Descriptive Speech About Dancing

We also try to mimic the dancers’ agile movements after realizing our singing attempt is a fail. The awkward motions of our hands and feet do not flow. They seem almost robotic. After a moment of this clumsy attempt of a dance, Honey

Several hours later, I’m walking to the front of the line at Eden alongside Rose and Alice. I’m dressed in a mini royal blue dress with a plunging back, silver strappy heels, dark Smokey makeup. My long chestnut brown hair is straightened, the slightly lighter blonde ends of my hair reach my mid-back. I should probably get a haircut soon.

Ever since I was little I was told that I was adopted. At first I did not want to contact my mom because I was afraid that she did not want know me. I asked my adoptive mom if there was anything about my birth mom at out house. My adoptive mom had some papers on her but not a lot and the information may be not correct since it may have changed over the years. The birth dad was not a part of the picture. From those papers, I learned a little bit more about her but not a lot. Some information that was on the paper was her favorite classes were math and dance. I found that interesting since I do not like math but I love to dance. Dance is one of my passions. I was surprised that she did not graduate from high school. She only got through 10th grade. She has some qualities that are similar to me, which I like.

The stage is dark, the whisper of the crowd is heard as I silently get into my spot, careful not to make too much noise. I stand still in the dark, my heart beating out of my chest, my mind racing about the next two and a half minutes. My nine months of sweat, pain and tears have come to this moment. The bright lights on the stage begin to illuminate, small beads of sweat forming beneath my skin. I put on my biggest and brightest smile, as the music begins to play. Everything is happening so fast and that is how I know that it is show time.

The bar dancer is the term used for the adult entertainers who entertains male patrons in exchange for cash. The bar girls/dancers who are considered as entertainer have been seen as an integral part of the city’s thriving nightlife, in places like Mumbai, Delhi, part of Karnataka. This has been widely popular among the states of Maharashtra, Karnataka, and Delhi etc. It began to serve entertainment of dance of bar girls in dance bar in India in 1980. In 1986, there were 24 dance bars in the state of Maharashtra. Among all the others, Mumbai city is hailed as the crowning glory of the nation’s entertainment industry. Her history is linked to the migrant workers who were brought in to build the city. The traders, the sailors, the dockworkers, the construction labour etc. demanded entertainment in form of ‘playhouse’, where folk theatre, dance and music performance used to take place. The ‘mujra’ culture started during this phase. Soon with change in time, the ‘mujra’ culture in Bombay was on decline due to loss of patronage. The dance bars opened up a new and modern avenue of earning a livelihood to theses traditional mujra dancers.

Jude Fuchs was a dancer. When he moved, he dragged the stars along with him, small fireworks exploding out with every gesture he made. Watching him dance was like reading a wonderfully constructed stream of consciousness. He thrust himself into his art, muscles tensing up then relaxing rhythmically as he swayed to the music. Every forceful move jerked his torso left and right. Green eyes gazed out restlessly, squeezed shut passionately, and darted back and forth, searching for a free thought to land on. His limbs shifted ceaselessly like the ever-coming sunsets and sunrises, jolting as if being pulled by some invisible puppeteer…

I carry my personality in a dance bag. My stinky dance shoes and sweaty gym clothing hide wet and wrinkled at the bottom of a neon orange backpack. The soaked clothing wraps its long sleeves around a heavily used cucumber-scented deodorant and a bottle of perfume in an attempt to mask the vile smells of sweat and hardwork. I always pack one article of black clothing, either a skirt, a dress, or a leotard; yet in my mind I know that “people who wear black lead colorful lives” reminding me that there is more to me than the black dress I wear to practice. I shuffle my heavy feet. Each day, my toes become even more blistered and sore than the previous day. Three inch heels for at least three hours a day are not easy to dance on. After every practice, I peel off the black dress, like my skin. I could wring out the condensation if I really wanted to. My messy hair turns as wet as if I took a shower, drenched in sweat.

A few weeks ago I came across a video of myself at 3 years old, flapping my hands wildly and jumping up and down in a pink leotard and floral printed skirt. My sloppy bun was stuck together with an adorable bow, I was off the music, and I didn’t even know the steps. But it didn’t matter. At that time, I danced because it was fun and because I enjoyed it. I went through a short period of time a few years ago where the pursuit of perfection consumed me. I stopped enjoying class because I spent every second criticizing myself. While in class, a sort of obsession occurred within my mind which compelled me to push harder, never being satisfied. I would spend countless hours at night stretching and conditioning. During this time, dance was no longer gratifying; it was a regimen with one goal; perfection. Although I grew tremendously in my technique, my own mind was holding me back from becoming an artist.

