A Little Bit Louder
I was the first one ready, so I climbed the rickety back stairs of Fisher Theater on my own, clutching the ends of my hula skirt so I didn’t trip and fall over it. Upstairs, I pressed myself into the curtain, craning my neck to peer around at the audience. The house was almost full that night. Crap. I tried to quell the butterflies in my stomach with deep breaths.
That was lower spring, and in that moment I was beyond mortified. I was just 10 minutes away from making my first appearance in an Exeter dance concert, and I didn’t feel prepared at all. I had only started dancing at the beginning of the year, and most of the other girls in the company were significantly better than I was in the studio. After a whole term of watching and helplessly comparing myself to them, to no avail, now I was worried the whole school was about to find out my secret: I was a poser. I couldn’t really dance at all. At least, that’s how I felt.
I retreated to the shadowy recesses on the side of the stage. A single bare bulb illuminated the alcove I stood in, just enough light to allow me to inspect my outfit. Black leotard, flame patterned hula skirt, leafy anklets, flowered lei. I patted the back of my head; the flower pin was still in place. I’m not missing anything, I thought.I closed my eyes and leaned back against the wall. I had about seven minutes left before I stepped out onstage for the first number and melted with embarrassment. What could I do to save myself? Why had I ever agreed to this dance concert in the first place?
The frustration I felt with dance was a reflection of how I felt at large that first year at Exeter. At my first high school, I had been a big fish in a small pond, but now I was suddenly thrown into a vast pool of truly amazing individuals and I wasn’t sure I even remembered how to swim. The question “Am I good enough?” swirled through my mind on endless replay, but I couldn’t answer it positively because I couldn’t find enough evidence. It was a big gray world that I wandered. I worried a lot about things I couldn’t control, and about many things that simply weren’t true at all.
My foolishness didn’t hit me until something really beautiful happened.
I heard whispering behind me, and turned around to see that the other hula girls had convened nearby, giggling quietly. Even in the poor lighting, the ferocity and exuberance of their multicolored costumes took my breath away. The choreographer of the piece, an 11th grader with curly hair, looked up and realized that I was standing apart from the group.
She was just a year older than me, but she was one of the most talented dancers in the company and my role model. I felt lucky to have been chosen as a dancer for her piece. It meant that she saw some hope in me; she was one of the first people to tell me she did. So I wanted to do her proud; I wanted to do better.
She motioned me over.
“Get in here, Stephanie!”
I obliged, scurrying over and wedging myself into the circle of dancers. She put her hand in the center of our circle, and we all followed suit. Without a warning, she began to chant,
“1, WE ARE BIG RED”
I was a little shocked. I didn’t know dancers were allowed to use sports chants.
Plus, they were loud.
“2, A LITTLE BIT LOUDER”
I was still speechless. The girls beside me nudged me with their elbows, eyebrows cocked in invitation.
“3, I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU”
I joined in, quietly.
“4, MORE MORE MORE,”
Oh, what the hell, why not.
“1, WE ARE BIG RED
2, A LITTLE BIT LOUDER
3, I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU
4, MORE MORE MORE
ONE!”
It occurred to me that I had worked hard and done my best for the piece and that, for my fellow dancers, it had been enough. They accepted me, straight and simple. I scanned the circle, and I saw no resentment or contempt in their eyes. We broke away to prepare for our entrance, but I could still feel the lingering warmth of our tight knit circle against my arms as I took my starting place on stage, a security blanket of sorts.
I decided, as the speakers began to blare, that I was going to stop listening to the negative voice in my head; there was hope for me, I was good enough, and I had found a community at Exeter who loved me.
At that point, nothing else mattered.