...I'm kind of having a crisis.
That's Jean Butler. She is all I ever wanted to be when I was growing up. I still remember the night my parents got me out of bed to come look at the television in their bedroom, back in our old house in Wheaton. It was during the PBS pledge drive, and they were showing Riverdance. Instant adoration!
I started taking Irish dance classes at the Spanish Ballroom in Glen Echo (I remember that pockmarked wood floor like the back of my hand), and the rest is history. Eight years of my life spent with my arms at my sides. Putting duct tape on shoes, on blisters, on socks. Over this past summer I went through my filing cabinets, tossing out old notebooks. Out came my third grade papers --- I had practiced my cursive Js with writing "jig" over and over, my Rs with "reel" and "Riverdance." Sheaves and sheaves of drawings of Jean Butler dancing, and me dancing alongside her. Never mind that she's all legs and sleek grace and I was not, am not, won't ever be.
But after those years of dancing, of driving all over to competitions and coming in fourth place! no place! third place! no place! no place! first place! fourth place! first place! no place! no place! duct tape! I finally stopped at the end of my sophomore year of high school. Theatre was keeping me busy, I couldn't give over the hours to practice and study and perform --- and my joints were just destroyed. Even so, it was really, really hard to give up dance.
Here's the thing, though --- I found my passion for film because of it. With my weekends back in my hands, I started learning about production and cinema. I doubt I would have ever fallen into this if I had continued with dance. So now I'm here in Ireland, somewhere I've desperately wanted to be since I was six. In those dreams, though, I was in Ireland to compete in the World Championships, the Oireachtas. I'd have Jean Butler's beautiful hair and long legs and I'd be the champion of the world.
But I'm here, finally, on such a different track --- on the couch, now, watching YouTube videos of Riverdance, realizing that this all started thirteen years ago. Thirteen years ago!! When did I get old? Why do my knees still ache? Honestly, I'm past my prime, dancing-wise. And it makes me so sad to think that at 19, I'm already put out to pasture. But I wonder what would have happened if I had stuck with dance, really thrown myself into it. I wouldn't be here now, writing films. Can two things you love actually cancel each other out, one eclipsing the other without you ever knowing?
Walking down Grafton Street today, a street musician started a slipjig, heaving his accordion to and fro, and I had competition flashbacks. Flashbacks! Like, twisting my head around to make sure my mom wasn't behind me, holding my shoes and waiting to get my scores. It's been years, years, since I've curled up the couch watching the shows we taped off of PBS pledge drives onto VHS tapes, and even longer since Christian and I would dance for company in front of the television. I've still got goosebumps seeing this, though. And I still wish more than anything I could be Jean Butler. Maybe I could have been a contendah.
At least I got some phenomenal posture out of those eight years of dance. That'll stay with me!
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2 comments:
You gave Irish dance such a go, Monica. And it gave you a deep part of yourself. Though you and Christian have the same degree of Irish and German blood, Ireland and things Irish have defined you much more than they have him.
So you're in Dublin now. You're studying film. But when a musician on the street or at the Brazen Head plays a certain kind of music, you're the only American in the group likely to be able to knock over the table, throw back your shoulders, and dance to it!
(The rest of us just tap our toes and bob our heads.)You smile with your whole body to this music. What a gift!
Mama
I think it is common for young men to find themselves 19 or 22 and out of organized sports, into which they'd have invested much time and hope. Even Division III turns out to be tougher than WCAC, or, for the lucky ones who play in college, the pro leagues are that much more demanding than even the BCS conferences. And indeed a lot of those men end up with aching joints and maybe an arthroscopy scar or two.
Of course there remains the difference between male and female self-perception. Plenty of guys would settle for looking like John Riggins if they could run like him,
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