Personal Narrative: My First Dance Class

How much could a tiny tot possibly have to share with the world in one dance class? Let me tell you, in my first dance class I thought I had become the most beautiful thing in the world. In my head, I floated above the ground with every movement I made, like a water lily; I became the most spectacular princess in the land with every leap, and the most elegant fairy as I sat down with my legs crossed and my hands in my lap. However, in reality I was running around with a blue, almost see-through scarf in my hand like a baby elephant learning to walk, and in horrible princess manners, giving my classmates, that were not taking the class as seriously as I thought they should, dirty looks. Dance class was a place where if I closed my eyes tight enough, I could block out reality, become whatever I wanted and tell any story I wanted to.

I have grown to love dance even more than I did in my first class, and in my opinion I have gotten quite a bit better. I’m afraid that in other areas of art I can’t speak as highly of myself. My drawings have always been lackluster, my acting subpar, and my musical ability has

I was sure that I had used my pencil to create the next Mona Lisa at the end of those seventy minutes. Yet, years later when my family cleaned out my art folder I couldn’t even tell what the items I was supposed to have drawn were. The picture looked as if it had been drawn on a boat in the middle of a storm having its curved lines in place of straight lines. It was as if the pencil had a mind of its own and what I intended for it to do just wasn’t on the agenda for that day. During my time in art class I continued this cycle. The cycle of not thinking that I could draw, to having an epiphany moment, to realizing that what I actually created was worthless. When I began to climb the mountain of hardships involved with music and acting I had to push my failure in art class to the