

Crumpled in the bottom of my dance bag is a ripped out Pointe Magazine article from before I was yours. Stained with Jett Glue, Icy Hot, and silver Sharpie, the actual article is barely legible. The title, however, still reads confidently “The College Conundrum.” I keep this article nestled underneath my dead pointe shoes and frayed hairnets as reminder of how we first met— when my high school dance teacher kept me after class, handed me a magazine, and introduced us. Your optimistic and hopeful spirit sparked a stroke of confidence in me, and I walked up and curtsied in front of you. In this little studio, we began our first pas de deux.

Not everyone agreed on my decision to choose you over the others. They didn’t always say it, but I just knew. Sometimes it was the tone of their voice; the way they said dance as though it belonged on a football field. Some implied you were a phase. How’s that dancing thing going? My high school teachers would quiz me about you, an open ended question that seemed to be already graded. What’s your future? Do you have a back up plan? Others were overt and they would tell me to choose one of the others— one more stable, like English or maybe ceramics. I know it’s because they cared, but a part of me wondered if they didn’t believe in us.

I’m so sorry to say it, but there were days in the beginning when this doubt haunted me. You kept telling me I had potential. I know you were encouraging me, but all I heard was what I wasn’t, not what I could be. You asked me to dance barefoot and kept using words I pretended to understand; the endless meanings of somatic, head-tail, intent, and kinesphere pulsated in my mind followed by strings of new choreography. I was lost in the unfamiliar. But you were patient with me, and soon everything felt more natural, and I began to love.

And, oh, how I’ve fallen in love with you this year. I love your warm laugh, in 8 counts, and how it echoes through the hallway: Tchaikovsky, African Drums, and show tunes interwoven to comfort me in your cold corridors. I love the mentors you’ve given me. I love the way you’ve taught me to see the world and its inherent choreography. I love your crazy credit hours. I love the bruises shading my body from when you held me too tight. I love our late nights in the studio, how my reflection capers between those dark windows, almost as though I’m dancing with the sky. I love your cold marley. I love your scent and how it engulfs me everyday in a wave of hard-earned sweat, musty costumes, and Tigerbalm. I even love to wake up to play with you at 7 am.

Most of all, I love you and your multiple lovers. The others and I—we are each so different. I often wonder if we would have found each other without you. We all move at different tempos, sometimes even to different music. Some bask in precision, others revel in artistry. Some wear colored leotards, others wear colored hair. Some dancers leave the stage early, and some new dancers enter. Despite our variety, our mutual decision to choose you as our partner proves we each aren’t that different after all. You offer a future of influence, opportunity, and uncertainty— a future that attracts only those who love deeply, delight in details, and have a yearning for something we can’t yet articulate. I wouldn’t want to share you with anyone else.

I’m sorry for doubting you and me. I’m sorry for my complaints about waking up next to you with heavy bones. I’m sorry for daily mind blanks and tattered yoga pants. I’m sorry for the essays I forgot to spell check and the crunches I left undone. I’m sorry for worrying about my steps after our final coda, rather than appreciating the clarity I feel wrapped in your arms. I’m sorry for taking you for granted. I’m sorry for many things, but I’m not sorry that I am yours.

Lovingly,

A student

Inspired by Thought Catalog post by Josy Jablons