? One night during one of my fits of insomnia, I quietly crept downstairs, opened the box and took out the first book. I read it cover to cover. I cried the entire time. I didn’t cry because the grammar was not perfect (I know, it still could use some help). I didn’t cry because it was so brilliant it should have been published. I cried for my younger self, who created a character that was obsessed with beauty, popularity, belonging to the right clique. A character that seemed shallow and quick to judgement of others. Was I the heroine in this story, was this character representing me? There are so many changes in the world, so many advantages that young people have today that my generation never had. And yet, some things never change. Why must we beat ourselves up for the qualities we do not possess? Why can’t we embrace and celebrate who we are, with all our glorious imperfections? I was truly disappointed in my younger self. I have not read the other three books yet. I’ll get there.

Moral of this story…..One, take better care of your personal belongings. Two, the most precious treasure in your life is YOU!! Take special care of you. Love you. Trust you. Be your own best friend.

The origin of Labor Day….a national holiday celebrated on the first Monday in September, honoring the achievements of American workers. The labor movement in the late 1800″s deserved this recognition. It is also code for, the end of summer! I know it is not fun to talk about. Hmmm, I will have to ask a historian friend of mine, was it strategic that Labor Day is exactly when many of us are going back to school, dance, and in essence, real life!?!! As we start the new school year, our expectations are high, and then the real work begins. It takes dedication, drive, and discipline to surge forward, and hopefully, make it a year that will be productive and memorable. Also, we just shared a summer of dance with no pesky distractions. No overwhelming homework, no school obligations, just an opportunity to focus exclusively on our dance training. It can be a special time of growth, maturity, and progress. I cherish summertime with my students. So, as we start this new dance year, let’s keep that momentum going.

I am not a psychologist. I am not a scientist. I am one committed dance teacher who has been observing students for a very long time. All the debates that go on today about how education has changed, I see it, even in our dance studio. How students learn, how they behave, the role of the parents, it is right there in front of me day in and day out. I am fascinated by the stories of my teacher friends, and completely concur with their theories and concerns. We face the same dilemmas in dance education. My sister and I are wholly devoted to our students, and we work tirelessly to reach them and keep them motivated. We daily straddle the world of old school versus new school methods. We don’t compromise our principles. We hope there is trust that when it comes to a child’s dance education, we have their best interests at heart. After all, we have the unique perspective of witnessing, first hand, a student’s moment to moment, week to week, year long progress. Dance is a repetitious art form. There is a reason for that. I repeatedly tell my students, there are no shortcuts. Going faster isn’t always better.

People talk about STEM continuously. There is also an acronym called STEAM….science, technology, engineering, ARTS, and mathematics. I will let the experts with the highly skilled knowledge and intelligence speak to the research and findings. But all I do know is, I clearly prefer STEAM over STEM. It is proven that an arts education is beneficial to a child’s development. It is not one or the other, it compliments, it enhances. I see evidence every day that dance contributes to problem solving, spatial awareness, teamwork, collaboration, and presentation. Students have offered that their prior experience with the use of improvisation has aided in their ability to successfully complete an interview. Imagery, utilizing the example of drawing and creating a picture, has been a valuable tool in their creative process. Finally, when I inquire of my students, why do they enjoy studying dance, it comes down to the basics. It is a brilliant form of exercise. It builds confidence. It helps with memorization skills. It increases an ability to concentrate on a task. It is a necessary stress reliever in the course of a jam-packed day of academic overload. Quite simply, it brings them joy. Why in the world would anyone want the arts removed from education?

You cannot google a triple pirouette. What does it mean? It’s not just the catchy title of my blog. (well, I think it’s catchy!) Obviously, it’s a metaphor. Our lives have become ridiculously fast paced. The young person plus the computer equals instant gratification. Instant answers. Immediate results. Well, that’s not dance. One beautifully executed pirouette takes time and practice. The double pirouette comes with increased skill and more practice. The triple…..imagine what it takes to conquer that, resulting in mind-blowing satisfaction.

Yes, September is upon us. It is truly the start of a new school year. We have moved into a brand new studio space!! It has been a labor of love, a true adrenalin rush. What an opportunity to rejuvenate!! My forever wish for my dear students….be goal oriented, communicate, don’t try to rush the process. Make a discovery! It is amazing how much more our bodies can do for us when we ask them. Happy Labor Day!!

