Fathers

I think every grown woman has a memory of dancing with her father as a little girl. Standing on his shoes and learning the waltz…

My dad taught me to waltz. He taught me all of the waltzes. He taught me the quick step and the tango. I learned to mambo and merengue.  These were not his dances, but he thought it was important for me to know them just the same.

He was a dancer. I would become a dancer, too. Seven days a week were spent in the studio – sometimes for an hour; sometimes for six or eight. It was all about technique. I was short for this vocation so everything had to be bigger, better, more dynamic and more acrobatic. When my quadruple pirouette was perfect, he insisted on five, then six, and ultimately nine – because he believed that no one would ever expect me to do ten perfectly balanced rotations.

My arabesques needed to be higher, longer. My back had to be strong enough to support elegant overhead positions, and flexible enough to catch myself if… when… I fell. Arms were to be graceful, yet powerful; hands delicate yet firm. My feet should turn both out and in with equal ease. I would jump higher, stay suspended longer, and master the art of silently returning to the floor.

I would take more classes every week in the studio than I did in school. I would miss formals and football games in order to take Master Classes with renowned teachers. He would beam at my successes, and walk me through the places where I failed. Side by side we would eat sandwich lunches, setting them down from time to time to try something new… often times forgetting about them altogether.

So much discipline…

Though I no longer dance, except for my own enjoyment, I remain dedicated to all I was taught. I was given the tools to push on and dig deeper when I felt I had nothing left; to try again when I’d already fallen time after time; to stand tall and out of my hips in the face of adversity.

I miss my dad. I miss our sandwiches. I miss dancing on his shoes…

Happy Father's Day.