I was a senior in high school, toiling over what my legacy would be. I had been dancing for fifteen years, and I wanted to go out with a bang. The “senior solo” was a defining point in one’s dancing career; it’s the last chance to prove yourself in competition and creates the image of how others will remember you. Usually, dancers pick a slow, beautiful song to perform a contemporary routine to (in mourning of their ending career). I wanted to do the exact opposite: perform a tap dance to an upbeat song, leaving people feeling full of joy. Tap was not well received by competition judges; many didn’t know much about it and favored the safe and expected contemporary routines. Regardless, I was determined in my ways and wanted to bring justice to the craft. After compiling a list over months, I finally found the song that would bring me to victory: “Come On Eileen,” a crowd favorite.
I learned the piece quickly and for six months I practiced every single day. At eight, nine, even ten o’clock at night, I was tap dancing in my basement, putting my heart and soul into the piece.
We competed in four competitions that season, and though I wasn’t able to secure a win at the first three, my routine was scoring surprisingly well. I was coined, “Eileen” and eventually adopted the nickname as an alter ego. After performing at the final competition, I came off the stage feeling limp and numb. I fell into the arms of my best friend, my dance teacher (shown on the right). Soon it was time for awards, which involved sitting onstage under the burning lights to find out if it had all been worth it.
I sat and listened to the top ten scores. I waited, shaking because I knew there was not going to be another opportunity to do this ever again. Fifth place, fourth, third, second. I didn’t know whether to be hopeful for success or accept defeat, and the two emotions were at war in my mind. After second place was given to another performer, my teammate turned back to me and said “Homie, you won!”
My mom leaped up in the audience, she was crying. I held my trophy, looked out into the audience, and recited my thank you speech I had prepared two years prior. My entire studio congratulated me, and my dance teacher and I were finally able to marvel in the glory we worked so hard to achieve. Whenever I hear that song, I am brought back to that moment of honor. Though I haven’t tap danced in two years, Eileen is still alive and well inside my heart.
Long live Eileen.
