My First Memory of Work Ethic
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what makes people who they are. “You’re a product of your environment,” and all that jazz. For me, I can trace most of my current responses and reactions to situations today all the way back to when I was a kid. I’ve been challenging myself with questions like, “Why did I just react that way?” Or, “Have I always been/thought like this?” Because, quite frankly, I’ve never really been satisfied with doing something because “that’s the way it’s always been done.” I’m growing and changing, and I think who I am as a person needs to keep up with that growth and change.
All of that being said, the other day I was thinking about my first memories of work – or rather, what felt like work to me at the time. Because, ya know, child labor laws. That prompted the question, “What was my first memory of learning that it takes work to be truly good at something?” There was one particular instance that came to mind.
As a kid, it took me awhile to find something I was “good at.” I mean, I always knew I could sing, and that has definitely proven to be the thing I’m “best” at, but as a kid, I wanted to be good at something athletic, like a lot of my friends were. I wasn’t really friends with other singers, but I was friends with soccer players, basketball players, dancers, cross country runners, and more. As the very competitive kid I was (and still might be…), I wanted to find something new to be good at.
I tried just about everything. I played soccer for years, took tennis lessons, played on a volleyball team, a basketball team, took gymnastics for years, took a ballet class, a tap dancing class, a hip-hop class (yes, really) and yet…. nothing really stuck.
So, in eighth grade, I decided I’d try just one more type of dance class before I threw in the towel. Jazz.
I remember it very clearly. We started learning our dance – THE dance for our recital in May. We were dancing to West Side Story’s “Cool.” Our teacher announced that we were planning to do placements the following week for our recital. Where you were placed onstage and how visible you were to your friends and family in the audience, was entirely based on how much of the routine you remembered and how well (and often) you practiced what you had learned.
As a little bit of context… There were a lot of girls in my class who had been dancing since they were teeny tiny kiddos (I know that for a fact, because I was right there dancing with them – I was just not nearly as talented), and I pretty much knew I was a lower-tier performer up against them all. But, in my defense, dance class was all they did. They had dance classes three or four nights a week. I did it once or twice, and had my voice lessons, too.
Either way, I didn’t do so well with being lower-tier (I know, I’m still working on it). So, after we learned our routine, I went home and immediately started rehearsing it in my dad’s home office, trying to get my muscle memory to work with me. Playing “Cool” from our family computer on loop. For entirely too long, I’m sure. Sorry, family. Sorry, neighbors.
I finally felt like I’d had enough, Mom called me for dinner, and I slept on my knowledge. The next day, I got home from school and invited my best friend over to help me practice. She had a much better memory with those kinds of things than I did. So, I brought out my little handheld camcorder, put it on a shelf, and we danced it out together. Over. And. Over.
As the week progressed, I kept watching the video, singing and dancing along, messing it up time and time again, each time in different parts of the song. But, I was finally getting close to tying it all together.
Finally later on in the week, I felt confident that I’d go into my next jazz class and stack up against the other girls as an equal, rather than lower-tier. As luck would have it, I was the only one who seemed to have put in that much work to remember the routine. I was just about the only one dancing confidently for the entire song. Where a lot of kids would be mortified in that situation, I felt an unreal amount of pride.
Our routine was performed in a sort of “V” shape, like how you see birds fly south for the winter (I’m guessing that’s what they’re doing when they fly in a “V” shape); one girl in front with the rest of the girls fanning off to the right and left. And guess who was deemed worthy of being the one girl in front. 🙂
I remember leaving jazz class that day thinking that it was incredibly interesting that even though I wasn’t the “teacher’s favorite,” or the “most talented,” I still got the front-and-center placement for the routine. I realized that I worked hard, and it actually paid off.
I really love taking a walk down memory lane and remembering specific instances that shaped my adulthood. I’m really thankful for the teacher at my dance studio who rewarded hard work. It certainly doesn’t always work that way – either as a kid or as an adult. You don’t always get rewarded instantly for being the one who works the hardest. In fact, I feel like it’s pretty rare that it actually works out that way.
In the long run, we do get our reward. It may not be the reward we’re looking for, the reward we want right away, or the reward we’re crossing our fingers for. But, we gain the rewards of good experience, patience, dedication, and self-confidence. Those things are more important to your character development than being center stage, anyway.
As my mom always reminded me, “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”
