I've decided that I'm going to use this blog to write more. You don't have to read the writey-writey stuff, like what I'm about to post, don't worry. I just want to share my writing a little bit more, especially about things I feel really strongly about.
Below is my personal narrative that I had to write for my writing class. Since ballroom has been such a huge part of my life, and since I've been reminiscing more about high school ballroom lately, this is as good a time as any to share it, right? Right. I thought so too. Here goes. Once again, you don't have to read this, it's just for me. If you do read it, you might find yourself floating around in my brain somewhere.
One Hundred and
Ten Percent
High School:
Freshman Year
“I want each of you to say why
you’re in the intermediate technique class, so make a circle and we’ll move
around the room,” Tiave, the large Polynesian junior varsity ballroom coach,
instructs the class. Today is my first day of high school, and my first step
into the Provo High School ballroom dance company. As each person tells the
rest of the class why they are here, typical cliché answers float around the
ballroom studio.
“I’m here because I’m on the JV team.”
“I want to improve my technique.”
“I really like to dance and I want
to get better.”
“This is a required class for me to
be on the team.”
My turn. Do I tell the truth, that
I’m in this class because I didn’t
make the team? That I’m at a lower level than just about anyone else? I take a
deep breath and give the answer that defines the rest of my experience in high
school ballroom.
“I’m here because I didn’t make
team.” I silently vow that I will be on varsity. I will give more than just one
hundred percent of my energy. I will give 110% of myself to ballroom.
High School:
Senior Year
Why
me? Why today? This morning I woke up at 1:30, feeling the unmistakable
tossing and turning in my stomach that could only mean I was going to throw up.
I woke up again at three a.m., then at six, and then at eight, getting rid whatever
garbage that was left in my stomach each time. I lean against the cool wall at
the entrance of Portal L in the BYU Marriott Center, where the National Dancesport
Championships are held each March. Bleachers sprawl out before me, sloping down
to showcase the floor made of wooden squares pieced together. Behind me,
spectators flood to their seats, anxiously awaiting the rest of the night’s
events, which include the final competition of our TRON inspired
four-and-a-half minute Latin medley in the Division II Youth Latin Formation
Championships. Knowing that I need to be in costume before our pre-competition
talk, I run down the linoleum floor outside of the stands to our dressing room
as fast as my weak stomach will allow.
“Ugh!” I groan as I reach for my
costume. The two-sided, white in front and black in back, one-piece pantsuit is
entirely made of vinyl fabric, and covers my body from neck to ankle. Fringe attached to the legs swishes, black
tangling with white. I run my hands across my stomach, feeling the glossy holographic-like
material beneath my fingers. I Velcro the belt together in the front around my
waist, making it appear as though the costume is two pieces. I slide the black
and white earrings through the holes in my ears, make sure my recently dyed
dark brown hair (a team requirement for Nationals) is slicked into place like
helmet hair, and that my cone-shaped bun is secure on the crown of my head. (It
definitely is, because I can still feel the bobby pins slicing into my skin.) I
walk back into the packed arena, studying twirling couples on the floor, cool
air caressing my face, and the sweet scent of hairspray filling my nostrils.
“Varsity! Outside!” My heart
accelerates as I turn my back on the familiar scene and respond to my coach, Angela
(pronounced “Angle-a”). Her short blond hair bounces around her neck as she
herds all twenty-two team members into a blob around her in the hallway,
scrutinizing each of us with her intimidating stare. Those who don’t know her
well enough find themselves feeling threatened with a single glance, but we,
her team, recognize the look for what it really is – determination.
“Last night, we were stuck in
division two, while teams we consistently beat all year were placed in division
one. You didn’t quit, though. You came tonight more committed than I have ever
seen a team to win the state title in team match
for the ninth year running, and I am so proud of you.” We glance at each other through
our eyelashes an “aw, shucks” kind of way, but still proud of ourselves for our
reaction. “Then, when we took the floor tonight, we were cheated and beat,
losing the title. Other teams think you are stuck-up. Today, one of the JV moms
met a parent from Orem High School at the gas station. They kind of got
talking, and she found out that he was headed up to Nationals as well. She
asked him where his son danced and he said,
‘My son dances for Orem High, and
we’re going to beat that snotty Provo High team! Where does your son dance?’”
We all “ooohhh” in shocked awe, wondering how on earth this parent decided to answer
that man.
“She looked at him right in the eye and
said,
‘My son dances for ‘that snotty
Provo High team. Have a nice day.’
“You guys,” Angela struggles to continue
as tears begin cascading over her cheeks, “I am so proud at how you have responded
to everything you have faced this week. You are champions. Tonight, go out
there and prove that you are champions, that you have not been defeated. Prove
to the judges that they made a mistake!”
The tension hovering around us now descends, and we feel it weaving us
together, tighter than a newly married couple (although in an extremely different way).
“Okay guys.” Kassidee, the team
president, grabs our attention with her unusual solemnity. “This is the last
time Nationals will ever see TRON. Let’s make it the best that it has ever been. We know that the judges made
a mistake. Tonight, everyone else is going to know it too.” Our fury, our
intensity will be felt. I will fight, giving everything I have to the team, despite
how weak and dizzy I feel. Fortunately, I don’t have to do it alone; my team is
my strength and my family tonight. Together we bring our hands into a circle,
lower them, and yell “PROVO HIGH INTENSIFY!” as we throw our arms back up.
