As a little girl I danced. I went to ballet, jazz, tap, even countrywestern lessons. I started out going twice a week. I grew to ateenager and my love for dance was all consuming.
There wasn't a class I wouldn't tackle with ferocity and devotion. I bled through toe shoes, I taped my feet and swore off sandals through most of the 80s. I made Company, I danced at the Tremaine Convention in NYC and thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
Dance has changed. It really has. And not for the better. My daughters dance. Autumn loves it the way I did. Danielle, well... she loves a stage. My only regret is that the world of dance as an art seems to have become a rarity. No longer are the days of 40 minute barre work, of earning your stripes. The days of "my" dance have past.
Mrs. Galipeau would carry a stick. And she knew how to use it. She had rules. We weren't allowed in class without our hair tied, proper attire and shoes. We weren't admitted late. We couldn't say the words "can't, won't, would't, hurts, tried, sore, stop". She said we could and we did.... whatever it was. Her mantra of "One more time" haunts me still.
Her belief in her students (in me) carried me through life's trials and tribulations. To succeed when others say you shouldn't is a rare and beautiful moment. I treasure those times and hold them close to my heart.
Mostly though, Mrs. Galipeau had class. She knew how to run a business. She knew that we worked babysitting jobs to pay for classesand costumes. She understood hard times and worked with parents who were behind. She didn't do it by letter, but in fact by greeting us at the door with a smile and a friendly reminder. She called my parents by first name, shook hands and laughed at my fahter's jokes.
She kept us away from competitions because she believed that dance was an art, not a spectator sport. She would allow us to compete our last year with her... only to prove herself right. We were happy with our trophies, but deep inside we would rather have just danced for the beauty of it.
As my daughters continue to take lessons and I try to steer them in the right direction, I lament that those are now considered "the old ways". I regret that times have changed so much that the true lessons we learned years ago while holding onto a barre are lost.
Looking at yourself through a fog coated mirror teaches little girls lots of things: self esteem, self control, self appreciation and mostly a sense of "self". These are the lessons parents struggle to teach every day. The most difficult to teach.
They are ones I learned while standing on a hardwood floor, next to a few best friends learning the very same things.
I often wonder if Mrs. G knows how we look back at those times. I flip through old pictures of myself on a stage and know that who I am today, the best of who I am, is a direct result of her strength of character.
Muscle has memory, and these memories have a lot of muscle.
Thanks Mrs. Galipeau. For every one more time.
There wasn't a class I wouldn't tackle with ferocity and devotion. I bled through toe shoes, I taped my feet and swore off sandals through most of the 80s. I made Company, I danced at the Tremaine Convention in NYC and thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
Dance has changed. It really has. And not for the better. My daughters dance. Autumn loves it the way I did. Danielle, well... she loves a stage. My only regret is that the world of dance as an art seems to have become a rarity. No longer are the days of 40 minute barre work, of earning your stripes. The days of "my" dance have past.
Mrs. Galipeau would carry a stick. And she knew how to use it. She had rules. We weren't allowed in class without our hair tied, proper attire and shoes. We weren't admitted late. We couldn't say the words "can't, won't, would't, hurts, tried, sore, stop". She said we could and we did.... whatever it was. Her mantra of "One more time" haunts me still.
Her belief in her students (in me) carried me through life's trials and tribulations. To succeed when others say you shouldn't is a rare and beautiful moment. I treasure those times and hold them close to my heart.
Mostly though, Mrs. Galipeau had class. She knew how to run a business. She knew that we worked babysitting jobs to pay for classesand costumes. She understood hard times and worked with parents who were behind. She didn't do it by letter, but in fact by greeting us at the door with a smile and a friendly reminder. She called my parents by first name, shook hands and laughed at my fahter's jokes.
She kept us away from competitions because she believed that dance was an art, not a spectator sport. She would allow us to compete our last year with her... only to prove herself right. We were happy with our trophies, but deep inside we would rather have just danced for the beauty of it.
As my daughters continue to take lessons and I try to steer them in the right direction, I lament that those are now considered "the old ways". I regret that times have changed so much that the true lessons we learned years ago while holding onto a barre are lost.
Looking at yourself through a fog coated mirror teaches little girls lots of things: self esteem, self control, self appreciation and mostly a sense of "self". These are the lessons parents struggle to teach every day. The most difficult to teach.
They are ones I learned while standing on a hardwood floor, next to a few best friends learning the very same things.
I often wonder if Mrs. G knows how we look back at those times. I flip through old pictures of myself on a stage and know that who I am today, the best of who I am, is a direct result of her strength of character.
Muscle has memory, and these memories have a lot of muscle.
Thanks Mrs. Galipeau. For every one more time.
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