*hits dank, exhales, reminisces*

Hey...If it doesn't jiggle...It ain't real...You're Welcome...

When I was 19, I auditioned to be an apprentice for a ballet company a few hours away from where I was living. The particular company seemed to be diverse as far as ethnicity was concerned, so I convinced myself I had better chances of actually getting a job in the genre of dance that I loved so dearly. As per usual, I used vacation time from my job to attend the audition. I bought fresh, crispy ballet slippers, a dainty, lavender leotard that complimented my complexion magnificently and seemed not to make my curvy physique stand out negatively, and every stupid 'bunhead' accessory you could think of (waist bands, hair ribbons, etc). I was getting this job. I remember being on the train heading to the audition, listening to my solo music and silently patting myself on the back for achieving such a perfect ballet bun! The night before, it took the strength of a thousand men, several prayers, multiple smoke sessions and what seemed to be cases of hair gel to lay my perfectly wound, tightly coiled naps into a sleek, tight bun; I was likely to take a bullet before I was going to allow anything to ruin the work of art formerly known as my crown. I possessed unwavering confidence and I had a plan; I was going to show up in full dance attire underneath of my sweats and make sure to keep my hair tightly wrapped up with a scarf as not to disturb the delicately laid follicles that comprised my bun... And I was getting this damn job. In the past, I learned to wear as many layers as possible when auditioning as not to distract the serious dancers -- who were burdened with flat chests and backs that ran straight to their legs --with my double D cups and hips so I was going to be prepared.

I had a three hour commute to the audition. A relatively small price to pay for your dreams, right??? I mean, the reward seemed way greater than the risk so why not? It was only going to be a train ride... followed by a cab ride... 3-4 days a week... but fuck it! A dream is a dream is a dream... And you only live once and I was going to fucking live. My heart was beating so fast while I was sitting in the back of the taxi with my portable CD player on repeat. I quietly went over my choreography to be sure that I didn't skip a beat, miss a queue, forget an accent or any other devastating thing that could possibly go wrong during an audition. Finally, the yellow taxi came to a halt and I was swiftly booted from the vehicle after paying the driver with what was mostly quarters while unapologetically being broke. Nevertheless, I was happy to be there and I was ready to slay!!!

When I opened the doors to the studio, I was immediately greeted by a sea of what was mainly blond, 'leggy bitches' grouped together by the studios or dance programs they attended and studied at. If you squinted and looked out of one eye, you could see a few drops of color here and there representing the ethnic dancers. Once I saw that I wasn't going to be the only brown person in the room registering to audition, the sigh of relief parted my body with an ease reminiscent of a danky exhale. While I was standing in line waiting to register, one of the 'leggy' company members came up to me and said "You know we don't offer hip hop here, right?"... And walked away laughing. I stood there resisting the urge to demonstrate how girls from Edmondson Village respond to blatant signs of disrespect while trying to figure out what this bitch was talking about. Then it hit me; she was looking at my outward attire. She saw my silk head scarf, my Nike boots, my oversized sweatpants, my North Face jacket and gold hoops. Obviously, my image projected straight 'hood' to her hence the comment. This is when I realized I was the only black dancer auditioning for the program. It's also when I realized they did not want me there. But fuck it! I had already traveled there and told myself I was about to have this career so I was going to audition.

Every sensible feeling and thought I had told me to just pack my shit and leave. Especially once I took my place on the floor to start stretching. As I began to get warm and take off my layers of clothing revealing my classical dance attire, the remarks began pouring in. Lol! They loved me! They loved my 'thick ankles, fuzzy hair and jiggly booty...' They especially loved the jiggly booty. "Ugh! Why wouldn't she wear at least two leotards so she didn't bounce around so much?" "Who does that?" "Have some class! I'm not standing next to her at the barre- she'll block me from the judges!" I never responded. I never said anything. I never even once acknowledged them. Then the doors finally opened to the studio and we were allowed to enter to take places at the barre and I told myself "Here we go Bitch. You better FUCK this marley up!!! Showtime". I took my phat ass to the barre and stood directly in front of the panel. Then I saw the 'leggy bitch' sitting at the end of the panel whispering and pointing at me. I remember standing in front of the mirror looking at my body compared to everyone else's and feeling completely conflicted about the lumps, bumps, bruises and stretchmarks that made up my curves. Nevertheless, I fucking delivered. I dripped more sweat than any athlete on any field. I demonstrated such fierce classical technique that my training couldn't be questioned. I pushed myself to perfectly execute triple pirouettes and sautes that would certainly carry me to heaven. I was even asked to demonstrate the tendu combination in the center as to demonstrate proper weight displacement. I could feel the 'leggy bitch' staring at me with such scorn that she could have possibly developed an ulcer from harboring so much hate and resentment towards someone who didn't give a fuck about her...and it was fucking glorious!

A few weeks later, I received an acceptance letter congratulating me on receiving the apprenticeship. I politely wrote back declining... Because they didn't offer hip hop there... Obviously, that place wasn't for me if they didn't have hip hop.

The moral of the story is the 'leggy bitches' will try to make you feel like you don't belong. So when they do, you don't give up. You embrace that jiggle and you shine even harder. And if you're feeling a little petty afterwards, politely decline their invitation of gracing them with your technique, beauty and booty...

You're welcome