My very first dream of my future life was to become a ballerina.  I woke up at five thirty to do an hour at the ballet barre in the basement.  I did this with joy and a fire in my heart.  I was able to stretch and bend when I was young.  I did work on the floor as well, to move my arms gracefully and leap as light as a feather.  I could spot and spin like a top across the basement’s floor.

At fifteen, I danced in my mind all the time.  My parents took me to a class a week of ballet offered by a former Prima Ballerina Absoluta in Russia.  She was a big woman who could move like a butterfly.  She did not like imperfection.  If our knees popped in class, she told us that it was obvious we were not doing the barre at home during the days we were not in class.

I did not eat lunch at school.  I went into the library and read about ballet, ballerinas throughout history, and choreography.  I imagined myself in a gossamer gown with toe shoes.  I made up dances as I went to sleep.  I was a ballerina in my dreams.  I wanted to go to New York to study under professionals at the American Ballet Theater.

At the end of that school year we practiced for the ballet recital that culminated a year of study.  I sweated through the process of learning this dance perfectly.  One class she said, “Ladies, I have found the material for your recital dresses.”  We were excited.

She dragged a large bolt of fabric from the closet and spread some out for us to see.  We were horrified.  It was a canvas like fabric printed out like lawn furniture.  It was stiff, gaudy, and even worse, we had to sew the costumes from newspaper patterns she made up for each of us after taking our measurements.

I brought the fabric and pattern home.  My mother took a long look at it and hated it.  She could sew anything, even suits for my dad.  But, under her breath I heard her curse a lament to the ballet teacher.  My dream of a gossamer, floating fabric dress was dashed.  My mother made the dress and tailored it.  It had wide straps to fit over our shoulders.

I still did the ballet barre each morning, and practiced the recital dance.  The teacher gave us further instructions.  We had to wear our hair in a bun, pulled tightly from our faces.  We also had to wear bright red lipstick.  I couldn’t even speak about it.

There were six of us.  We huddled in the dark, trying not to be seen as the other classes of dancers scurried about.  Our teacher looked us up and down and added, “Exit stage left after the dance.”  Left of what? I wondered. I had issues with directions, and still do to this day.  Our music was playing.  We somehow did the dance.  All the girls exited stage left.  I alone exited stage right.

I ran into the wall of a woman, our instructor.  Off stage, I was scrubbing the red lipstick off my lips with the hem of the hideous dress, and she said nothing.  I pulled my hair out of the bun and shook it vigorously.  Very blonde, my head looked bald when I saw photos of that recital.

I still love dance, but I knew it was no longer my dream.  My parents took me home from the recital.  They said nothing.  I stepped out of the ugly dress when I got home and ran into my bedroom to sob for a few hours.

My parents bought me an old Royal typewriter with only one key missing.  That is when I started to write seriously.  At least I did not have to wear ugly dresses, red lipstick, or my hair in a bald bun when I wrote.