Death of a Dance Ego
☙ A relationship never dies a natural death. It is murdered by ego, attitude and ignorance. ❧
~ Srinivas Shenoy
Growing up, I loved to dance. I would always make up dances for me and my friends using the latest songs recorded from the radio.
My Dad gifted me unlimited lessons at my local studio, and I became pretty serious about them. I pursued ballet and modern dance exams, prioritized any performance opportunity, and choreographed for events at my high school.
I auditioned for 3 Canadian universities with dance programs and chose Simon Fraser University in British Columbia to begin my first year in September 2002.
I'm not sure when exactly it all started, but I, for whatever reason, attribute that initial class at 8:00 am on an autumn morning as the first time my dance ego became louder than my genuine love of dance.
I was awful. Compared to every other dancer in that studio, I was the worst by far. Not only could I not perform the requirements, but I also looked bad. I was ashamed of my training, embarrassed of my body, and angry I ever had the idea I could go anywhere with dance. Suddenly, the only thing I remembered about my experience with movement was my terrible feet, limited flexibility, and lack of proper technique.
This ushered in the era of binge eating, extreme diets that included laxatives, erratic behaviour, poor relationship choices and endless self-hatred.
I quit my program after the first year. I moved back home, much to the disappointment of a family that only wanted the best for me, which at the time included completing post-secondary, and I never felt more alone.
The idea of changing career aspirations to a desk job where no one could judge or critique my body, or the way it moved, seemed like the sweetest relief. I wanted to put dance in the past, permanently.
I convinced myself and my family that I would go back to school but needed to improve some of my high school math marks to get into the program I thought would save me. So, I signed up for continuing education courses in subjects I really had no interest in and hauled myself off every morning to a library in another town to avoid any embarrassment of running into people I knew to get it done.
I try. Some have called me a 'try-hard.' A personality trait most definitely linked to my ego; I attack something with as much determination as possible. And so, I tried to do my homework, alone in an anonymous building, burdened by the feeling of defeat. I tried hard for about two months.
Depressed and exhausted, I remember sitting at a table just staring when I noticed a newspaper and opened it to distract myself from the unforgiving despair that was consuming me.
I turned to an advertisement for adult modern classes held three times a week just down the road from the library. The ad said they were morning classes before the company started rehearsal for the day, and they were open to the public.
I thought about them for about two weeks before one morning I packed some dance clothes, which had morphed from leotard and tights to oversized Mod-Robe pants and a baggy T-shirt, and headed to the studio rather than the library.
When I walked in the front door, a steep set of stairs took me to the first floor with a small reception, washroom, and partially hidden room to one side. Sitting behind a desk was a young man with longish brown hair and warm eyes who welcomed me in. I said I was there for the adult modern class. He took my money and told me to go up the other set of stairs.
I took a huge, deep breath and walked up what felt like a mountain towards a heavy door. On the other side was an open room with big windows facing the road, exposed brick, and large black curtains along one wall. There were people of all ages, shapes and sizes languidly rolling on the floor, drinking coffee or chatting. Drums sat in one corner, and an older gentleman in a grey tracksuit with grey leg warmers was facing the exposed brick wall, back to us, moving gesturally.
I took my place amongst the others, some who noticed me, some who didn't, and waited. Within about 5 minutes, the man from the front desk entered the studio. The older gentleman nodded at him, and another man walked across the room and sat behind the drums. The class was about to begin.
Everyone stood and faced David, the teacher, the man in the grey tracksuit. He said hello, bowed, and introduced the percussionist. Friendly sounds ricocheted around the room. People were sharing their thoughts on something that had happened before, about something I didn't know—some laughter, clapping, all of it going over my head, and then silence.
David indicated for us to sit, and we did.
It was a formal Graham Technique class. There was very little instruction. David demonstrated in real-time, facing us, with his eyes closed as we danced with him. Thankfully, I had one semester from my failed year at SFU of Graham Technique, and I managed to understand the majority of the sequences. We stood. We went across the floor. We stopped. The hour and a half class was over.
I had been so focused on the experience that it wasn't until after I realized there were no mirrors. I had just gone through an entire class without knowing what I looked like, or really, how anyone else looked.
My body was buzzing as I walked back to my car. It was just before noon, and I usually didn't go home until much later in the afternoon. Still, I couldn't fathom going to the library and opening my heavy textbooks after what I had just experienced. I was sweaty, and with the November winds, getting cold. So, I sat in my car with the heater on, and I cried.
I felt freedom. Release. A remembering of what I used to be like when I danced. The joy in the challenge of learning, not the disappointment of falling short. The soreness of my muscles, not the sickness in the pit of my stomach. My connection to rhythm and personal interpretation of the change in melody, not the incessant need to match everyone else as they moved.
That class saved me. It wasn't long before I attended three times a week and completely let go of the lonely library. Sometimes after class, I would fall asleep on the reception room settee; I still couldn't go home right away.
Finally, after months of living this secret life, I confessed what I had been doing and that I thought maybe I wanted to pursue dance again. There was never any argument. As long as I was considering returning to school, I was supported in my dance training.
It started to get easier. I re-auditioned for York University's Dance Program and was accepted to begin my second year in the Fall of 2004. I continued to take classes with David and even performed with his company in a small (but paid!) role. And the rest, they say, is history.
I have been in the performance and dance education industry ever since, in a multitude of ways. I know that this is where my soul sits, in the transcendent space where the physical expresses the emotional in 3 dimensions.
However, it is not, and has not, always been easy. I have gone through several evolutions. I can look back and see that my relationship with dance has often reflected my relationship with myself, and vice versa.
After the massive transitions I have experienced over the last two years, and as we all come out of this trauma we call the Covid-19 pandemic, I have decided I need another first David dance class experience.
It's time to remove the judgemental mirrors, the overwhelming and disappointing comparison, and the self-defeating behaviours, all of which accumulate into shame and a severe dampening of quality of life. Instead, it's time to reevaluate what is important and what I can do to help others, the way David helped me, remember who they are.
The Death of the Dance Ego is my first foray into blogging, and I hope you will join me on this journey.
Let's see how we can bring deep and authentic satisfaction back to our dancing lives.
With deep respect and gratitude,
Miss Jen
