Today's thing floating around the internet was one of those share-able Instagram story prompts. It read, "Tap in if you went to Ball State." So naturally, my story feed was full of graduation pictures, drunken party snapshots, and memories of friendships built on the beautiful red-brick campus. I couldn't help but look at all of them and think, "Wow, Ball State, the best place on earth"; a statement that probably sounds like pure sarcasm to most. But truth be told, as much as I do miss those beautiful brick roads, the chirp of the scramble light in the summer, or the smell of being alone in a Ball Gym studio, what I miss more is far deeper than the architecture or the senses that come with experiencing it. I miss the lifestyle of dancing full-time. What a tease it was.
Full disclosure, I know that my incredible college experience was deeply rooted in privilege. I didn't have to work a job to survive. I had a car to drive when I lived off campus, and always had money for groceries. I could mentally handle the work overload that came with switching degree programs in the middle of my sophomore year. I had a great roommate of four (now five) years, and many other friends who I loved and trusted. I had teachers who supported me and were constantly in my corner. And all of those things helped make my experience like no other.
But now, I am a graduate of a place that now sometimes feels so distant, that I almost wonder if I made it up. I am a product of a community carefully crafted only to be torn down immediately after four years. There are people I will never see again; feelings that I will never get to feel once more. It shatters me. Often. I'm going back to visit tomorrow, and it's around times like these when I feel this kind of disassociation the most. I always heard teachers warn us, "you'll never be surrounded by a community like this again," or "it's unlikely that your life will be full of this much dance ever again." I thought, "nope, not me. you're surrounding yourself with the wrong people. I have drive, I know I'll take class and engage in self-practice." But they were so, so, right. And that reality is harsh.
When you graduate, regardless of whether you're ready or not, you're almost instantly snatched out of a place that built you in some of your most formative years. Some are ready for it, because they're sooo over it. Many of them weren't graced with the positive experience I had. Some are ready, because they are ready to fly. Some will end up with dance jobs right away, others in grad school, getting married, starting lives. Some finding other avenues in fitness or teaching. Others auditioning away, and wondering when their day will finally come.
I was lucky to be a working artist. I found my way into a company, moved to a new city (again, thanks to lots of privilege), had access to class (though not nearly as challenging and engaging as what used to be), and was presented with numerous performance opportunities. Of course, I had a day job, and made most of my "arts money" from teaching on the side. But this is what you have to do to make the dream work, right? Would I ever see another day where the dream reverted back to the luxury of class all day, rehearsal all night, journaling, reading, thinking about dance and higher art? Or would I be stuck in this forever-land of teaching middle-schoolers not to talk during warm-up and sitting (standing? dancing?) in on adult classes designed for very intermediate adults?
College was a tease. It played me. Hard. And I still wish there is more I would have been able to do - more experiences, more nights when I just said "fuck it" and went out...thanks COVID! I don't know if I will ever again see a lifestyle so centered on my development as an artist and a human. And while I'm thankful for the experience, there is something about it that makes me so sad, almost bitter. Why did it have to show me what things could be like if there was money in dance, if we didn't have to work seven day weeks and weird hours to merely survive? And even when we are working for some company, some dance job, we still can't have the time we want to create, reflect, and develop?
I don't know how to get back to that place. But I constantly long for it. And so here I am once again, writing a useless blog post, about a feeling I have, with no solution. Hopefully this blog will become more than that someday. But until then... we wait. We long for those better artistic times, the memories of what once was, and what we may never have again. We reflect and cry and laugh and remind ourselves how lucky we once were to experience such a unique space in time. And maybe one day, it will find us again, maybe this time in a new form. I am unrealistically hopeful, and ready for that day to come again.
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Go Forth and Create!
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