Memory

Alexandra Douglass

 

It was my first ballet recital. It took place at the Stapleton Center in Kentfield, centered at the location of one of my favorite childhood places in the world. Surrounded by electric green grass almost always wearing a shrug of fresh dew and protected by an army of vast Redwood trees, it never failed in filling my body with the refreshed, serene feeling it embedded on myself. Walking up the steps in my periwinkle leotard and baby blue tutu, my freshly moistened ballet slippers caused me to slip as I approached backstage. Entering the traffic zone of behind the scenes and frantically attempting to put on my mother’s bright red lipstick without smearing it onto my pink tights provided me with a rush of excitement through the thick haze of chaos. Sitting on the side of the stage waiting to perform, I looked up and took note of the massive audience, consisting of almost every family member of mine. The ear-to-ear grins on each of their faces combined enough glee to make the whole world go round. Acting as contagious as the flu, I found I had to pinch my ballet slipper-covered toes in order to keep from smiling so profusely. Sitting between Julia Harrison and Kemmer Ericks, one would’ve thought there were ants in our leotards due to how we were unable to sit still. The longer the wait the more torturous it grew, becoming almost unbearable. Beethoven’s Symphony Number 5 seemed to have been chiming since last Christmas, entering slowly into one ear and being flossed agonizingly out the other. I felt as miniscule beads of sweat caused my cherry pink blush to scuttle down my neck. The piano chords, violin harmonies and percussion pounds came to a halt, and as the stage went dark, the only sound to be heard was the pitter patter of the older ballerina’s toe shoes as they pranced off stage. It was now, finally, my turn to perform. Swiftly rising and adjoining with my class to enter the stage, my mind went blank. Reaching my spot in the front left corner, my heart began racing faster than the performers pirouettes. In a split second, the blinding white light boomed and Mozart’s Sonata commenced. Demi pliet, releve; grande pliet, releve; the routine practiced, rehersed, and drilled to memorization was finally being taken to the stage, put to work. The next two minutes and 13 seconds seemed to frolic by in the manner of a dream. The audience vanished, and the only things felt were touches my slippers made when touching the floor and the affect the music had on me. The way it caused me to sway and float, allowing all of my gawkiness to be rid of. My classmates seemed to have disintegrated into the stage, leaving me alone to perform the piece I had practiced in my room countless times while supposedly sound asleep. After what seemed like an eternity, the music slowly wrapped up, and the last note was played. As I stood there, with arms in second position and ready to curtsy, the racing sensation in my heart rekindled. The crowd reappeared, and I was once again faced with the plentiful faces looking down on me. As I made my bow and joined hands with my fellow dancers, the smile plastered on my face seemed to be permanent. The glimpse of Miss Tessa’s beaming face enlightened to me that I had done it; the fear pestering me for the last two weeks had been overcome, the obstacle standing as the constant roadblock had been overridden; I was a officially a ballerina.