My daughter, Michelle, called me yesterday. Typically when she calls she has an issue
with something. Either the internet is
down, or she can’t find “Teen Mom” on-line or, and this has happened more than
a few times, she’s struck something with her car. Calls aren’t usually to “chat.”
We’ve known for a while now that Michelle had
applied for a job at the place where she is interning. And we’ve known for a while that it was
looking really good she’d get the job.
As with most places of employment they probably have to do a few steps
to make it look like they’ve thrown the job posting out to the masses before
they give the job to the person that they want.
The past weekend, while helping a friend of
Michelle’s move, Michelle talked about her interview process for the job and
how it was sort of impromptu and kind of official but that they didn’t give her
the job and she was worried and who knows when she’ll find out, etc.
It’s times like this, as a father, where my
typical response is: “Huh. Interesting.”
Not really “Father Knows Best” type of stuff where I wax poetically
about striving for your dream and doing what it takes to accomplish it. Typically the less syllables the better in my
book.
When she called to tell me she got the job I was
excited for her but kept down playing it a bit.
To the point where she said: “You’re
acting like I haven’t been working…”
Which she has been for a very long time.
Again, the syllables thing.
Still, I congratulated her and told her I was proud of her and she was
very excited. An actual job in her field
of study. One that could lead to an
amazing career path.
As I rode the bus home last night, I thought about
this some more. It was only a few years
ago that she was on her path to becoming a dancer. Well, she WAS a dancer. No denying that for a short time she was a professional
dancer (she got paid!) and was in MAJOR Ballet productions for Pacific
Northwest Ballet. There was also no
denying that it was hard work. Hours
upon hours of rehearsals, practices, classes.
Six days a week all for her to follow a dream.
At one point during the ballet school year, you
meet with the director of the school (or a main instructor) and they have a “come
to Jesus” moment with you. Basically
what the person said to us was that Michelle could “Make a living being a
dancer.” But…she wasn’t a PNB “type” of
dancer. She is relatively short and is
not very flexible. But what she makes up
for in flexibility she has in strength.
She could still take classes, she could still perform in small roles,
but she wasn’t going to go much beyond that scope. Where Miriam, my wife, heard “defeat,” I
heard “make a living being a dancer.”
That, somehow, even if it wasn’t ballet – there would be opportunities
for her elsewhere. And, at this point in
her life (still in high school), there was a future laid out for her:
What schools would offer her a dance scholarship?
Where should we go to investigate possible dance
opportunities?
What steps should we now take to help her
accomplish her dream?
What can we do, as parents, to ease this process
and encourage her?
Part of the next steps was for Michelle to take
part in a Summer Dance Lab in Walla Walla, WA.
Summer Dance Labs are intense programs opening up dancers to other types
of dance and other types of teaching/instruction. Heck, she even won a scholarship – so one
summer she went for 2 or 3 weeks, the following summer she could go for the
full 5 weeks. For those weeks she was
truly in her element (and far away from her annoying parents).
Then her hip started to hurt. General soreness turned to pain. Pain turned to lack of movement. Lack of movement turned to lack of being able
to dance. Unable to dance to Michelle at
the time was like being unable to breathe or eat or watch “Teen Mom.” She needed this to survive.
After talking to a doctor and x-rays – it was
determined that she would need hip surgery as she had a torn labrum. After the first surgery (emphasis on the word
FIRST) the doctor told us that she could continue to dance. After the second surgery, it was obvious that
she could not continue to dance.
What do you tell your child who has spent the past
10+ years of her life (and is barely even college age), that what she’s been
working towards, fighting towards, given blood sweat and tears for is now out
of her grasp? Granted, she knew that she’d
never be a Prima Ballerina but where do you from: “She can make a living being a dancer.” to “She
can continue to dance.” to “Ow, ow, ow!
It hurts when I do that...?”
How would she handle this new reality? Going from six classes a week and hours of
dancing to now just counting fuetes (sic?) from the audience? Spilling gallons of sweat and breaking pointe
shoes to watching her ballet friends on Facebook move on to college or jobs at
other ballet companies?
Would she become clinically depressed? Would she hide in her room? Take a razor blade to her “Dance Dance
Revolution” Dance Mats? I’m sure she
cried, but I didn’t see it (clueless is as clueless does). I’m sure she yelled at God (I know I
would). I’m sure she thought she could
work through it, suck it up, deal with the pain, start over, try again, pull
herself up by the ballet straps, deny the doctors, deny the instructors and
muscle through.
As a father who barely can stay awake through a
ballet program (and by barely, that means I usually fall asleep), what could I
do? What could I say? What lack of syllables could I provide to
her?
She regrouped.
She focused. She went to
Community College. She transferred to
Western Washington as a Jr. She lived
the dorm life and enjoyed it. She got
her degree and then applied to grad school.
Where dance had been her world…now community counseling was her world
(with probably less crazy people than the ballet world). Working nearly full time already, she took on
a course load that would choke a horse.
As part of her third year at school, she had to
intern somewhere…while still doing her other job(s). Where she interned liked her and when an
opening became available she was offered a job.
She moved out.
She graduates with her masters in a few months. She turns 26 in June. She pays her bills. She’s in love. She has successfully reinvented herself. She has moved forward – bad hip and all.
Will the job be perfect? Will she be happy in it? Will it turn into a career as opposed to a “bill
paying job?” We will see.
It’s not so much that I’m proud of her getting a
job. I’m proud of her overcoming the
adversity placed in her way. Good job,
Michelle! (note: four syllables)
