Two months ago, I attended my first dance class. I was terrified.
I love to dance. I'm one of those people who can stay on a dance floor until last call sounds. I get really into the simple line dances (think: Cupid Shuffle) I do with my students. My sister is a dancer, so I've enjoyed numerous performances over the years. When I listen to music, I often choreograph dance routines in my head, though I have no technical terminology for the movements I envision. Friends and strangers have complimented me on my dancing.
Despite how much I love to dance, I also know this about myself: learning movements does not come easily to me. This applies to choreography, to sports instruction more complex than "run really fast to the finish line," even to the steady motion of peeling potatoes. Most frustrating, halfway through practicing an action, I trip myself up and my body no longer remembers how to do the move correctly. This happened at every single swing dance my college hosted: around the halfway point, I would put a foot wrong and then the basics went out the window. It wasn't even my perfectionism kicking in--I would just lose the rhythm entirely.
The obvious solution to my dancing woes was to sign up for a beginner's class. Ballet, swing, hip hop--anything that would give me the basics of following choreography. A few times I went as far as looking up classes in the area. I still delayed. Who wants to suck at something in public? Who consents to weekly public humiliation? Why not just develop the talents I already have, like writing and teaching and running? Sure, I wanted to become a better dancer, but the desire was not enough to overcome the fear.
How did I make it to my first dance class? One of my friends felt the same way about dance and we decided to try a class together. When we arrived at the studio, I still felt nervous, but at least I wasn't alone. I told her, "I'm going to be the worst person there," but with a smile to show I had already come to terms with this. She said something reassuring and then it was time to warm up.
Dear readers, I was the most unskilled person there, unless you count the surly teenager who barely set foot on the dance floor. About three-quarters of the way in, I forgot some of the choreography. There were too many steps for me to remember and I started messing up ones I already knew. A lump formed in my throat. I thought about taking a five-minute bathroom break to shed a few tears and splash some water on my face. If my friend hadn't been there, I would have left. Wanting to be good at something wasn't enough to make me actually good at it. What an exercise in public humiliation!
Yes, I made it through my first class. Yes, I'm still attending classes. Yes, I have gotten a little better at choreography, and I expect things will only get better with practice. And yes, dear readers, you're probably wondering what this 500-word dance story has to do with reading.
I teach kindergarten and first grade. I ask all of my students to read every day, including the ones who struggle with it. Every day, we tackle an incredibly complex process with so many moving parts that it's a wonder our brains can keep track of it all. Some of my students labor for months just to make it to a milestone their peers leapt over months earlier. Learning to read can and should be a joyous process, but it is still work. It can still be frustrating and embarrassing.
Teachers do their best to make learning fun. We use "just right" books, we play games, we celebrate student accomplishments, and we strive for a classroom where it's okay to make mistakes. But my dance teacher also provides a warm, low pressure environment. At 26 years old, I still wanted to cry in frustration once I hit that wall. Five- and six-year-olds do cry when they reach that point, or throw down their books, or hide in their cubbies. In an ideal world, the teacher will always be able to read the warning signs and provide the help needed, but we don't live in an ideal world, especially at the beginning of the school year.
I walked out of my first dance class determined to remember that absolute, helpless frustration. This is what it feels like to love what you're learning and still be the worst person in your class. Society certainly values reading more than dancing. I can't ever know the pain of illiteracy, but I do know that I'd be placed in remedial dance class if dance were considered as important as reading. Some of my instructors would try to fix me without ever knowing that I can tell an entire story with my body. Given the right song, allowed my own choreography, I can make crude but honest art.
Many teachers loved school growing up and were excellent students. I am no exception. There were subjects I wasn't good at, but even tangled up in a geometry proof, I still felt reasonably confident in my ability to figure things out if I applied myself. (Whether I actually did was another story.) I've even tried out new activities I'm not good at, like rock climbing. I avoided dance class for so long because I knew that I would care that I was at the bottom of the class. That's me, the remedial dancer.
That first dance class increased my respect for my students tenfold. All of my students want to read and write and do math and turn cartwheels and figure out what makes a seed grow. Some days, that work feels really hard, too hard to complete. Your body is wrong, your brain is wrong. When it comes to reading, you have two left feet.
I understand that now. The signs stand out clearer: the slumped shoulders, the downcast eyes, the trembling lips. I squeeze a student's hand in mine. "You looked at all the letters in that word and tried to sound it out," I say, because specificity is still important. Then, the universal cure: "Let's get a drink of water. We'll read some more tomorrow."
Tomorrow, we'll read some more and we'll dance some more. We won't get better as quickly as we like. We might never be great, but that's okay; we aspire to be good. Word by word, step by step.
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