By Diane Gudat

What motivates a teacher to do her best, consistently, year after year? All teachers have to go into the studio when they are tired, don’t feel well, or have other issues on their minds. I find, after owning a studio for more than 26 years, that the inspiration to teach consistently at my best comes in many forms. I have always been rejuvenated by the stimulation of continuing-education classes—never underestimate the power of a good workshop to give you new ideas and the “ammunition” to survive another year. And having contact with dance teachers who share my daily challenges and love for the art of teaching children also fuels the fire. However, I find that the greatest inspiration usually comes from my own dancers.

It’s easy to be motivated by talented, committed dancers. Watching them blossom and succeed fuels the creative spirit; the gratification that results pushes you to another level of success. These students bring you victories onstage, where everyone is a witness. But every day in the classroom, I experience little, private victories with the average students—those are the ones that I feel in my heart. They’re the ones that push teachers to do their best day after day.

Several young students have helped me realize how much impact I have had on my students over the years. They are why I continue to teach. One was a young girl who came to the studio week after week with her hair a mess, often wearing dirty tights, and usually late. At first I was exasperated, but then I discovered that she lived with her grandparents and it was the grandfather who was responsible for getting her to class. I can’t count the number of times I stopped the girl at the door, put her scraggly hair in a rubber band, and untwisted her tights. Each time I did, she would run to the studio mirror and gaze at the beautiful ballerina I had created. I began to look forward to my hairdressing responsibilities, sometimes French braiding her hair or adding a plastic flower. Then I’d watch this little girl, now feeling so pretty, work hard to please me. She never excelled at dance but found a place in my heart.

Another example is a little girl in one of my preschool classes. During a theme class in which we were talking about people’s jobs, I asked the children what they wanted to be when they grew up. I had received several responses of “dance teacher” and “ballerina” and “famous dancer.” But one little girl named Rosie looked at me shyly from underneath a mop of curls and said, “I want to be you!” I said, “Oh, so you want to be a dance teacher?” But she quickly made it clear that she wanted to be me, with such sincerity that it took my breath away. I asked her why, and her response was simple: “You are good and you are fun!” After collecting myself I explained that I was the only one who could be me but that I was sure that she was going to be fabulous someday as herself. After that class, Rosie always positioned her little mat next to mine, and although I usually rotated that place of honor, I never made her move. From her tiny place in class, she made me feel important and respected.

Rosie never became a dancer. Her father is now raising her, and I know that I had an impact on her as a female role model. She plays softball with my daughter, and I enjoy cheering her on to different victories now. I see her face in a lot of my preschoolers whose parents tell me that they pretend to be me. I realize now that the movement is not all they are imitating in their classes, and that inspires me to be my best and put out the energy to be “good and fun” for all of them.

My biggest awakening came from knowing a young girl named Molli. Although she attended class regularly for several years, she always sank into the background and, as she got older, rarely put out the kind of energy that catches a teacher’s attention. She was a nice dancer but wasn’t moving forward with her training. I translated that as a lack of interest and figured that she would probably drop her dance class, as many girls do, in her eighth-grade year and find something else to do that she really loved.

Molli was still dancing in eighth grade, but as we prepared for our December ballet, she missed more and more classes. She said she wasn’t feeling well and made little or no effort to learn the material she had missed. I wondered if she would ever catch up. Molli eventually stopped coming to class, and I found out soon afterward that she had incurable cancer and was already slipping away.

Because Molli’s parents spent countless hours by her side at Children’s Hospital, members of our church helped care for their house. The first time I stepped into Molli’s bedroom I was astounded to see that it was full of dance things. Her new, unworn recital tutu hung where she could see it, and dance-related things were everywhere. This was the room of someone who loved and surrounded herself with dance. From this I learned that what we see physically in our students does not always match what they feel in their hearts. She truly loved dance.

Molli brought me a dance poster from her Make-A-Wish trip to France; it hangs in my studio to remind me to look deeper into the hearts of all my young dancers. I spent time with Molli during her illness and was thankful for the opportunity to get to know her better. I liked knowing she felt safe and comfortable with me. She continues to inspire me to be patient with and grateful for all my young students, regardless of their dedication or talent.

In the end, it’s not what we teach but how and whom we teach that matters. By allowing ourselves to look past the frustrating imperfections of some students, we can find the jewels that are hidden there, waiting to inspire us all.

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