V U V U U w IF -w- -4v -w-, p -IV -w- -w 2C Wednesday, Oc -ber 17, 2012 The Statement THE JUNK DRAWER Wedesdy,0ctoer S7, 012/ Te Sate en used to dance PERSONAL STATEMENT obyJrCObAxeirad from last week: sex-ed & racism Would you ever protest in public for something you believe in? No 9.7% Yes 90.3% Do you wish that sex education at the University had more freedom of expression? random student interview by kaitlin williams / illustrations by megan mulholland Welcome to the Random Stu- have time or I would. dent Interview. What's up with the fountain by the Union? I mean nothing, but ... So, whose birthday are you going to? Boy or girl? Girl. Her name's Jill. Hey! Got a minute? Like literally a minute? Because I'm late for my friend's birthday party. Where's the party? It's not a party, we're just going to dinner. Where are you going? Seva's or something. I don't know how to pronounce it. It's the vegetarian restaurant. No, I think it's fine 34.5% OK. More like two or three. I'm sorry I lied. Will you for- give me? OK. Let's hurry it up though. Yes 37.9% OK. But first, let's talk about boys. Boys? What about them? Oh, you know. Boys. What boy comes to mind when I say that? One Direction. . 4 Boy band. I'll take it. So, no specific, real-life boy drama, contact, turmoil going on? No. Actually, I live in an all-girl floor and I was just thinking about how I wish more boys were around because they're fun. Qh man, I stopped the wrong person. All-girl floor? Lame. Yeah. Really? What's wrong with girls? Oh. That's not girly at all. Guys can be vegetarians too. It's good there. I had some vegan pancakes. You can't really mess with pancakes though. Are you going to get pancakes? Probably not. OK. I'll let you go. I'm going to find someone about that freaky fountain. - Kelli is an LSA freshman. No, it's too free 27.5% Online comments All right. And let's move over here because I don't know what's up with that fountain. It's been spraying water like 10 feet in the air. Yeah, you should probably go find someone after this. I don't e are four friends, each no older than 12. We are on VV/the street; tap shoes draped around our necks, black dance bags at our sides. We wear baggy clothes and scarf down the remnants from a bag of Cheetos. Streaks of orange dust coat our hands. Ourfeetjitter in anticipation as we wait outside the studio where we take classes every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday. I danced for five years, concluding the summer after sixth grade. After my sister Gabri died on a family bike trip in Wyo- ming's Grand Teton National Park, my mother founded a dance program to honor Gabri's love for dance. Though my mother had no dance background, she wanted people to remember my sister's passion. One afternoon, as I was hanging around the dance studio, watching a beginner's tap class, the teacher opened the door and asked if I wanted to join. I said yes. That first class is sealed in my memory: no tap shoes, awkwardly kicking my bare feet against the ground, learn- ing foreign words like shuffle, ball change, "over-the-top." The thought of moving my feet in rhythmic patterns had me hooked. I asked my parents to enroll me in the class that same night. For four days a week, my mom drove me across the city from one dance class to the next. She would work in a make- shift office converted from an old hotel basement until 9 p.m.; I would slip on my tap shoes and drum with metal on the floor. While most Yids I knew played sports, discussing their favorite basketball or baseball players at lunch, I became obsessed with different idols: people like Sammy Davis, Jr., Sandman Sims, Gregory Hines and Arthur Duncan; tap dancers I watched videos of them performing over and over again ii my bedroom, trying and failing to mimic'theif moves. I got a reputation in my class for imitating one famous tap dancer or another. My nickname was Funkadelic. My hobby made it difficult to build friendships with other kids at school. I was essentially MIA after school and on weekends. I was also afraid what they might say if they found out. Would they think I was lame, girly, weird? I stayed silent. If it ever did come up, I'd sidestep the topic. In my mind, 12-year-old boys weren't supposed to dance. So I'd wait for school to end, anxious to be with others who shared my need to master a step or routine. I had a home and a family. There was Andres, a slacker who never practiced but surprised us all with his ability to memorize and perfect routines on the first try. There was Sandy, an improviser extraordinaire who specialized in spinning on her toes; when the choreography bored her she'd make up her own steps, which never failed to infuriate our instructor, Steve, who regularly quizzed us on our knowl- edge of tap greats such as Fred Astaire or Sammy Davis Jr. Just to make sure we were, you know, doing our homework. And soon, it wasn't just tap. Hesitant at first, I started bal- let. Any misgivings I had about wearing tights were quickly assuaged by my teacher, Vera. Her dedication to her students made us all want to work harder, even if that meant staying at the studio until 10 on a weeknight. Her wardrobe choices were casual: a faded black t-shirt with the word "Australia" sewn on, black dance pants and old white ballet slippers worn down to reveal skin under- neath. "I'm a freak," she would say, bottle of Evian water in hand. "I should be arrested. Why do any of you hang around with me? You should be at home." We would smile, not car- ing our parents were waiting in the lobby to take us home because class should have ended over an hour ago. "I can't help it. I love what I do," she once told me. "And I know how lucky I am to be doing what I love." But it didn't last. I drifted away from dance. Maybe it was the pressure of starting a new school, knowsing I wouldn't have enough time to spend in the studio. Maybe it was my parents worrying that their son's obsession was unrealis- tic - I wasn't about to turn pro or earn a dance scholarship. Or maybe I just lost interest, unwilling to devote the kind of time and discipline necessary to actually be good. Within weeks of stopping, my flexibility began to wane. My muscles atrophied. I could no longer leap and extend the way I once could. Over the next few months, I suppressed any thoughts of returning to dance. I'd have to start all over, regain my lost strength. My brother, who played water polo in high school and college, once explained to me how he felt after playing his last game. "It's tough to know that I was in the best shape I'll ever be in and that I'll never be in such good shape again," he said. "I go to my buddies' games who are still on the team. But it's hard. To know they're still in that shape, that they can still move like that ... it's hard." I agreed. Some years, I go with my parents to watch the dance pro- gram's recitals in June. Watching the youngest kids I feel nothing. No envy. No resentment. But to see my old friends perform, who progressed without me, is a lesson in jealousy. Despite being nine years removed, part of me still wants to be on that stage. When I tell people I danced briefly as akid they often reply with, "Oh, so you're a dancer." I politely shake my head. Per- haps one who used to play piano could get away with that. I have friends who, though rusty, can still play a few scales from their days of piano lessons. But once I stopped practic- ing, improvising and stretching, I lost credibility. Most people I danced with have also stopped by this point for one reason or another. Except for Sandy. When I watched her solo last June, she mesmerized the audience with her skill and poise. With years of experience under her belt, she could move like the old greats I'd once imitated. Toward the end of her set, she broke into straight improvisation. It looked familiar; she was still spinning on her toes. Jacob Axelrad is an LSA junior and.an assistant arts editor for The Michigan Daily. You all pay tens of thousands of dollars to "study" this mindless non- sense? No wonder the vast majority of you won't be able to find a full-time job when you graduate. -MDailyGuest, regarding "Demonstration Unlikely" This personal statement is brave and a profound reminder of why we need to restore affirmative action, fight racism and build the leadership of the new civil rights movement. -Joseph Semana, regarding "Black in Ann Arbor"