Ballet dancing, a dream worth living (Divers)

Coucou tout le monde!

Un ptit coup de nostalgie pour moi ce soir, la faute à iMaëlle qui m’a poussée à commencer la superbe série Bunheads (un bilillet quand j’aurai terminé la saison).

Bref, les gens, laissez-moi vous conter l’histoire de la danse et moi.

In English, for reasons…

Once there was a time I was taking piano lessons and theatre lessons. That’s when I told my Mum I’d like to take danse lessons. Every girl in my school class was taking some.

She said no, that if I really wanted it, I’d have to stop piano or theatre. Theatre died. Danse lived. I was seven.

At first, I took jazz/contemporary danse lessons with a guy named Christian. He was kinda freaky. He wanted us to be at our best and do things like music clips when we’d be older. Except I wasn’t interested in that, and knowing I couldn’t be taken ’cause I wore glasses was hard enough.

I quitted three years later, and took along two of my younger cousins, who had joined with me for the fun of it.

I started another kind of danse lessons. One show a year, a super teacher, superb choreographies, and I felt home.

We were six in the « middle » class when I started at ten. I was super-duper into it from the very start. Then started another kind of competition. We girls started changing, our bodies started changing, our moods too. There was tension sometimes, and I was bored to death to think that even my sphere of perfectness would be tainted by it.

I persevered. And three years later, I was told I had no balance whatsoever, and that I looked as gracious as a bear. Thanks.

To change that, I took extra lessons. Classical danse, ballet.

At first, it was chaotic. I have one feet that isn’t straight, and had to work really hard to start walking straight, as simple a task as that.

Soon, we were only three ballet dancers in the group. And I started feeling better.

I loved stretching my arms in the air in waves, pointing my toes in every direction, do a cartwheel and fall into a grand-écart.

My teacher gave me one song, one solo, on Memory by Barbra Streisand. My moment. My own moment.

The following year, she gave me the hard work of performing on pointes to the Phantom of the Opera. I screwed up the pirouette a bit, but I was in a princess tutu and, after all, who cares?

Then, I turned fifteen. And stopped dancing. Well, more like I was the only one my age to remain, and didn’t like the idea of dancing alongside babies.

I changed site. And found a group mixing youngsters with teenagers with adults.

It was still jazz, but I was still a ballerina in my head, and it helped me a lot through the routine we made to Nelly Furtado.

The following year, at school, there was a feast for Saint-Nicolas. A tradition. The sixth years had to organise. And they missed the final spot, during which teachers would decide whose act would win « the cup ».

I volunteered. And danced. I danced a ballet dance, improvised, on pointes, to Spiralling by Keane. Not a classical song by any convention. And you know what? They loved it. Even my fellow students, who mocked me at first when I told them what I planned, loved it.

So, for my final show, the one theatrically telling Marie-Antoinette‘s life, I danced again. Dressed in a sea-blue tutu, with perls in my hair, impersonating a drop of water.

These were the highlights of my life.

Then I had to go to university, and dancing wasn’t an option anymore. I lost my souplesse, and soon, I was told my bones were too fragile to ever dance to that level ever again.

I can never ballet dance ever again.

That’s my life.

How a dream became a nightmare.

I could tell you the tale of how I sometimes dance in the middle of my living-room, armographying, waving my toes in the air, then wince in pain. I could tell you how excruciatingly hard it is to watch the videos of me dancing when I know I can’t do it again.

I’d love to dance again. Even learning how to waltz, to tango, to jive, to charleston. I learnt to rock’n roll, and that’s my favourite. But no. First: I’m not sure my body would follow. Second: I have no partner, ’cause, hey there, I have no true friends.

But it’s okay. Sometimes it’s hard, sometimes it isn’t.

I keep telling I’ve had the time of my life.

That’s the most important thing, isn’t it?


2 réflexions sur “Ballet dancing, a dream worth living (Divers)

  1. hollygoli dit :

    Nan mais on était faite pour se rencontrer ! J’ai fait de la danse classique pour faire comme ma cousine avec qui j’étais très fusionnelle. J’ai commencé à 6 ans. J’adorais ça. Et puis j’ai commencé les pointes et là … le calvaire ! J’avais pas les pieds pour ça (des pieds plats mon gars je te raconte pas !) et je brisais mes pointes en moins d’un mois (coup de pied trop fort). Ensuite, je suis devenue une femme et la belle silhouette toute mince de planche à pain a laissé place à une poitrine supérieure à celle de Pamela Anderson et ma taille a commencé à grossir pour finalement passer du 38 au 42/44. La prof qui était obligée de me faire des tutus sur mesure (j’étais la 2° plus grande) ainsi que des bustiers pour que je puisse porter la dentelle pour maintenir ma boîte à lolo en place (car ça se balade et si c’est pas bander, je peux rien faire (et c’est chiant), m’a un jour dit que ce serait bien de faire un régime. Banane ! J’ai hérité du corps de ma mère et même un régime ne changera pas grand chose alors à 15 ans, après 9 années de bons et loyaux services, j’ai raccroché mes chaussons avec une pointe de regrets (et que je ne regrette plus grâce à l’écriture et à mon chien qui me fait faire du sport) et quand je vois des ballets, je me revois petite être la fierté paternelle (et maternelle mais c’était plus Papa qui adorait me regarder). Bref … rien qu’en écrivant … ça me manque.
    Je t’embrasse ma chouchoute et merci de me replonger dans cette univers que j’ai tant aimé.


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