It felt like a sure thing....at last. The Magic Show, the new Broadway musical, was conducting auditions for dancers. Backstage, the familiar musty smell of the stage curtains, and the dusty floor, hot under the overhead lights, enveloped me. God, that smelled like Home to me. My stomach was churning, but I felt confident. I'd learned the combination with ease, and was happy to note that the choreography fell right in my sweet spot. My years of jazz training...specifically in this style that emphasized isolation moves--quick, precise-- would surely land me a spot in the chorus.
When my group was called to the stage, I listened to the opening chords of the music and threw myself into the dance with a thrilling burst of energy. It felt like, "THIS is where I am meant to be. I live right here, right now and there's nothing else. For a few minutes, there simply is nothing else."
The music ended and, exhilarated, chest heaving, I stood with the other women...expectant, hopeful...waiting for the pronouncement: which numbers (we were all just numbers, of course) should stay behind, the chosen few.
My number was not called. It was just another in a long string of "Thank you, ladies," that I had endured, never understanding. I knew I was a good dancer, good performer. I had stage presence. I'd been dancing since the age of three. Years of daily classes in the City and untold dollars spent, tiny companies and showcases, summer stock. I wanted it, LOVED it, more than anything I'd ever known.
A few days later, a friend of mine, a dancer himself, mentioned that his friend was the assistant choreographer on that show and had seen me -- said I was amazing and he couldn't understand why they hadn't chosen me. Something inside of me just broke that day. I never went to another audition; within the year, I had moved back to Massachusetts to complete my last year of University as a dance major. I received my bachelors degree, but never performed as a dancer again.
The Universe was speaking to me at that audition, and its answer was "NO."
— DMRS
When my group was called to the stage, I listened to the opening chords of the music and threw myself into the dance with a thrilling burst of energy. It felt like, "THIS is where I am meant to be. I live right here, right now and there's nothing else. For a few minutes, there simply is nothing else."
The music ended and, exhilarated, chest heaving, I stood with the other women...expectant, hopeful...waiting for the pronouncement: which numbers (we were all just numbers, of course) should stay behind, the chosen few.
My number was not called. It was just another in a long string of "Thank you, ladies," that I had endured, never understanding. I knew I was a good dancer, good performer. I had stage presence. I'd been dancing since the age of three. Years of daily classes in the City and untold dollars spent, tiny companies and showcases, summer stock. I wanted it, LOVED it, more than anything I'd ever known.
A few days later, a friend of mine, a dancer himself, mentioned that his friend was the assistant choreographer on that show and had seen me -- said I was amazing and he couldn't understand why they hadn't chosen me. Something inside of me just broke that day. I never went to another audition; within the year, I had moved back to Massachusetts to complete my last year of University as a dance major. I received my bachelors degree, but never performed as a dancer again.
The Universe was speaking to me at that audition, and its answer was "NO."
— DMRS
Oh! I am so sorry! I'm sorry your dancer life ended this way, and I do hope you dance for pleasure now in ways that feel good for you. I have worked as an actor and faced many disappointing rejections, so I feel for you intensely. The rejections I receive as a writer feel more distant (mail or email), and it's a comfort to understand the statistics--how many rejections before acceptance!
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