At the time, taking the stage in a dazzling neon pink dress, with a feathered boa around my neck and fishnet gloves encasing my hands seemed like an inconsequential event, but in hindsight, that singular event changed the trajectory of my life. When I first got the role as plankton in my second grade play, I was devastated. I had no lines and no main role, sentenced to be a part of the ensemble for my entire life.
In lieu of solo lines, my purpose in the show was to sing and dance, and so I did. I shook my hips and sang about microorganisms while the overhead lights warmed my face and iphone camera flashes created black spots in my vision. From the stage, I witnessed the audience transform from parents to devout documentarians, and when I looked to my left, I saw a girl with bangs step-touching alongside me. Temporarily breaking character, I did a double take, transfixed by how perfectly her hips swayed left to right and how effortlessly her neon pink foot stepped into demi-pointe. And it was in that instant that my future crystalized: I wanted to be a dancer.
After the show was over and we had taken our final bows, my classmates and I hurried off stage to greet our parents. We were met with flowers and phones aggressively shoved in our faces, but it wasn’t their praise I was after. I pinpointed my mother and beelined towards her, successfully dodging the purses being swung around as parents hugged their children. Before my mom could verbalize her effusive pride, I declared that I would be spending the next summer dancing, and being the single-minded 7-year-old I was, that is what I did.
That summer I attended the same studio as the girl with bangs–filling my days striving for the coveted step touches while taking classes and intensives. I quickly realized there was much more to dance than just shaking your hips and stepping back and forth, but I also realized it was exactly what I wanted to do. I spent 5 years learning, growing, and improving as a dancer, and when COVID hit, I took the next step. I went from a competitive dance studio to a pre-professional one. The training ramped up, and my passion and work ethic adjusted accordingly.
I discovered what it meant to work hard for something and love the journey as much as the result; to feel your legs shake and think you can’t possibly continue, and then conquer the impossible. To love something so much just thinking about it can bring tears to your eyes and a hiccup to your breath. Eight years later, Ulara, the girl with bangs, is an integral part of my life. She hangs in pictures in my dorm room, smiles in my screensaver, laughs on our facetimes, and hugs me when I see her. While Plankton may not have been the lead role I was hoping for, it provided me with something more valuable than stardom: I found my home, I found my love, and I found my best friend, all because of step touches and neon pink dresses.