Go Ahead And Take A Chance! Writing Contest Winners Announced …

Speaking of Feeling More Alive, time to reveal the winners of the FMA Writing contest! Judged by a panel of editors from Citrine Publishing.

Honorable Mention: The Touch Of Her Hand by Jill Brandon

Please read the winning entry below. Congrats Brittany!

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Feel More Alive Essay Contest Winner!

Gift From A Thief by Brittany Capozzi!

My toes pushed into the cold floor of the church as my heels lifted.

“Oo beautiful Brittany, you’re leveling!” my belly dance teacher, Zazil, trilled.

Never an athlete and always a bookworm here I was—not only shadowing steps—but also adding depth to a dance I was just introduced to. Snaking my arms out like a capital T, add dimension I did as I realized that I forgot to be afraid. Afraid of voicing my body in front of other people.

When I was less than 48 hours old, I had a neonatal stroke in my father’s arms. The stroke happened on the left side of my brain and affected the right side of my body in the form of cerebral palsy. By the time I was in second grade, I had had a bone graft on my leg to correct my walk and avoid developing hip dysplasia.

Growing up, I didn’t notice if the occasional drag of my right heel trailed whispers from the clique of girls in recess line. I noticed when my right arm jerked at the sound of a bell or the sharp squeak of a metal chair. I noticed how spaced and stiff my fingers were, like naked tree branches. My thumb confiscated under said branches. Needless to say, winter was my favorite season because of long sleeves. I couldn’t let anyone see how wrong my upper right side was. You don’t need your hand the cotton of a sweatshirt muffled as I pulled its cuff over knuckles.

Unfortunately, I received a devastating notification from the studio owner explaining that future belly dance classes were cancelled due to low attendance. Not only that, but there were no refunds. I was a mixing bowl of emotions: that thief stole my money; But I immediately loved my instructor! And lastly, I thought about what my right side still had to say after being mute under clothing for over twenty years.

Weeks later, after repeatedly demanding money back from the owner for classes that wouldn’t be, I received an email from Zazil: “Would you like to take private lessons with me?” In a moment of synchronicity, I learned that we lived in the same town. From my desk chair, I shimmied my shoulders in anticipation for our first private class. What I didn’t anticipate was what the art of leveling could continue teaching me about who I was and have been.

The simple definition of leveling in dance is the relationship between the dancer and ground. My comfort grew with this relationship over the first few months. Then one afternoon, with feet planted on the studio floor and chin up, my right hip started wheeling itself in place. As I pushed and pulled it in circular motions, my right fingers fluidly kneaded the air. Meanwhile, my left hip felt stuck in place.

That moment showed me that the thief was not the studio owner, it was the sweatshirt that hid away my right side. The sweatshirt all the way from elementary school through college. It was I who let parts of my child and adulthood take my body’s voice away. I was my own thief. But as I leveled across wooden ground with my head literally held high that day, I added depth to my identity. I spoke up and out to my old self hiding during recess, the main image of my roots. My little voice unleveled and ungrounded.

I didn’t long for my childhood but instead released it. I released the tension across muscles, across tissues, across memory. And in the release, I found the gift of integrity to myself from myself.