When I see you in dance class, I see you looking at me. I see you stare past my crazy hair, my strength, my grace, my skill. I see you looking at my chair, and I recognise in your eyes the fear of what might happen to you. If I am "lucky" that flash of hostility will mellow as you take pity on me -- it's so nice that I come and try hard. If I am not "lucky," the repulsion in your eyes and recoil in your body will stick with me throughout class. You won't meet my eyes again; you will push past me in the changing room and talk above me in the elevator (get your lazy ass out of my elevator -- you're a dancer, dammit. If you can stick your leg above your head, you can certainly manage a flight of stairs).
I am what you may become. It becomes me.
Tags:
No comments:
Post a Comment