Canned Heat

A voice whispers gently
of dreams deferred
in my ear–
I hear it.

I used to spend every summer at my grandparents’ home in Atlanta. Besides the heat, afternoon thunderstorms, and walks to the bus stops with my grandfather, I remember being there for the ’96 Olympics. I was sooooo obsessed with the girls on the gymnastics team; Dominique Dawes was my hero. I always wanted to be a gymnast, a dancer. I just was never given the opportunity.

In high school I tried to be a cheerleader; my mom said no. I played basketball and ran track instead and secretely memorized all the chants. Junior year I tried out for the dance team–with zero training (unless you count hours spent in front of the tv teaching myself choreographed dances from music videos). I had an early solo tryout because I had to run the 4 by 4 later that week. As if I wasn’t already pissing in my pants from nervousness, the glaring looks from the dance instructors didn’t help either. “What is this black girl, who plays basketball, and runs track, and who has NEVER danced in her life, doing here?” I couldn’t remember all of the choreography. Oh well. At least my switch-leaps were pretty decent and I could do a left and right-leg split.

Throughout my life I’ve made various attempts at dance–dancing that didn’t occur on top of a bar (I’ve done plenty of that). And then I get discouraged; I feel silly and too old; I distrust my body. But it’s just such a deep-rooted desire that I have never been able to completely let it go.

I’ve got canned heat in my heels.