Broken Hip Research Paper
How many teenagers have you known that have broken their hip? I’ve known three.
My arms are loose by my side and my Irish made hard shoes are standing in bated first position as I watch my best friend, my biggest competition struggle to complete steps she had perfected months before the break. I watch her wince back frustration and I feel relieved I’m not her.
I look in the mirror and think that people must wonder why I do this.
My own bulging musculature along my back throbs at night after practice and I avoid pedicures at all cost, not because my feet are ugly (they are) but because I have built the perfect callous’ to cushion my toes within my shoe block; no one is going to file that callous down.
I take pride in my overdeveloped calves …show more content…
that rival most football players. I feel accomplished when I look at them and I feel awkward when someone comments on them.
Why do I still want to be part of this sport, this art when injury and pain are part of the program?
When I am here, dancing is my temple, my therapy. Dance led me through my grief when my friend, Pete died. With every click and every jump, I released that sadness. Sometimes in those moments, everything was okay. Walking in with the weight of death and illness, I am able to escape through those jigs and reels. I feel it with every perfected step. Practice gives me power over my problems with friends, my parents and deadlines at school. It empowers me to do better. It squeezes out my insecurities with every accordion pump of sound.
Irish dance is my muse for everything in my life. I am rejuvenated and reborn from practice. I never miss; it is one of the only things in my life that is truly mine. When I win a competition, I feel vindicated. When I do not place well, I return to my home at the studio with more focus and determination. Practice is my place to sort through my life and organize it like systematic 8 bars of an Irish Hornpipe.
I feel a tug on the back of my practice shorts.
“Ms. Bella?” I see a young girl, maybe 7 or 8, looking up at me with her neck tilted all the way back like I am a giant. “Do you have time to give me a private lesson this
weekend?”
“Yes. I do.”
My arms are loose by my side and my Irish made hard shoes are standing in bated first position as I watch my best friend, my biggest competition struggle to complete steps she had perfected months before the break. I watch her wince back frustration and I feel relieved I’m not her.
I look in the mirror and think that people must wonder why I do this.
My own bulging musculature along my back throbs at night after practice and I avoid pedicures at all cost, not because my feet are ugly (they are) but because I have built the perfect callous’ to cushion my toes within my shoe block; no one is going to file that callous down.
I take pride in my overdeveloped calves …show more content…
that rival most football players. I feel accomplished when I look at them and I feel awkward when someone comments on them.
Why do I still want to be part of this sport, this art when injury and pain are part of the program?
When I am here, dancing is my temple, my therapy. Dance led me through my grief when my friend, Pete died. With every click and every jump, I released that sadness. Sometimes in those moments, everything was okay. Walking in with the weight of death and illness, I am able to escape through those jigs and reels. I feel it with every perfected step. Practice gives me power over my problems with friends, my parents and deadlines at school. It empowers me to do better. It squeezes out my insecurities with every accordion pump of sound.
Irish dance is my muse for everything in my life. I am rejuvenated and reborn from practice. I never miss; it is one of the only things in my life that is truly mine. When I win a competition, I feel vindicated. When I do not place well, I return to my home at the studio with more focus and determination. Practice is my place to sort through my life and organize it like systematic 8 bars of an Irish Hornpipe.
I feel a tug on the back of my practice shorts.
“Ms. Bella?” I see a young girl, maybe 7 or 8, looking up at me with her neck tilted all the way back like I am a giant. “Do you have time to give me a private lesson this
weekend?”
“Yes. I do.”