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Becoming
a Flower PAGE
TWO Then it came time for the special portion of the evening. We would all begin as little seeds scattered about on the wood floor, and when our teacher came around and "watered" us with her magic watering can, we were to grow into flowers and dance around the room however we liked. Becoming a seed was easy for me -- act very small and don't move -- I was a natural at that. But expressing my four-year-old inner flower through improvisational dance in front of an audience just wasn't in my nature. I'll just choose a corner spot in the room and hope she forgets me, I thought. Then I can just pop up in an immediate flower-like state and join the others without anyone noticing. No such luck. After a few of my classmates had sprung to life, "expressed themselves" and then settled into their flower poses, I felt my teacher hovering over me. Okay, one, two three, grow, I told myself. But I couldn't get my head to raise, my legs to work. I tried reasoning with them. It won't be so bad, once you're standing. But it was no use; my body had gone on strike. My teacher tried again. Sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle. Still I didn't move. What came next marked the point of no return. My teacher leant down and whispered into my ear, "It's okay, Alicia. You can do it. I'll dance with you." No, no, move away! I wanted to tell her. Don't reveal my fear! Come back in a minute and I'll be ready! But it was too late; I could no longer just bounce up and pretend that I hadn't felt her, or that I was merely giving my audience an added moment of anticipation before I wowed them with my moves. Parents began whispering, and I peered frightfully at their shoes through the small crack between my ballet slippers. I had failed. Someone please push rewind! I call a do-over! My cheeks grew hot. I curled up even tighter, pressing my face into my legs and nearly burning holes in my tights. Maybe if I make myself small enough, I'll sink right into the floor and disappear. That will amaze them. Then something even worse happened; the show went on without me. The rest of the girls grew into precious little flowers that danced across the room, parents cooed and clapped, and everyone forgot that Alicia, the seed, was curled up in the corner. Forget fear, I began to feel really stupid, and rather bored as well. God, I just want to stretch my legs. How much longer until this thing is over? I wanted to peek at my parents and see what they were doing, who they were watching. Wait! I wanted to shout. I'm ready now! I'm not afraid, and I can dance the petals off any of these flowers. Watch ME. But it was too late. When it was over, parents got up from their seats, collected coats and sweaters, and gathered their children, but I stubbornly remained in a tight little ball on the floor feeling like my life had ended at the age of four. Finally, my mother scraped me up and carried me to the car while I hid my face in shame. Just don't look at me! Nobody look at me! As usual, my father tried to turn the whole thing into a big joke while she spoke soothing words into my ear, but nothing they said could cover up what I saw in their eyes. It was a mix of sympathy, disappointment and incomprehension. I had failed them. My mother had been a model, my father was an entertainer; how could they breed a seed that refused to grow? Somehow I knew, even at age four, that that evening would have an effect on me forever. It's funny because at 34 I can't remember if I ever returned to ballet class after that night, but I do know I took ballet at other times in my life. In fact, when we moved to California, I also tried gymnastics and competed in equestrian riding for many years. However, that feeling of being curled up in a ball on that studio floor has somehow never left me. When I'm in a new social situation, a job interview, or even asked a question in front of a table of people, that little girl appears, and my face grows pink, my palms begin to sweat. Then I hear the sprinkle of the watering can and beg myself to grow. Be a flower, look them in the eye, relax, and tell them what you want to say, I tell myself. No, no, you might disappoint them. The little girl in me argues back. Just stay quiet and be small. Remember, you're good at that! I can't
help but wonder if I'd faced my fears that night and spun across
that studio floor like a beautiful rose, perhaps I would have become
a good public speaker; a fantastic joke teller; a calm, self-assured
hostess or guest. I am none of those things, but I have grown to
realize that the first five seconds as a flower are the worst and
then it gets a little better with time and, like my father said,
you forget about the audience and just do your thing. With this
in mind, during adulthood, I've been able to force myself to blossom
by doing things that are against my seed-like nature. I've attended
improv classes, danced on stage in front of strangers, forced myself
to read at friends' weddings, spoke up during work meetings, even
sung at karaoke (okay, so I had a few drinks for that one) -- all
just to prove to myself that I am not a seed. My parents have grown
to understand me; they tell me there is strength in my quietness,
wisdom behind my brevity of words. But as we all know, even if the
world sees you as a flower, you must feel like one inside for it
to be true. It may take me a lifetime to accomplish this feeling,
but I'll keep watering and asking myself to grow.
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By
the time we arrived, I'd worked myself up into a state of shock.
The ballet room was brighter than I'd remembered and the floor-to-ceiling
mirrors left me nowhere to hide. My mother took my coat and nudged
me in the direction of the other kids. The parents said quick hellos
to one another and then settled into metal folding chairs along
the edges of the room. We took our places at the barre and went
through a few basic moves. Then one after another, we danced across
the floor in a line, chase-ing and plie-ing. Things were going well.
The sickness in my stomach had dissipated. Hey, I can do this. It's
not so bad. Class as usual. So I thought.
