I miss dancing. For eight years during my childhood, I found myself on a stage. It’s terrifying. I hate being before people. [About Cat Hartliebe]
That doesn’t stop my love for dancing. Everyone who knows me knows I love to dance. Music just has me responding. So easily I follow the beat or the flow. I learn the words and just dance. My skills are amateurish. There’s no point lying about that.
I never trained enough before getting on the stage as a child. Still each year I performed better than the last. For eight years, I progressively got better. I stop too early to say I am at any level of skilled.
What I miss most about leaving dance when I did was missing the chance to dance to 42nd Street. It was an annual dance that the older students who just got their tap heels did. When I was supposed to get into that class, I was denied. They came up with a whole host of bullshit reasons. I was pushed back still in my flats dancing with kids younger and smaller than me.
I mean that wasn’t the only reason I started hating my dance company. I did musical theater too. I really do love to act and pretend. I love to move my body and just follow with the music as a group or individually.
The problem being, I looked boyish. Have you seen some of my younger pictures? The only reason I was considered boyish is because I’m tall. Can’t pretend to be male now. But I wasn’t much to look at back then. During my Grease show, I was just a random boy in the background. During Monster Mash, I got to play Frankenstein. We pulled our positions from a hat. Random monsters who’d be at the monster mash. I pulled Black Cat. I was excited. Except, the witch was much smaller than me. And Frank was the smallest kid in class. So… I had to switch. Bullied into switching really.
I hated it. As much as I love dance, my experiences in that dance company was poor at best. They supported the rich students to become real dancers. People who could pay for multiple classes. People who were already best friends with the heads of the company.
Whatever. Dance wasn’t my calling. Ignore all my attempts to dance around everywhere. Ignore my own desires to stand on stage now. I’m not the same kid I was back then.
My desires are so similar to the kid inside.
I still want to dance. Perhaps not professionally as my childish wishes were.
I still want to write. I want people to read and see my work.
I still want to model. Ever since I had pictures taken, I took to it.
Yet… Those desires seem impossible. They look impossible.
Can’t I just dance to 42nd Street? Give me a few weeks and I’ll be able to master the dance. I promise. Where would I even get the right shoes for it? It’s a foolish desire, ignore me. I’ll go back to something more productive.