The Stories Behind Forgotten Award Plaques

When I was little, perhaps around four or five, my uncle was the principal of the local elementary school. He used to take me there sometimes after school hours and let me explore, sharing with me the curious secrets of arts and sciences. To the little version of me, everything I laid my eyes on seemed so big, impressive and, simply put, magnificent.

It felt wonderful mainly because I knew I was too little to be in that building. It was like having a secret life. However, my favorite part of the whole school was the giant vitrine in the main hallway filled with an uncountable amount of plaques and awards. It always stood there waiting for me, glittering in the sunlit hallway it seemed to be a whole new universe. Every time I passed it, I promised myself I would be part of that universe one day.

Time went by, and as you can imagine, my fascination with glittery trophies somewhat subsided. It was pushed out by the little important things like friends, Instagram followers, career goals and binge watching Netflix. It was not until a few of years after I closed the door behind my studies that I remembered that hallway with all its shiny treasures.

I finally got what the rest of society referred to as a “decent job” in one of the marketing companies downtown. On my first day (and every day after that), everything went pretty well. Not amazing, not bad. The golden comfort-zone medium I cherished all my life. Then one day, when leaving work, I caught music resonating through the halls. When I asked my colleague, she said she heard there was a dance school on one of the lower floors and suggested we check it out.

Indeed, a couple of floors below, in the most boring-looking building on earth, was a dance school. As we came in, my eyes wandered to the award plaques hanging on the wall, glittering in the light once again. For a second, I was that little girl in the hallway of the elementary school pressing my face against the cold glass of the vitrine.

To be honest, I expected to see a bunch of old ladies doing some mambo. I could not have been more wrong. It was like dropping into another dimension. People of all ages and sizes were just buzzing away; even breathing seemed more energetic in that room. My colleague insisted we sign up. I resisted a little, but I caved eventually because deep inside I wanted to be part of that madness.

And madness it was. It started off with one hour of salsa a week. Then the music infected my laptop and my phone. One hour became two, tree, four until it just could not be called leisure’ activity. It became hard training because I gave it my all. The best part was I felt as if I was living a double life again, like that time, going to school after hours with my uncle. I did my job during the day, and at night I became a dancer. To be honest, I enjoyed this ‘superhero’ lifestyle; it was nowhere near my golden comfort-zone.

Again, day after day I passed by the wall covered in photo plaques until one day my “dance crew” made it on the wall too. We looked so happy on the picture mainly because victory tastes like rainbow more than Skittles ever will. However, when I looked at the plague. I remembered the hours of sweat and hard work, painful falls, formed the relationships… I saw the whole story that little plaque had to tell.

Published by Kidal Delonix (1197 Posts)

Kidal Delonix is a contributor to Mr. Hoffman's blog. The views and opinions are entirely his/her own and may not reflect Mr Hoffman's views.