Lauren Coleman

October 2, 2013
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If you told me I would become a dance mom, I would not believe you, not even for a second. Somehow though, without my conscious state knowing, it happened. My family is one of those typical American families you meet in books and movies. Middle class, white, smart, athletic, and very well cultured. Us four children were bred to excel in and out of the classroom and on and off the lacrosse field. Until Laura Coleman came. I remember when my mom was swollen with her,every night, her and I would pray she was a girl. We are not a religious family, but Laura was our exception. When she arrived we cried. Now though, ten years later, sometimes I pray to send her back. Honestly, I love her. She’s the one that broke the cycle. My brothers and I followed in my father’s footsteps and chose to play lacrosse. Lauren chose to dance.

At first I didn’t understand why. Why would someone choose to wear minimal clothing, hair pulled up tight, and have feet that have been pounded on all day that look like crocodile feet. I knew she chose dance, and she would make the competitive team. I just didn’t understand what the big deal was. With lacrosse it’s always different. Always a different game, or a different practice. With dance you learn one routine and do it over and over and over. Until you learn the next similar dance, maybe with a different leap or turn thrown in there. My family was supportive, but we didn’t get it. My mom was a dancer, but times change along with people. She was strictly a lacrosse coach now.

She was good. She was great. And now, she’s amazing. I didn’t think my sister had it in her. I watched as Lauren grew, physically and mentally. She grew taller, leaner, and now she walks with fluid ease like walking is as easy as breathing. Leaping is just a small sigh, and turns are just a small, tired gasp in her day. Her struggle on double turns was transformed into a graceful triple in only a year. Her leaps are higher after every single jump she takes. Her back bend is now just a routined stretch.

I used to know what to say, but dancers also have their own lingo. We all know what a plie is, but what about an illusion or a plique. We still talk. A lot more now actually, but she’s smarter than me now, maybe only in dance, but she’s got her own new gang of sisters. They understand her language, where as I don’t.

She turned me into someone I never thought I would be, but it’s someone that I need to be. She’s opened a new door for our whole entire family. I took her to a competition once. Just me and her, and her other artificial sister, my best friend. It’s just like they describe them. Make-up everywhere, mom’s holding their lipstick stained coffee cups in one hand, girls walking with there nose turned up. However, they don’t tell you about the nerves, the sweat you and the dancer feels. Once they step on stage you are breathless, and as the dance progresses, they become breathless. They run out of air, as you slowly begin to fill your lungs as they come to a perfect finish. Every leap could be higher, and every turn could be sharper, but you worry about that when you get back into the studio. Right now you have to put on a brave face, and not show your stressed out emotions as they finish the dance.
I remember the first time I saw my sister in a new light. I watched her new solo this year. It was only her third practice, and she was already doing at least a minute of straight dancing. Going off of memory from a whole week before. Her sessions only lasting a grueling thirty minutes. She became amazing, and she’s my whole inspiration. If you asked me who would be my inspiration, it would be a ten year old girl who loves to dance. She’s not the best technically, but every performance she gives you have to smile. She’s the sassiest, curly haired girl I have ever met. I understand now. I don’t know how I didn’t before, but I see it. She has the same twinkle in her eyes when she dances as when I hold my lacrosse stick. We are similar, different, and all of the above. She’s my sister the dancer.

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