Personal Narrative: I Change Into My Dance

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Walking aimlessly through a parking lot is not something an eight year old should do. Much less dressed in a bright, royal blue tutu while trying to ignore the strange stares that were being thrown her way. The blue outfit was not the reason why people were staring, I should know because that eight year old was me and that night is one I love to remember. “Wake up, Cindy! If you don’t start getting ready now we’re going to be late for dress rehearsal.” my mother’s strong voice called from my bedroom door. The previous night was restless, I had tossed and turned and was now running on very little sleep. However, the excitement coursing through me was going to be enough to get me through the day.
“I just woke up, should I change into my dance
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“Cindy, it’s your first recital we didn’t know what to expect.” She tried explaining herself but I bolted out the theater door.
I was upset because she had forgotten to buy flowers. Only my family would show up to a dance recital with no flowers to give to the performer. I found myself roaming the parking lot outside the theater with tears in my eyes and weird stares being thrown my way. As I walked I thought about the reason I was crying and all of a sudden, I stopped. My parents had no idea that dancers were given flowers after their performances. My mother had tried to explain but I had run out of the room and I did not let her finish.
My dad was there when my classes needed to be paid, my mom was there to teach me the steps, and she motivated me to continue when I failed to carry out my dance routines correctly. They had given me so much and I was upset over something as insignificant as flowers. At the age of eight, I understood that family is much more precious than any material thing. The love and support that my family had provided for me for eight years was far greater than any beautiful bouquet of

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