I am a klutz. No doubt about it. My husband says the only time I’m graceful is when I’m on the stage. He’s kind of right. Odd that a dancer is so accident prone. One of my theories is that I am always in constant motion, moving too fast, going from here to there. Whatever is in my path, watch out! Someone will inevitably point out a bruise somewhere on my body and I have no recollection of how it happened. This summer was no exception in the klutz department. A sprained foot, a month in a boot, but the teaching never stopped. We carry on. It is amazing what the voice and upper body will do to compensate. While I have been slightly incapacitated, it has given me reflection on past injuries and klutzy behavior. Really, all I can do is laugh. When we are young adolescents, our world is focused on ourselves. We don’t have the maturity yet to process the bigger picture and our surrounding universe. We have a hang nail and our world comes to an end. My memories conjure up such a young person, my younger self being phobic, insecure, not a risk taker. But if I peel back the layers and dig a little deeper, I was also funny. Funny, and yes, klutzy, even way back then. Silly, ridiculous things were happening to me all the time. I wasn’t just a hormonal, dramatic mess. I was a funny, klutzy, hormonal dramatic mess. Thinking about it now makes me feel great empathy for my younger self. I recently had one of my sweet alumni remind me of some of the klutzy stories I shared over the years. My students find them entertaining. I’m on to them, of course. Keep her talking and perhaps we won’t have to do that petit allegro combo one more time! As my dad says, if you’ve heard me tell this story before, don’t stop me, because I’ll enjoy telling it again!

The opportunities for performing in community theater musical productions were far more limited when I was growing up. Now, they are certainly more plentiful. My dad directed, both my parents choreographed and performed, and I logged many hours observing from the sidelines. It was a family affair. They would pile the five of us in the car for rehearsals. My sister and I thrived on this early theater education. We were having so much fun, we didn’t realize how much we were learning and absorbing. My brothers hated every moment. I have no recollection of where they were in the theater or what trouble they were getting into while I was suppose to be watching them. I didn’t really care. The only thing that mattered to me was when I would be allowed to get on the stage. My parents encouraged our love of the theater but limited us to one show a year. I was about fourteen when my dad asked me to be part of the dancing ensemble in a production of “How to Succeed in Business….”. I was only in one musical number, but I LOVED IT. Now, this is where I must tell you that my sister says “When it takes five minutes to happen in real life, it takes Debbie about a half hour to tell about it”. I am verbose. So, I will cut to the chase. Rehearsals were a blast, dress rehearsals so glamorous, then it was performance time. Dancers on two sides of the stage, crossing and passing through, somewhere a tour jete was involved, and my legs entwined with another dancer’s legs….now, this is what I don’t understand. Why was I the only one to go down like a ton of bricks, splat on the stage, while everyone else calmly kept dancing? It was a mortifying experience. The only thing that was seriously hurt was my pride, but I was encouraged to keep the tears at bay, and buck up. A lesson, I did not realize, that would serve me well for decades to come. First musical theater production ever. Klutzy.

Fast forward a year or so. Same theater. Another ensemble performing opportunity in “Mame”. Lots of dancing. The first partnering experience with a boy! It was a four show weekend, and we were in the middle of the third performance. I was backstage getting ready to go on, wearing a very cool costume, stretching my leg in a split up a wall. A photographer came by and said this would make a great picture. So, I did it again for him. He said, “Look up”. So, I lifted my upper body to smile for the camera, and as I did I felt and heard three distinct rips of my right ham string. Everyone else standing nearby heard it too. It took absolutely no time to assess I was in serious trouble. But, who went on and performed the number anyhow?? Crazy, klutzy me!! If any of my students are reading this…..and you should be….I am not bragging, I am just demonstrating that indeed, THE SHOW MUST GO ON!! (and ok, I admit, perhaps a bit more stretching before the performance would have been a good idea…see, there’s always a moral to the story) My poor partner had to prop me up the entire time. Needless to say, I was seriously injured. No dancing for the next six weeks, crutches, the works. My understudy went on for the final performance. Now, here’s the deal, most community theaters do not have understudies. But I have a sister, who sat through every rehearsal and knew the choreography forwards and backwards. She was a champ, and a pro, at the age of twelve. She’s always had my back.

My klutzy behavior has been a common theme my entire adult life. It continued in college and followed me to my professional career in NYC. One expects a dancer’s life to be riddled with bumps and bruises, mishaps and injuries. So, what do we do? We pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off…..oh yes, all you musical theater babies, she is going there….and start all over again!! I love that my klutzy stories are part of my history. I’ve tried to use these moments, hopefully, to build character and resilience. Poking at old memories can also be therapeutic. I have learned not to take life quite so seriously. Sadly, I met someone once who tried to shut down my storytelling, passing it off as insignificant. Nope. No one is going to silence me. If my stories can help just one young student realize that they can rise above the day to day speed bumps, then I have done my job.

