Dance recitals and other forms of torture: A survivor’s tale

I recently attended a dance recital and was instantly reminded of the years spent watching my sister’s annual performance from a dark auditorium. The seat cushions were so worn, the springs jabbed me in places I’d rather not mention. The air was thick with a nauseating mix of flowers and the overpowering bathroom air freshener perfumes of grandmothers. Add in the constant blinking of red lights from grandfathers' hearing aids, and suddenly, a stint in Rikers Island seemed like a vacation.

Every June, we sat there, struggling to stay awake, fearing we’d miss the one dance my sister performed. One year, a grandmother next to me had dozed off. As her head gently lolled forward, her dentures tumbled out of her mouth, landing with a clatter in her lap. “Darn teeth, they never stay in place,” she whistled through her gums, as if we hadn’t noticed her soft snoring and head bobbing.

As entertainment, my brother and I picked a dancer from each routine. The winner was whoever’s dancer fell or made a mistake. The prize? A sharp smack to the back of the head from our mom while we stifled our laughter behind our programs. Even our brand of entertainment couldn’t make the time go faster.

The costume choices only made things worse. To this day, I question the judgment of those dance teachers. It was as if they relied on Stevie Wonder to pick the costumes. Mothers who controlled every detail of their daughters’ lives proudly beamed as their innocent little princesses gyrated and shook their booties across the stage in bikinis that would make Jennifer Lopez blush. Scandalous! I will never understand the logic.

In my sophomore year, against my better judgment, I decided to try dancing. My classmates were fit, normal girls, neither heavy nor runway material. We performed a ridiculous Superman routine. Our costumes made us look like thrift store Wonder Women. The shiny red polyester bikini tops and blue polyurethane bottoms barely covered anything. The gold, flammable gloves and leg warmers shimmered under the spotlight, making us resemble a lopsided disco ball and bad prom night choices. When the curtain went up, we flopped around the stage like a pack of half-naked, drunk hippos. Instead of learning the dance, we spent our class time giggling and mocking the moves. The result? A mosh pit of awkwardness, with most of the laughter coming from us. We knew we looked ridiculous, but we figured if we didn’t laugh at ourselves, the audience would beat us to it.

I am built like a panda, and I know what works for my body type. The dollar store Wonder Woman costume was not it. The girls in my class became some of my best friends. Since I didn’t want to quit on them, I wore the costume and danced.

That was the last dance class I ever took. It made me realize I wasn’t cut out for dancing. I don’t have a dancer’s body, and I’m okay with that. I perform better in supporting roles. I wish other “dancers,” their teachers, and mothers had the same awareness. Watching clumsy clodhoppers stumbling around in outfits so tiny, you're not sure if they’re dancing or just trying to hold everything together. It's an assault on the senses. There should be laws, penalties, and fines – immediately - no more.

If you ever find yourself sentenced to attend a dance recital, don’t do it, but if you must, don’t bring flowers. Bring a big, fluffy bathrobe to wrap your poor, half-clothed dancer.