So basically, I am wondering if my conclusion is too preachy/cliche. I just added because I wanted to be closer to 500 words. Shuld I jsut take it out? Thanks for your help! Post links if you want me to read yours. =)
We tend to spend our time doing the things we know we do well--running because we're good runners or painting because we're talented artists. Tell us about a time when you tried something for which you had no talent. How did it go?
I can't dance. Whenever I divulge this information to friends or acquaintances, I receive the same inevitable expression. The slight furrow of their brows, the squint in their eyes, and the twist in their lips all intimate their complete confusion. I know what they're thinking - "But you're black!"
It's true, I am an anomaly. A black girl who can't dance is like a tadpole that can't swim. There was a time when this irony embarrassed me. At school dances, whenever the music commenced, I quickly moved to the center of a large crowd in desperate hopes of hiding my awkward movements and lack of rhythm. I understood that stereotyping was silly, but I could not help feeling somewhat inadequate at my inability to live up mine.
Oh you're black, so you can dance right?
It's what many assume, but it could not be farther from the truth. It took sixteen years to grow out of my mortification. I remember that night clearly. It was the winter homecoming dance of my sophomore year. As such, I had faithfully retreated behind a large group of people while I simply rocked back and forth to the music in order to avoid standing out. However, as I danced self-consciously in the midst of my peers, I realized I was not having any fun. I looked around at everyone else, freely dancing without restraint. It was then that I began to understand how ridiculous I was being: by hiding who I was, I was sacrificing much more than I was gaining.
It was not easy. In fact, for the first ten minutes I felt an overwhelming sense of awkwardness. However, with every jerk, on or off the beat, that awkwardness melted away. I am sure people were staring at me in bewilderment, wondering what in the world I was doing. Yet, at that point, it no longer mattered. I was free. I felt bold and proud of who I was and my lack of dancing skills. Interestingly, my inability to perform the popular dance moves, forced me to use creativity to develop my own - including my all time favorites: the airplane rock and the banana boat.
Perhaps it's human nature that cultivates a tendency to boast the qualities I know are good, and hide the ones that typify my shortcomings. However, through my dance experience I learned that I am not just the things I do well, or, thankfully, the things I utterly fail at. Rather both comprise me equally. Now I try not to acknowledge one, without accepting the other, because they make me who I am. I can't dance, but I'm proud of who I am.
We tend to spend our time doing the things we know we do well--running because we're good runners or painting because we're talented artists. Tell us about a time when you tried something for which you had no talent. How did it go?
The Banana Boat
I can't dance. Whenever I divulge this information to friends or acquaintances, I receive the same inevitable expression. The slight furrow of their brows, the squint in their eyes, and the twist in their lips all intimate their complete confusion. I know what they're thinking - "But you're black!"
It's true, I am an anomaly. A black girl who can't dance is like a tadpole that can't swim. There was a time when this irony embarrassed me. At school dances, whenever the music commenced, I quickly moved to the center of a large crowd in desperate hopes of hiding my awkward movements and lack of rhythm. I understood that stereotyping was silly, but I could not help feeling somewhat inadequate at my inability to live up mine.
Oh you're black, so you can dance right?
It's what many assume, but it could not be farther from the truth. It took sixteen years to grow out of my mortification. I remember that night clearly. It was the winter homecoming dance of my sophomore year. As such, I had faithfully retreated behind a large group of people while I simply rocked back and forth to the music in order to avoid standing out. However, as I danced self-consciously in the midst of my peers, I realized I was not having any fun. I looked around at everyone else, freely dancing without restraint. It was then that I began to understand how ridiculous I was being: by hiding who I was, I was sacrificing much more than I was gaining.
It was not easy. In fact, for the first ten minutes I felt an overwhelming sense of awkwardness. However, with every jerk, on or off the beat, that awkwardness melted away. I am sure people were staring at me in bewilderment, wondering what in the world I was doing. Yet, at that point, it no longer mattered. I was free. I felt bold and proud of who I was and my lack of dancing skills. Interestingly, my inability to perform the popular dance moves, forced me to use creativity to develop my own - including my all time favorites: the airplane rock and the banana boat.
Perhaps it's human nature that cultivates a tendency to boast the qualities I know are good, and hide the ones that typify my shortcomings. However, through my dance experience I learned that I am not just the things I do well, or, thankfully, the things I utterly fail at. Rather both comprise me equally. Now I try not to acknowledge one, without accepting the other, because they make me who I am. I can't dance, but I'm proud of who I am.