When I was younger, school always felt like I was falling behind everyone else. I didn’t know English when I was younger, so my brain was always trying to catch up. I was around four or five when my ballet teacher would say something, and I would stare at her face like I could magically understand what she was saying. Then she’d repeat it in Spanish, and the knot in my stomach would loosen. That was the only way I survived those classes, by waiting for the Spanish explanation.

 

The other kids noticed, they always notice. I don’t even really remember the first time one of them laughed at me for not understanding what was being said, because it happened too often, I can’t exactly say when it started. It went from little whispers and random giggles between some of them, stuff that doesn’t seem like much until it happens every practice. I would sit there during breaks and pretend I couldn’t hear or notice anything, but I always did.

 

When I think about it now, I can still see that ballet studio. The smell of hairspray and old wood floors. The mirrors lining the walls so there was no escape from your own reflection. The sound of the piano keys being pressed, slow and soft at first, then faster when we had to keep up. Everyone’s pink tights looked the same, but somehow I always felt different. The girls around me laughed together while tying their slippers, their English quick and effortless. I sat on the floor in silence, pulling my ribbons tight, hoping no one would talk to me and notice my accent.

 

It wasn’t that I wasn’t learning, because I was, little by little. By the time I started speaking more English, I thought maybe things would get easier, but it was the opposite. Even when I spoke perfect sentences, it still wasn’t good enough. The little gringas in my class made sure to remind me. They’d make fun of my accent, the way I’d pronounce certain words, even if it was only slightly off. Sometimes it wasn’t words, but looks, or smirks given to one another, like they were all in on some kind of joke.

 

I held on as long as I could because I thought things would change. I wanted to believe that if I worked hard enough that I’d be able to blend in, but I never did. Every day walking into that studio, it felt like no matter what I said or what I did, I just never belonged there. The big mirrors reflected everyone moving in sync while I tried to follow a beat that never seemed to slow down for me. 

 

By the time I was thirteen, I couldn’t take it anymore and finally told my parents I wanted to quit. I made up some excuse about not having a passion for it anymore. I said “Ya no me gusta, ya no quiero ir” and even after they kept asking “¿Estás segura? ¿Está pasando algo?” I made my decision clear. They believed me, and I was relieved they did. They thought it was a choice I was making because I was bored or wanted to try something else. 

 

I quit because I was tired of feeling like an outsider. I was tired of going to recitals and having to sit alone while the other girls fixed each other’s hair and whispered in corners. I never told my parents the truth because it felt easier that way. It was easier to lie than to tell them it felt so heavy to be in that room every day. Easier than telling them how hurt I felt to be laughed at because of something I couldn’t control. Maybe I didn’t want them to see me as weak, or maybe I didn’t want them to feel guilty for putting me there in the first place. Either way, lying seemed like the best option.

 

Sometimes I think about that moment, me sitting on our couch and telling my parents I didn’t like it anymore. I can still remember my mom nodding, trying to be supportive of what I was saying, and my dad saying, “Bueno, si eso es lo que quieres.” Now that I’m older, I can see how much of myself I left behind when I quit. It wasn’t just the activity that I gave up, it was the part of me that wanted to fight for my place in that room.

 

Being thirteen though, I didn’t see any other way out. Truth is, I never lost my passion. Now I’m twenty-one and no one hears an accent when I talk anymore, but every time I see a pair of ballet shoes I still feel that same ache in my chest.