on a glimpse into my past

I guess you could say my family is typical. We consist of generations of Americans, as in, they were born here, raised here, went to school here . . . and died here. This rinses and repeats all the way back to the signing of the Declaration of the Independence, to the army of General George Washington. It is safe to say that I am American. No, no, scratch that. I am a New Englander. My clan has settled all over the north from New York to Maine.

But before that?

Before that my family knew the lands of Ireland, knew a congregation of Methodists who grew tired of the potato famine, and thirsty for a life of prosperity, across the sea.  Before that my family knew the walls of castles, and social turmoil as they fought for power in the court of Henry VIII.  And before that? Well, that is unknown. It is rumored that Wright is a Celtic name, and that my people may be the figures seen in history books dancing and leaping, paying homage to their Goddess, praying for a fruitful harvest and a fertile spring.

Now my family consists of nuclear detachment, but that is a personal history for another day. I have grandparents. I love them as much as any grandchild loves their respective elder. They are the key to my past, the shareholders to the files of information I grasp onto and fuse into my mind. They are the reason I know who I am today, and why I will someday tell my grandchildren who they are. My Great grandparents have passed on before I really grew to know them.

Growing up there were few traditions. They typically circulated around a roasted turkey and a Christmas tree. Father always played Santa. Mother always cooked the best mashed potatoes in the world. We always hung an ornament on the black carved wale that lays guard over the front door. This is something my grandfather carved before the paralysis took him. Perhaps one thing, a tradition you may call it that is quite significant is when my family needed to sell the houses. We buried a statue of St Joseph, and then, once the house sold (and it always did shortly after), we would dig it up and set it in a prominent location in the new residency.

At FSU I attended break dancing classes intermittently but never pursued it seriously. Growing up I took a few dance classes in middle school. This consisted of ballet for two years, and then they (the big tall scary grownups) wanted me to join point. I went to two classes and promptly dropped it, with respect of course to the art of standing on your tippy toe with a millimeter of cardboard protecting you from excruciating pain, I still couldn’t see myself doing that.  I still have this dream though, of being front row center of the stage doing spin after spin on one toe, while the audience sits awed, and then cheering at the talent.

My true dream is to have a talent. Period. To discover what it means to have talent and be close to talent. Movement is the expression of the soul. Maybe in this class I can learn how to express my desire to be great at just one thing through dance.