I’m Not a Dancer

“¿Irka, Que quieres ser cuando seas grande?

“Una bailarina, o una profesora de baile.”

Growing up I wanted to be three things: a dancer, an architect, and a teacher. The desire for each faded into the next, except the dancing one...that wish still exists.

For me, It’s always been dancing. I love to dance, always have, and always will. Es mi sueño frustrado, my frustrated dream or missed opportunity if you would. But I hate using the phrase ‘missed opportunity’ because I want to dance again and I will once I have the time and money for it. Or at least I hope I do.

I started dancing at school recitals. From ages 3-7, I went to Saint Thomas School, a private bilingual school in Santo Domingo. They took music very seriously and had two-three recitals per year. The end-of-the-year recital was the biggest. We practiced our choreography the entire year, had costume fittings, several sound checks, and a big dress rehearsal two days before the show. All grades had to put on a dance number, some even had more than one. 

When I was 6, my grade had three dance numbers. One with the girls, one with the boys, and a big merengue number with all of us together. That year, we girls had a lyrical dance to Somewhere Over The Rainbow. Our costumes were Tinkerbell-green puffy tutus, hideous. Two weeks before the show we had a soundcheck rehearsal and all the classes got to see each other perform for the first time. The 12th-grade  class would always put on a step number, I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Their teacher, Mr. John was a basketball player who retired due to an injury, he was SO TALL. A few days after the sound check I ran into Mr. John at recess, “Look I’m you!” I told him and then I did a few steps from his routine. He was super impressed and invited me to join their number for the show. For the two weeks leading up to the show, I went to all of the practices, bought all-black attire and step shoes, learned a solo, and got to hang out with all the cool 12th graders.

Fast forward to dress rehearsal, and there I was backstage, in my green, puffy tutu. I had just run my grades’ lyrical number and was waiting for the 12th graders’ number to start. I need to change. I thought to myself, but my teacher told me I didn’t have time because some of the dances are cut in half during dress rehearsal. I was about to perform in front of the whole school, including all of my friends IN A FREAKING TUTU. And yes, I was aware that I had just performed with a bunch of girls also wearing tutus. But this was a solo, with 12th graders and I was 6 years old, and they were all wearing black…I stuck out like a sore thumb. There was no way I was going out on stage looking like that. As my solo approached and it was my queue to go on stage I ran the opposite way and sat down in the crowd next to my classmates. As he filled in my steps Mr. John teared up. My tears followed his, my face turned warm, I’m sorry. After all that, I couldn't even go on stage. After they ran the number I ran to see him and apologized, I promised myself and him that I would go on stage the day of the show, and I did. And it was freaking awesome. Mainly because I was able to change into all black.

After Saint Thomas, I went to The Community for Learning, my all-time favorite school. They had after-school classes and I was in two of them French and Hip-hop/Breakdance. The dance teacher’s name was Annie. She was short and energetic with kind eyes and always had a smile on her face. She was so cool, and always played Madcon’s Begin’ during our freestyle dance time. She always listened to the class and even let me add steps to our numbers. She taught us a routine for Willow Smith’s Whip My Hair and half a routine for Beyonce’s Who Run the World (Girls). I loved the routine for Gilrs because the opening 8-count reminded me of step. It was a fast and shar series of leg raises with claps underneath the legs, it felt so freeing to create sound with my body again. After two years at TCFL, I had to switch schools because my mom couldn’t afford it anymore, which meant I couldn't dance with teacher Annie.

My next stop was Los Embajadores Christian School, a low-budget school that began its bilingual program the same year I joined. They didn’t have fancy recitals and field trips, nor after-school classes, but they did have a pool. Halfway through my first year at this school the basketball season started and the cheerleaders performed for the school in honor of our teams’ past year's national victory. I could do that, I thought while I watched them perform since they were mainly dancing with a few cartwheels here and there and one pyramid. “We are starting a Junior cheer team and are holding auditions next week.” One of them said through a megaphone. Bring it on. My friends and I prepared a routine for the audition and all got in. I was so happy to be dancing again. Not like I ever stopped, but learning actual dances was not the same as coming up with routines to perform for your family at dinner.

Even though I joined every dance club or class I could, I always wanted more. I wanted to be dancing all the time. I knew all the dances to all the Disney musicals, I had a specific routine to each of my favorite songs, I consciously danced to all school numbers even from when I was 6, and my favorite game to play was pretending to dance teacher with my younger cousins as the Students.

One time I did a free trial of a musical theater camp during my last summer in the Dominican Republic, I was 13. It was one of the best weeks of my life. I was doing the camp with one of my best friends at the time, Paola, which only made it 10 times better. On the first day, we did acting workshops, and I did my first-ever voice lesson. The last class of the day was dance, I was looking forward to it the whole day. My group and I were at the studio waiting for the teacher to show up. I was talking with Paola and we heard the door open, IT WAS TEACHER ANNIE!!! I was so happy and I ran and gave her a big hug and she was so happy to see me. The class was awesome, I’ve always been able to pick up dances quickly and I already knew Annie’s teaching style. She even used me as an example because I was doing so well. I went home and told my mom, I was so excited. She reminded me that this was only for a week, which I knew but I refused to believe. I had this feeling inside me that I was going to be able to stay, that I had to stay. Besides, the play we were working on for the summer was going to be Alice in Wonderland and that was one of my favorites.

The camp went on and we learned dances and improv games. I learned how to breathe from my diaphragm and not my lungs to ‘fill up my belly with air’. I felt so cool, I felt like I was doing what I was supposed to do. Then Friday came, hell I don’t even remember how Friday went. But I do remember Sunday night. Paola called my house and we talked and talked and she said, “See you tomorrow?” I asked my mom and she shook her head no. “I can’t afford the camp, you can’t go back.” I hung up the phone and cried. I cried like I hadn’t in a long time. Like a baby gasping for air. I still cry. I wish more than anything that I could go back and by my younger self that summer at camp. I still wonder what would have been of that little girl had she gotten up the next morning and put on her blue skirt over her electric green leggings, her pink rockstar shirt, and bedazzled leopard print sketchers for another week at camp.

Looking back at it, I think that was the same summer of the Just Dance craze. Don't get me wrong, I was already obsessed with Just Dance by that point, but that summer was crazy. The moment  I woke up I’d have breakfast, wait a few minutes, and turn on the Wii. I had all of the Just Dances because my step dad got me this external hard drive that let me illegally copy my friend’s games. That summer I played Just Dance from sunrise to sundown, with hour breaks in between meals. I used to get dressed to play too. You know, the electric green leggings, pink rockstar shirt, and bedazzled leopard print sketchers.