I have two left feet, three left arms, and a non-functioning lobe in the left side of my brain.
It’s more embarrassing.
My mother was horrified, my father was unconcerned, my younger brother rubbed salt in my wounds all the time.
We were a family of artists.
My father a painter, my mother a writer, my brother a budding singer.
So what was left?
Of course, the next best thing.
It was expected of me. This was the art form bound to my destiny.
However, some things aren’t meant to be. And this was my biggest tragedy.
The first day at dance school saw a shaky toddler, me, resembling a classic case of epilepsy.
No disrespect intended, but my body had no direction, no clue of tempo or rhythm.
My flailing and flapping must have scared the other children. Five days later, I was told to never return. Disappointment was added to my name.
But my mother battled to transform me. There had to be a dance form that would embrace me.
Salsa, contemporary, ballet, hip hop, jazz. It was a meaningless chase. I was a klutz, a natural dance offender.
I was advised to find greener pastures. My mother retorted that I wasn’t a cow even though a cow could probably dance better.
The obsessed woman even made me shimmy and shammy. But when I broke my leg, her composure broke too, and she left me to deal with my own inadequacies.
I abandoned dance, renouncing all its bitter memories. My feet were designed for walking and running.
Then one day I saw her. A stunning vision in red, her graceful moves unlike any earthly dance.
I dared to join her.
She was bewitching. I was still twitching.
On that note, we danced the night away.
He was alone till he found the girl. She was his newfound daughter. He could now die A Family Man.