The Best Worst Lie I Ever Told

by Julie Rivera

I'm not proud that I told this lie but it had to be done. If I didn't tell that lie I could still be in undergrad because I failed an African dance class.

It was never my intention to lie.

I was burnt out. After a final meeting with my adviser I kicked rocks and threw bottles because he told me I was short 3 credits. I wouldn't graduate in May if I didn't take an additional class. The good news was it didn't matter what type of class I took. After scouring the course bulletin, and admitting that being burnt out wasn't something I could ignore, a dance class seemed like a bright idea.

I knew I could move. On more than one occasion I had been asked if I was a dancer. So, African dance seemed like the right fit. It would connect me with ancestors, it would be fun and live drumming is always grounding.

I'll pick up some moves to do at the few parties left in my college career I thought. I'll have these moves in my repertoire as I leave college behind and re-enter the real world. I imagined being known in my future office as the young, eager, newbie who could work it out on the dance floor. I was ready for African dance class and literally wondered if it was ready for me.

Nobody told me there would be professionals in the room. The professor was supposed to be a professional and the students were supposed to be like me. They were supposed to be first timers. Nobody told me I would be asked to move in ways that would embarrass me if I was alone. Nobody told me there would be so many intricate rhythms that I couldn't hear. Nobody told me this class would be packed with people who could unabashedly move across the floor and get the steps within seconds while I struggled in the back. How did they get each part of their bodies to move in nine different directions at the same time?

I was constantly in my corner spot on the verge of tears. Nobody told me that African dance was hard as hell. All I wanted to do was graduate and maybe get in touch with an ancestor in the process. Nobody understood that. Nobody understood that I didn't want to go across that damn floor attempting to dance steps that I would never know how to dance.

For three hours, every Wednesday, I hated everyone in that room. I was a ball of negativity.

Had the class seemed as challenging and demanding as it would prove to be I would have dropped it and taken square dancing, volleyball or even another art history course. But no, I fell for the easy early days and before I knew it the drop/add period had passed.

Each class was a reminder that there were some things I was not and possibly never would be. I would never be a dancer. I scooted further and further back each session. I stopped dancing all together and became a watcher at parties. I didn't even dare to two step. I did chair dance on occasion but even that stopped as the semester progressed.

In a few months I was going to re-enter the world as an adult and here I was moving backward. I was becoming the shy girl I thought I left behind in sixth grade. I was becoming aware of myself in all the wrong ways. I'll have you know that all the dancers in the class were very supportive. The support did not help; it made me more self conscious and anxious. I loathed Wednesdays. I loathed the fact that I was going to get my first "C" or possibly "D" for a course I thought would be easy. I loathed the fact that I hated people who were rooting for me.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse. Just when I was patting myself on the back for making it through the class, even if that just meant showing up, the professor made the announcement. As part of the final we all had to do a 32 count solo.

She was trying to kill me I thought. Everyday that followed I wondered how I would manage this solo, how I would become strong enough to embarrass myself in front of an entire class. With a lot of hesitation I began to choreograph my dance piece. Since I could only do two out of the many steps we were taught it wasn't as difficult to come up with 32 counts as I thought it would be.

Repetition never looked so bad.

On the morning of the final I threw up. I was sweating profusely and I couldn't keep orange juice down. I couldn't even drink water. I didn't go to class. I didn't take the final. I stayed home that morning and I hid from the world. I was about to fail an African dance class. My degree was on the line. What would I say to the professor? I had to come up with a lie to end the world. There was no excuse for missing a final and what would keep her from saying, "come to another class and do your solo?"

I let the day pass and then I let another day pass.

On the third day I called her office at the perfect moment, when her voice-mail would answer. It was Saturday. I left the following message: "Hi Talu, it's Julie Rivera. I'm in section A of African Dance I. I missed class this past Wednesday. Which means I missed the final. I apologize. I would never miss a final but my dad tried to stab me this weekend. I hope you'll allow me to do my 32 counts on another day."

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What's your best worst lie?

Oh, did you miss the introduction to Julie Rivera? Find it here.