Page 3 of The Way We Dance

Giselle

“One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.”

I looked out among my class of inspiring ballet students and watched their form, their balance, and their focus. Eleven girls, ages 5-12 years old, and one boy, eleven years old.

I always paid special attention to Sam since he was the only boy. Boys belonged in ballet just as much as girls did, but for some reason, kids that age had a hard time distinguishing that fun fact with reality.

The girls tended to giggle and make fun of Sam but to Sam’s credit, he stuck with it. His parents played a huge role in his determination as well. They encouraged him to keep following his path and to do what he loved and Sam fed off their love and passion for him.

It is what made Sam one of my favorite students. Even when his parents couldn’t afford the classes, I padded their account myself so Sam never had to miss class.

No one knew I did that, not even my receptionist. Not even Sam’s parents. I would mention a grant or some other monetary gift to the studio and they would thank me for using some of it to let Sam continue.

Even if it did put me in a bad spot with money sometimes.

I looked at him, with his toes pointed and his knees bent in perfect form. He had his eyes closed and I knew he was picturing himself as the lead in Swan Lake or The Nutcracker. He was made for the stage, for the fans, for the glory. My only hope was he stuck with it and powered through the rough patches.

A flopping ballerina caught my eye and I turned to look at one of my five year olds falling to the ground.

Alycia.

She had the balance and the poise, but she was five. No amount of untapped talent could be drawn out of an undetermined five year old.

“Alycia, up,” I clapped my hands hard and tried not to worry about her mother, who was in the viewing room on the other side of the glass wall. Alycia’s mom thought that at just five years old, Alycia should be headlining broadway. You can only imagine how awkward it got for me sometimes when she questioned me and blamed me for her daughter’s sudden outbursts in class.

I started to walk toward Alycia and quietly begged her to stand when Jasmine let out a scream from the middle of the class.

“Jasmine,” I screeched and redirected toward her. Jasmine was one of my eight year old students. She was here because her grandmother made her be here. She had no desire to wear tights or do an arabesque. Poor Jasmine wanted the world to leave her alone and most days I couldn’t blame her.

The entire class halted and stared at Jasmine as I approached her to see what was wrong. Without even having to ask, Jasmine looked toward the girl next to her and snarled, “She stepped on my foot!”

“Did not!”

“Did so!”

“Girls,” I started clapping again, trying to hold in my anxiety and tears. “Girls, let’s spread further apart to be safe and try again.”

I breathed a huge exhale when they complied. Even Alycia got back on her feet and made more space.

Not all days were stressful, not all days were filled with childhood drama. Most days, there was not anywhere I would rather be than in a studio, teaching the next generation of potential prima ballerinas. It was second best to being on the big stage myself but since I walked away from the tribulations of that lifestyle, I was determined to find my footing as an instructor here in Atlanta.

I was the daughter of the great Galena Metrovik, after all.

People paid me to teach their kid how to be like my mother. What they didn’t realize was I was not my mother. Nor would I ever be.

I loved ballet, and I was damn good at it. But I didn’t love being judged by my peers. I didn’t love the outbursts of fellow dancers that thought I made it on my mother’s name alone.

It happened enough that I eventually folded to the stress. I abruptly dipped out of the lime light of the New York City ballet company and opened up Brisé in downtown Atlanta.

Why Atlanta?

I threw a dart and it landed close to Atlanta.

I'm not even kidding. I had to get away from New York and I had the money to do whatever I wanted, at least for a little while. The years I spent on stage weren't necessarily lucrative but I was a saver. I had enough to start over.

Briséhad been open for a year and while my name alone attracted parents of little dancers, I still found myself struggling trying to live up to that name.

I was struggling, both financially and mentally. I needed a break, or a change of pace. Or maybe I needed the parents of these kids to not put the hopes and dreams they had for their kids on my shoulders.

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