IN the end, I picked up ballet again—but with a much more relaxed approach, practicing only once a week. The grueling four-day regimen was left to the past; I wasn’t aiming to participate in competitions, or even recitals for that matter.
Sakura, Mao’s aforementioned younger cousin, was in fifth grade and already taller than me. In demeanor and appearance, particularly with her curly hair, she bore a resemblance to Mao, which made bonding with her effortless. Mao had always painted Sakura as affable, and she certainly lived up to that description.
The ballet school she attended was entirely different from my prior institution—chill, for lack of a better word. Evident in each class was a mutual respect between student and instructor, one born not from obligation or discipline but from sincere passion and enjoyment. During breaks, the students talked not about ballet, as had been the case at my old class, but about school and other things going on in their lives. An older group of girls always indulged in romantic gossip, for example. The ambiance was so unlike that of my previous environment that I almost experienced culture shock.
The class was helmed by a Miss Mariko, a seasoned instructor well past my mother’s age, and Yui, her thirty-something-year-old protégé. Arriving early for my session that first day, I’d had the chance to speak more personally with them. She’d started teaching ballet, Mariko said with a radiant smile and a touch of pride, because she loved it and wanted to continue dancing.
Most students in her class were amateurs, content to showcase their skills at the annual recital, but a select few pursued higher ambitions. While Mariko tried her best to accommodate their aspirations, if she felt they’d benefit from a more challenging environment, she graciously guided them toward more advanced classes instead of seeking to keep them in her own. Intriguingly, many of her current students had taken the reverse journey, transitioning from a more demanding ballet school to Mariko’s in search of a gentler and less taxing atmosphere.
To participate in Mariko’s and Yui’s class, only one thing was essential: a love for ballet. No matter how accomplished or competent a student, whether one was in the studio every day or a mere once per week, they didn’t care. Even working adults who showed up once or twice a month were welcome. I was sure a young, ambitious dancer with dreams of going professional or international would scoff at the laid-back setting. They might even criticize it for lacking the gravitas the art deserved. But why should that matter? Every student who stepped into Mariko’s and Yui’s studio did so with a genuine smile on their face.
“While commitment and dedication have their place in the classroom, claiming one must devote everything to ballet to merit its teachings is a little narrow-minded, wouldn’t you agree?” Mariko said with graceful poise. “We come from all walks of life. Ballet has its roots in the West. Its history, its ideal body, its choreography—they’re all based on Western standards. In those countries, potential is often spotted early, and children are molded from a tender age to dance. It’s akin to how we nurture our Kabuki performers here. That said, should we give up just because we were born different? Or is a love for the art reason enough to dance?”
Her words struck a chord deep within me.
“We all have our unique approaches to life—and that diversity is beautiful. I just think that, ultimately, it’s important to keep things simple. While striving for excellence is noble, using it as a yardstick to measure others or keep others out is a little self-defeating, don’t you think?”
In class, Mariko’s insights were astute and considerate. And while she provided most of the verbal guidance, Yui was generally the one who physically adjusted our posture and movements. Her touch was so delicate that it felt more like she was gently nudging you in the right direction rather than pointing out a mistake.
Yui had trained abroad and competed at the national level. I was certain that the two of them could have easily achieved something greater than teaching a bunch of amateurs in a modest ballet studio converted from a residential home, yet there they were, enjoying every second. It was so strange. Reflecting on the experience, I could hardly remember why I’d been worried in the first place.
Afterward, I found myself deep in thought, and I decided to discuss my feelings with Mom. Sitting at our kitchen table, I began tentatively, “I know I’m about to be a third year and exams are looming…” Nevertheless, I confessed my yearning to join Mariko’s class, and to my surprise, Mom agreed.
“I don’t see any reason for me to say no. You seem to have your priorities in order about school and exams,” she noted, looking contemplative. “Plus, you really want to do this, don’t you?”