We begin the procession down the
bleachers, passing our JV team and parents. They smile encouragingly, cheering
and hollering their support. When we are sheltered behind the black curtains
that border the dance floor, I beckon my first partner, Matt, toward me.
“Racquel, will you be okay?” He asks
with concern flooding his voice, gripping my hand.
“I’ll be fine,” I promise. I will do
this if it kills me. “Pray with me?” We grasp hands, inclining our heads toward
each other and drawing strength from the contact, begging for strength to dance
with all our energy. At the close of the prayer, he keeps his hand in mine,
supporting me.
“Varsity, come here!” I squint to make
out the forms of my teammates in the shadow. We press tightly together, and as
I start sweating in anticipation of dancing TRON, the plastic costume begins to
mold itself to my skin like a wetsuit.
“This is it, guys. You’ve got this.”
Angela’s voice spreads over us, increasing the anxiety and anticipation wedged
in every cell of our bodies. We squeeze closer, bringing our hands in to yell,
“P-P-P-R-O-O-O-O-V-O, P-R-O-O-V-O, PROVO!”
“And now, let’s welcome team number
forty-nine to the floor. Team number forty-nine.” In crisp, vertical lines, we
walk around the curtain and onto the floor, greeted by deafening cheers from
the entire audience. Stage lights gleam, bouncing off the floor and reflecting
onto the synthetic fabric we wear. I blink against the glare, feeling my two
inch false eyelashes brush my skin and the weight of the silver glitter caked
on my eyelids. Glances pass from teammate to teammate as we take our places on
the border of the floor, unsure of when to crouch on the floor in our starting
position.
Ugh!
Only a few of us bend down in unison. We’re
already out of sync! Over the roar of the audience, Kevin Flynn from TRON:
Legacy’s voice booms over the speakers. “The grid…A digital frontier. I kept
dreaming of a world I thought I’d never see…And then…one day…I got in.” The
audience disappears as I begin the fight to keep my energy at full capacity. Sweat
beads my forehead, drips down my chest, completely plastering the costume to my
skin. Every movement exudes my passion, intensity, and emotion, combining with
the anger and intensity radiating from my teammates. 1 a 2, 3 4, 5 a 6, 7 8! I work to stay on rhythm with the rest of
the team as I dance each step. I grip Matt as though his strength can transfer
to my weakening body, and fight to satiate every hit and line with 110% energy.
The struggle turns into a battle to even remain standing. As I change partners,
I focus a third of my attention on encouraging myself. You can do it! Keep going! Halfway through! Only three more dances! Energy
drains out of me faster than water running through my fingers as passion colors
my rumba, as I execute each jive kick like I am stabbing someone with little
silver daggers attached to my toes. I slash through my partner’s legs, skidding
on the wood floor, and roll myself around to prop my body up on my arms and
knees, belly facing the ceiling, then throw my head back, bringing the routine
to an end. Ear-piercing, headache-inducing yells fill the Marriott Center from
every audience member, but all I concentrate on as I march off the floor is my
weak stomach and desire to lie down. My legs are jelly, my stomach twisted in
wiggly knots, my vision spinning. Rather than trekking up the steep never-ending
staircase, I hone in on the nearest wall and curl into a defeated ball against
the steady surface. The plastic costume has fused itself to my skin, bound by
sweat, and I dread taking it off. I hyperventilate, panting like a black dog in
the middle of July.
“Buttswim, you’re going to be fine.
Just breathe.” I hear the nickname I was given as a sophomore and look up to
see Talissa bending over me. Over the past two years we had become friends,
taking turns standing by each other as she endured her knee injury and I
scoliosis. She wipes the sweat from my forehead, just as I have done to her
many times before, stroking my back, calming me.
“Is she okay?”
“Does she need water?” Concerned ushers
hover beside her, gaping at my white face and trembling body.
“I’m…fine…Water…would be…wonderful…”
I wheeze, trying to regain my breath and settle my churning stomach. With
Talissa’s help, I move into a more private area, away from the crowds and
noise. I lay on the rough carpet, wooly fibers scratching my face, struggling
for breath and drinking water.
We stay there until worried boys come
looking for us, my competition partner, Jacob, among them. He pulls me into his
arms without hesitation, cradling my freezing figure against his warm body. He
begins running up the stairs that even the most experience ballerina would have
trouble balancing on, and I feel him tiring as he tries to continue sprinting.
The large form of his father meets us half way, and he takes me from there.
Because of the feeble condition I am in, I don’t protest like I would normally.
My parents wait for me at the top,
freaking out.
“Racquel! Are you okay?! What
happened?!”
“I’m…fine. I got off the floor and lay
down because I was so dizzy.” Somehow, in the midst of the chaos of the team
going back down to the floor for the awards ceremony, everyone is under the
impression that I passed out. My mom and another mom lay me down on a bench,
covering me with a blanket to give me privacy and warmth as they unzip my
costume and peel it away from my torso. Despite the layer of sweat and blanket covering
me, I feel as though I am outside in the middle of a snowstorm. I begin to cry,
finally allowing my strength and my guard to crumble.
“What happened?” I hear another parent
ask.
“She got really dizzy and passed out
after she got off the floor.”
“I did
not pass out!” I sit straight up as I hear those words. It doesn’t matter
then, because my team is parading back up the stairs, screaming as they carry
the first place trophy. A smile stretches across my face. I didn’t dance in
division one like I had planned for the past three years, but I won. I kept
fighting, I leaped over every obstacle, and I kept my promise. I gave my team
my absolute best: 110%.