The bell chimes as I closed the door behind Shefali and me and entered Dance Innovations. After a long recital rehearsal and well-deserved Dunkin Donuts trip, my best friend and I returned, ready for performing group auditions. While I dreaded tryouts in general, I also oddly enjoyed the pressure and excitement of them. The upcoming two hours controlled the following year of my life, as it determined which groups I got into for the upcoming performance season. I sipped my Dunkin Donuts iced coffee, convinced the caffeine would ease my anxiety. I walked into the east studio, welcomed by dance bags and shoes scattered on the old wooden floor.

Dancing around in our bare feet, getting ready for the night. The music ran through the apartment with adrenaline as did we. During the week we were to focus on practice and our studies. But weekends, we went out. everyone knew us, I'm not talking us as in my roommates and I. We are just freshman anyways, but the soccer girls. Girls soccer was known for going out. This particular Saturday night was at the “Swim House”. Most sports will host a party and typically we have a core group that goes out, Mads, Em, Kenz and I. We tend to stick together. Making sure our lashes were just right and our belts were too tight, we bounced down the stairs and to the car. The music transferred with us. As you could picture four girls in a car, isn't your average night drive. Within a month we picked up each others dance moves and performed them routinely to our favorite songs. “Jealous by: Nick Jonas”, This one is Em’s favorite, but we all knew it too well. We parked in a golf course parking lot about a block away. It was pretty chilly so we ran to the door. My palms were sweaty and my pulse was racing, my nervousness kicked in. A college party, I have seen the movies and heard the stories, the booze, the boys, the nights we couldn't remember but some how never forget. Was I ready? I could never be ready. My heart beat to the sound of the music coming from within the house. I stood by the door, Mad,s turned to me “You ready?” she glared at me waiting for some sort of response, But I just

Point your toes! Head back! Stand taller! Suck that belly in! Turn out! Those words were all I heard for the first 13 years of my life. Now I hear, Attention! At Ease! Stand Easy! I’m in the army now, I have been since August 29th, 2017. I am proud to be serving my country. More importantly, I’m happy that I am finally embracing who I was truly meant to be.

The bell chimes as I close the door behind Shefali and I. After a long recital rehearsal, my best friend and I returned to our dance studio ready for auditions after a well-deserved trip to Dunkin Donuts. I entered the small lobby, welcomed by the familiar vintage rug and smell of Bath and Body Works spray mixed with sweat from determined dancers. Auditions were something I dreaded, but I also enjoyed the excitement of it all. This audition would control the next year of my life, as it determined which groups I got into for the upcoming performance season. I sip my Dunkin Donuts iced coffee, as I believed the caffeine would help ease the stress. I walked into the east studio, greeted by dance bags and shoes scattered on the wooden floor.

Each year around the time of Halloween and all things spooky, hundreds of family members and supportive friends unite together in the Alpena school’s dusty auditorium to watch the spectacular dancers perform on stage. Each one of the dancers prepare and anxiously wait for this big day in October where they can show their loved ones what they have been practicing. I, for one, loved the chilly October weather when all my friends gathered together to perfect our dance, bobby pin our hair up, and take lots of silly pictures as memories. These were the moments I lived for and It was always heartwarming to see the families uniting together to watch all of the dancers. I was ecstatic that the recital was up on me, but of course I was very unsteady about performing in front of hundreds of people.

Geneviève! It’s so good to finally get this interview with you, we understand you’re very busy with your studies and dancing. Let’s not waste anymore time now that we've got you here. You are one of the most promising talents coming out of The School of American Ballet this season. Where did it all start?

Noise pounded in my ears as I made my way around bags, costumes, shoes, and people. The tiny dressing room was packed to the brim with everyone and everything competing through Encore Dance Academy. My hands were sweating from the humidity of the half-sized room and the bright lights shone down on my friends and me, coughing on the heavy scent of hairspray, mascara and sweat. My waistline itched from the red and black, sequined costume. One of my teammates stopped me and tried to gently pick strands of hair from my high ponytail out of the sequined bow perched on the crown of my head. I tried to focus on something other than the powerful taste of lipstick in my mouth and the wet, sticky feeling of someone heavily hairspraying my flyaways down. I grabbed a handful from the $5 bag of candy from the candy bar at the concessions, checked my friend’s makeup and prepared to perform.