“I guess so,” I responded sheepishly.
Sakura had given me a hopeful, puppy dog stare, whispering, “You’ll come back, won’t you?” and Yui and Mariko had encouraged me to mull it over. For some reason, I felt as though they saw right through me—my frustration in my old class, my hesitation, all of it. I supposed that was only natural. They had guided countless students throughout the years, and no doubt ones short like me, conflicted like me, facing exams like me…
My previous ballet instructors must’ve sensed my struggles too, I realized. Perhaps, had I approached them, talked to them about my concerns, we could have figured out a solution. But I hadn’t. Instead, I quit without a word.
“Let’s see, you mentioned the monthly fees and your plan to attend a public school to offset the cost… It’s clear you’ve given this some thought,” Mom said, pulling me to the present.
“I know it’s an expensive hobby, so…” Mentally weighing the cost of pointe shoes and tuition against our financial responsibilities, I trailed off. Even my young self could grasp that money was tight, especially so since moving out of company housing and considering my brother’s hopes for college.
Mom’s gaze bore into mine, deep and understanding. “You know your mother has been practicing tea ceremony since long before I ever met your father, right? It’s never brought in a cent, yet I persist. Why shouldn’t I support my daughter in pursuing at least one of her passions?”
“I…don’t know?”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “See?” Then her bravado faded, replaced by a solemn, haunted expression. “When the accident occurred, and I saw you so still in that hospital bed, all I could think about was how you might never wake up again.”
“Mom…”
“The mere thought of losing you… It swallowed me whole. My world…had gone dark.” Her hand trembled on the table, her fingers curling up tight. “Maybe this sounds cliché, but all I wanted in that moment was for you to open your eyes again. I didn’t care whether you grew up to be a good kid or got good grades or were good at sports—none of that mattered. I just wanted my baby back. This is probably inappropriate for a mother to admit, but I have never set any expectations for you—or your brother, for that matter.”
I pondered her words. Mom never hounded us to study excessively or insisted that we attend cram schools. She only ever asked about school on occasion, which I’d always interpreted as disinterest. But it wasn’t that she didn’t care, she was simply content with the way things were.
“All I ever wanted was for both of you to grow up happy and safe—and I mean happiness on your own terms, not just what society deems right.” She smiled gently. “Of course, I’m not saying there’s no merit in the whole ‘get a good education and a good job’ approach. It does provide financial stability, and money—let’s be honest—can solve a few…many problems, actually.”
“You ruined it, Mom.”
Looking at me, she giggled, then smiled again. “When I was pregnant with you and your brother, all I prayed for was that you’d be born healthy and live happy lives. But as soon as you were out, it’s like I forgot all of that and found myself caught up in the race. Wanting you to speak sooner, take your first steps faster, write earlier. In kindergarten, it was all about how well you drew and played. Then in school, it’s all about your grades…”
“Isn’t that, you know, normal?”
“Perhaps. But after your accident, I felt as if I was granted a second chance,” she replied, her voice softening. “It reminded me of my initial wish.”
Meeting her gaze, I felt a surge of emotion: a tightness in my throat, a warmth in my eyes. Mom…
“Be healthy. Be happy. I know now that there are things money can’t mend or replace. If you make a decision for yourself, I won’t stand in your way. And besides,” she added, her eyes narrowing fondly, “I’ve always loved watching you dance, Haruka.”
When I quit, she’d remained silent, never once hinting at the depth of her feelings. Burdens weighed on her, ones she couldn’t express. Perhaps we all harbored such silent struggles—even Towada’s father. And perhaps, I realized abruptly, it had always been that simple.
Blinking away my tears, I attempted to sound casual. “I won’t be performing in any recitals anytime soon, you know?”
“That’s okay; maybe I’ll join you for a lesson one day.”
“Mom, that would be so embarrassing!”
My mother looked at me and simply smiled, probably noticing the fact that I’d conveniently neglected to say no.