Me, the Dancer

When you’re a male dancer, you’re basically a unicorn in the dance world. 

That's not a bad thing.

In a small town in southern Georgia, dancers fit into two crowds. Those who studied ballet from 3 or so, and still study it now since they’ve moved here for college. Then there are the local dancers somewhere around 12.

And then there’s me. An 18-year-old guy fresh out of high school. Who’s never owned a pair of ballet shoes. Who says he wants to take ballet classes. 

So after a warm welcome and a trip to Macon, the closest place you could actually get ballet shoes, I was officially enrolled in the dance program. 

Hundreds and hundreds of plies, releves, tendus. It’s something that comes only with time and repetition. So that’s what I did for my first year of college. 

And after enough repetition, I was pulled aside after class and asked to be the understudy for The Nutcracker. Not just in the Nutcracker, but for the Nutcracker.

Through countless Monday, Thursday, and weekend rehearsals I was part of the family, a family of dancers old and new, supportive and caring parents, and some incredible teachers. I'd found my tribe.  

After the last show, I was asked to be next year’s Nutcracker. And then again the next year. 

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