Where I’m from: Origin Story

I am not a poet, so this will not be poetry, unless you enjoy a non-poem, poem.

When I was young, my feet turned in — pigeon toed and other ugly things to call the legs of a child. So my mother dutifully took me to ballet, where the tough Russian teachers taught us to turn out and point our toes. My feet are very flat — so not an easy task.

I love ballet. I have very little aptitude.

Beyond the beauty of ballet, and the art of discipline, what do you get at ballet class?
Live music. Works of Chopin, and Mozart and a thousand etudes played by a college pianist, earning a few dollars.

Dance is music in motion.

When my mother broke her leg, my dance career was over. And in the 70’s, when so many were escaping New York, my parents moved from Central Queens to Long Island. We didn’t stay there long—

But long enough, to start an instrument in fourth grade. They came around with a cart and said to try things and pick one.
I picked the viola with its dark sultry voice.

My mother didn’t know what a viola was, but for $12 a year she said I could play what I wanted. Later, she told me she could have bought a car for the expense of my various instruments.

But this is what I needed to do. I knew it right from the start, even though I was terrible at it. But I needed it. It was, it is, my voice.

The end of my non-poem poem.