The Road to Here Yes
there are two paths you can go by, Fork in the Road I came to a fork in the road when I was 17 years old. I had to make one of those decisions that changed the rest of my life. The choice was college or ballet. In one direction the way was wide-open and well-traveled. Veering off the other way was a narrow path, over-grown and undefined. I chose the easy way. I wonder every day since that moment if I chose the right path. I was a dancer. That was my identity, my life, my breath, my dreams. I left high school early every day for four years so I could go to dance. I used my college savings to spend summers dancing in Houston, Philadelphia and New York. But ballet is not an easy career choice. It is competitive and pays nothing. Food is your enemy, and a workday is 10 hours of hard physical activity. On top of that, I was by no means a natural ballerina. By the time I was 13 years old I had learned to hate my own body for everything that it was not. Thrown out of one ballet school because they didn’t think I was cut out to be a dancer, I landed at The Washington School of Ballet, driven by the need to prove the disbelievers wrong and stifle my own self-doubt. The Long Haul For the next four years of my life I spent between five and seven days a week in a ballet studio. The studios at Washington Ballet are beautiful, full of light and air and windows. But as in any dance studio, the mirrors are inescapable, unforgiving reminders of reality. Dance teachers are not any more forgiving, in their harsh depiction of reality. They pinch, prod, pull, make fun or just ignore you if you don’t perform up to par. I struggled with chronic tendonitis, missing toenails and eating disorders. I was passed over for parts and ignored in class. “Good job,” became a rare, coveted phrase. But I came back for more - every day. I was an ever-present figure in the studio, the type that people somewhat begrudge because they work too hard. I did work hard, but I knew what I was working toward. As much as I had to face my demons in the studio, on stage all that melted away. I loved to perform. On stage I gave myself over to the audience. There wasn’t a mirror image to live up to or a teacher to worry about, just me, the music and the people watching. By my senior year something changed. I was dancing six hours a day, working toward a goal that I wasn’t sure I wanted anymore. I had been rejected from Julliard, the only performing arts college I applied to. I was passed over for the lead role in the ballet school’s annual performance. As much as I resented my teachers for not encouraging me, I could not unravel the knot of doubt within myself. How could I expect others to believe in me if I didn’t believe in myself? Every time I looked in the mirror, the reality I saw never lived up to the image I had in my head. I was never good enough to make myself happy. My last months before graduation were filled with activity. The Washington School of Ballet’s annual performance and my high school Advanced Placement tests were the same week. We were rehearsing three hours a day, five days a week, and then I would go home and try to study. I was overwhelmed. But the show went well. I felt alive and confident and gave probably one of my best performances ever. It was my last time on stage.
As I was leaving the theater with my parents, my arms full of yellow roses, one of the dancers in The Washington Ballet company who had been in the audience caught my elbow. “That was so good Ellen,” she said. “You have what it takes. Really.” I stared at her and forced a small smile as tears welled up in my eyes. “Thanks,” I choked out. Then I turned and left. The choice had already been made. Those simple words offered me everything I had worked so hard for, affirmation that I was good, belief in my abilities, the knowledge that my dancing had touched someone. And I just walked away. I turned my back on that narrow, twisting path, terrified of what it might be just around the bend. The other fork in the road, the wide, well-traveled one, has led me here, to the University of Maryland. I am not dissapointed in the trip and have learned so much along the way. But just ahead is unmapped territory. As I barrel down this highway, the unknown ahead is terrifying and tantalizing at the same time. I don't know what awaits me, but one thing I do know is that I won't bypass the narrow paths along the way. I am ready to explore.
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Copyright © 2004 Ellen Massey