p.s. Literally, the day I starting writing this, I banged my arm into a door jamb. No lie. My husband just shook his head. Woke up the next morning with a bruise. WHY?? lol

Teachable moments. Sometimes, they’re not just for the students. This blogging thing is a perfect example. If I’m going to ask my students for their best effort, their openness to growing, making discoveries, challenging themselves, then I better be prepared to do the same. Right? My parents always taught me, by example, that a teacher must always be in the head of a student, continually educating themselves, staying one step ahead. One of the perks I love about reaching my ripe old age, is the actual wisdom that comes with proudly displaying my “wisdom highlights”! (for the younger readers, that’s my grey hair) I have earned every one of them! When I think back to my childhood, I no longer think exclusively in terms of myself. Not only do I see how certain incidents affected me, but how my parents fit into that equation. I now see the teachable moments from their perspective, what they were trying to accomplish with their handling of those sensitive situations. We all have our memories and our stories, and they are extremely significant because they belong to us. My memories and stories are a huge part of my teaching today. It seems to me the teachable moments are all around us, if we remain open to them. In my tiny piece of the dancing universe, my students call them Debbie stories.

Ballet did not come easy to me. Tap was a piece of cake. Jazz showcased my inner sassafras that was always screaming to get out. But ballet…..man, it was my love, my passion, and my mortal enemy! Not one technical element came without a struggle. I knew it then, and I teach it now…..just when you conquer one thing, there are fifteen more things to fix!! It is endless, it is tedious, it can be emotionally exhausting. It is the ultimate in multitasking. It is thrilling, it is transformative. It is everything. Especially when you are twelve. I was the toddler watching my mom teach ballet class, absolutely riveted. I was five watching her play Oberon in Midsummer’s Night Dream with our local ballet company (even back then, a shortage of male dancers!!) and she was the height of majestic. So, I was twelve, and I knew my destiny was to be in that ballet company. You couldn’t audition before the age of twelve, so in my literal, adolescent mind, I was twelve and it was time. My parents seemed reticent to let me audition. More on that later. So, I went with two of my ballet besties from our studio. We were all pretty excited. It was one of the first times I remember having an eye opening experience, where my little world expanded. Who were all these other girls??!! The ballet company serviced our local area, so there were many other budding ballerinas there from the surrounding communities. I have blocked out a good deal of the specifics from that afternoon. I remember the uniform, black leotard, pink tights, a big number on my chest, and I think I remember doing my very best? Oh yeah, I also remember I wore bangs. Thanks, mom. Well, when you go to an audition, you need to understand, there are only two outcomes, you get it or you don’t. I did not. My two besties did. It is interesting how much of that day is gone from my memory, but not the pain. Heartbroken is an understatement. Mortified and embarrassed. A river of tears. It was the first among a lifetime of rejections.

Back to my parents……God bless them, is all I can say. OF COURSE they were reticent to let me audition. I WAS NOT READY!!!! I wasn’t experienced enough. I complained about my turnout endlessly. Did I work on it? No. I grumbled daily about my lack of flexibility. Did I stretch? No. I was a tortured soul who had scoliosis so poor, poor me!! However, they agreed to let me give it a try. The teachable moment!! I’m sure they didn’t look at each other and say, this child needs a wake up call, but in essence, that is what it was. It was an extremely valuable lesson. One can take rejection by holding up their hands and yelling “I quit”, or one can use it as a tool to turn things toward a new direction. The latter is what my parents gifted to me. They let me have my ugly cry (I was doing it long before Oprah) and they sat me down for THE CHAT. They said, “Do you really want to be in this ballet company?” I said yes. (punctuated with heart wrenching sobs and snot dripping down my face) They responded with “Then how will we make that happen?” I shrugged. (everyone knows the adolescent shrug) They suggested I might rethink how I was approaching my training at that point. As my dance teachers, they always did right by me, but I was psychologically in my own way. No one could turn this around except me. It was perhaps the first time I became truly aware of negative energy. For every negative thought, we put ourselves several paces backward. I see it every day with my students. And it crushes me. I have spent a lifetime working on the power of positive thinking, the power of a smile, the power of treating myself with kindness. It is a constant battle. I would rather my students know the healing power of positivity, then have the highest grand battement. My parents gently guided me to a lightbulb moment. They were laying the foundation for learning that every opportunity is a chance to grow. Many bumps along the way. Two steps forward……one step back….and on and on.

One year later. I auditioned again. This time there were no besties at my side. I braved it alone. I was chosen. I spent the next two years as a member of the ballet company. I know what you want to ask….yes, I did grow out my bangs. However, as with so many things in life, the anticipation far exceeds the reality. It was merely a twelve year old who finally took a step in the right direction.