“Well... then I told her that we would be there on Saturday, so she said we could just get them then.” Helen and I were laughing at my mistake; we were that close to receiving the letters early.
“Mom, can you go in and talk to her? What if Helen and I are tired after our trips and end up not going to class on Saturday? Then we’ll have to wait for our letters until Tuesday!”
She sighed. “All right.”
Helen and I huddled on the floor of the car, cowering in embarrassment from our teacher. For some reason we thought she would come outside and punish us. Waiting for several minutes, we spoke in hushed whispers, hyper out of the anticipation of waiting. And then abruptly, the door had opened with two envelopes in my mom’s hands.
“Are Helen and I in the same level?” I asked a question that I thought I knew the answer to first, before having to ask the anticipated one.
“Yes,” she smiled.
“Did we get recommended for pointe?”
"Yes.”
We shrieked in delight, ecstatic that we each earned the achievement we wanted so desperately. As the memory faded away, the employee instructed, “please walk over to the ballet bar,” and nervousness started swarming inside me. Just traveling across the room in the shoes proved to be challenging. I waddled like a penguin to the barre.
“Now just try to stand on the box.”
Gripping the ballet barre, I pushed my feet up, giving myself the image of standing on my toes, the arch of my foot bending. Pain spread up to my ankles, the sensation of my toes being jammed against wood working its way along my feet. Slouching, I clung to the bar until my fingers grew numb, not wanting to step down until I was told.
The employee explained to me the parts of the pointe shoe. “The part you stand on is called the box, the whole section from the heel to the sole that bends is called the shank. Eventually, when you find the right pair, you’ll sew ribbons on. And during pointe, the goal is for you to stand all the way on the box, and for the arch of your foot to become more flexible by it bending further."
It was difficult taking it all in. I knew that to improve I’d have to work on standing on the box all the way, so my foot was completely on pointe and not the version called relevé. I also knew that my foot’s arch would have to be more flexible, which would come from practice and stretching.
When I first obtained my recommendation letter for pointe in June, I never thought I would care so deeply about improvement before the dance season even started.
I discovered I had been moved up a level the week my friend Helen and I each had trips, Sandy Hill for her and Williamsburg for me. We would be missing our ballet class on Thursday, which was when we were supposed to receive our recommendation letters. Later when my mom drove Helen and me home from class, I recounted the conversation I had with my teacher.
“I told her that we wouldn’t be in class on Thursday.”
“Oh, so did you get your letters?!” My mom asked enthusiastically.
“Well... then I told her that we would be there on Saturday, so she said we could just get them then.” Helen and I were laughing at my mistake; we were that close to receiving the letters early.
“Mom, can you go in and talk to her? What if Helen and I are tired after our trips and end up not going to class on Saturday? Then we’ll have to wait for our letters until Tuesday!”
She sighed. “All right.”
Helen and I huddled on the floor of the car, cowering in embarrassment from our teacher. For some reason we thought she would come outside and punish us. Waiting for several minutes, we spoke in hushed whispers, hyper from the anticipation of waiting. And then abruptly, the door had opened with two envelopes in my mom’s hands.
“Are Helen and I in the same level?” I asked a question that I thought I knew the answer to first, before having to ask the anticipated one.
“Yes,” she smiled.
“Did we get recommended for pointe?”
"Yes.”
We shrieked in delight, ecstatic that we each earned the achievement we wanted so desperately. As the memory faded away, the employee instructed, “Please walk over to the ballet barre,” and nervousness started swarming inside me. Just traveling across the room in the shoes proved to be challenging. I waddled like a penguin to the barre.
“Now just try to stand on the box.”
Gripping the ballet barre, I pushed my feet up, giving myself the image of standing on my toes, the arch of my foot bending. Pain spread up to my ankles, the sensation of my toes being jammed against wood working its way along my feet. Slouching, I clung to the bar until my fingers grew numb, not wanting to step down until I was told.
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