Dear baby ballerinas,
When I founded the ballet program at your school, I had never seen the faces of Beaver Ridge Elementary. I had a roster of sixteen first-graders and a lesson plan, but I walked to your cafeteria with a higher purpose. I believed on that first day that I could hug you enough times to grant you peace in your harsh world. I was wrong. Dear ballerinas, forgive me for underestimating your courageous smiles.
Our ballet class was a journey through an enchanted world. We played with fairies. Magical hugs transformed us into butterflies. We tiptoed like princesses. We assumed the countenance of your favorite animals. We watched Cinderella’s prince carry her to his whimsical palace, shattering into beautiful pieces what once were the stepsisters’ ugly dreams. In ballet class, all was as it should have been. I encouraged your naïveté. I believed for a time that if you knew a world where joy abounded, you would overflow with joy, too.
After ballet class, I would open my dinged car door and rush into traffic.
Little ballerinas, I misunderstood oblivion. Even the world of ballet leaves scars of its own.
On the first day of ballet, I gave you scarves and asked you to dance. I played every genre—the Frozen soundtrack, Taylor Swift, soft instrumentals—and most of you twirled with an audacious effervescence. I can still see you standing alone, Savannah. Wishing to give you courage, I watched you from the CD player. The thought of displaying your heart through dance terrified you.
I remember when you spilled your snack, Adriana. Crushed Goldfish spread across the floor as your friends marched inside and took their seats. Emely’s lighthearted giggles filled the room, but your floodlike tears were already sliding down your doll-sized cheeks. To you, Adri, a witness to your mistake was ridicule.
Tiffany, you took longer to change into your costume than all the other girls. I can still hear your muffled sob from inside the restroom stall. When I asked if I could help you, your voice slowly formed a “yes.” Your light pink leotard was soaked. You anticipated scornful eyes in the audience, and your own fear saddened you.
Dear girls, I relished in those tearful moments because they preceded exuberance. Time stood still. Together, you and I transcended the world. In times of fear and doubt and self-deprecation, we chose to dance.
You chose to dance.
The world’s bitterness lay at your fingertips, and you chose to reach further than your six-year-old arms stretched. There, you found peace.
Dear baby ballerinas, I pray every night that you reach for that peace. I never hope that you remember the enchanted fairies who visited when we pointed our toes. I always hope that you remember truth. Your heart cannot restrain itself from belief, despite fear or doubt or self-deprecation.
The public school system never allowed me to explain why I cherish each of you. I never aimed to teach ballet. I always desired to provide you peace. Instead, you found it in childlike faith. I pray that it never escapes your grasp.
With much love,
“Miss” Hannah
