The Broken Footed Dancer

My mother tossed a box of tissues at me as I left the car: “wipe your eyes,” she said, “they’ll be able to tell you’ve been crying.” I frantically grabbed a handful of tissues as my mom brushed my hair out of my face, telling me that she was certain I would enjoy college. As I walked towards the entrance of the Robert Purcell Community Center, I fixed my backpack and took a deep breath to gather myself. Nonetheless, my fears about college persisted—I felt certain that I would never find a community as strong as what I had in my hometown. I dragged myself into the community center and was immediately met with the warmest smile I may have ever seen: “Hi! Welcome to POST; My name is Tali, I can check you in today.” Although I did not realize it then, at this moment my fears about college silently fell away. 

I enter Klarman Hall as my phone buzzes with a message from Tali: “Here when you’re ready!” This sentence fragment carries Tali’s characteristic energy—in fact, I unconsciously read the message with the confidence and enthusiasm that defines her voice. Upon entering the Atrium, I immediately spot Tali by her distinctive long curly hair. While for most “a spring in her step” is merely an expression, for Tali it is the utmost reality. She springs towards me, greeting me with radiant energy as she asks how I am doing. There is something about Tali’s unbreakable eye contact that makes you know that she truly cares about you. We reach the sofas and she sits down, crossing her legs so that her back is propped up against the arm rest, and she can fully face me during our conversation. While I try to do the same, my inflexibility makes it difficult, whereas Tali stays in this position for the entire 2 hours during which we speak. 

It seems almost too coincidental that Tali’s last name is “Bailes”—Spanish for “dance”—as Tali started dancing when she was merely three years old. With a smile that never leaves her face, she tells me that she began because her older sister, Anna, was in a dance group that needed a child to wear a “The End” sign during their recital. They asked Tali’s mother if Tali would do it. Tali, now impersonating her mother, raises both hands to emphasize her mother’s enthusiastic “absolutely” in response to the aforementioned question. Ever since, dance has been the thread that connects Tali’s life—from her artistic pursuits to her dedication to service. During Tali’s senior year of high school, she was accepted to Cornell University to study Global Public Health. Whereas Tali’s high school classmates continued climbing the traditional “ladder of success” as they drove across the country in the fall of 2015, eager to launch into their new lives, Tali instead found herself driving through the bumpy, unpaved roads of the Amazon towards a remote village in Ecuador. 

Tali prefaces her story by telling me that in Blue Ash, Ohio, taking a gap year was utterly unheard of. In fact, her only exposure to the idea of a gap year was when her family hosted an Israeli exchange student during Tali’s freshman year of high school. I ask her why she decided to take a gap year, if it was so unorthodox to do so. Tali places her hands on the couch’s arm rest, as she says 

“people at my high school had this idea that there was some sort of ladder of success. They get good grades, and then get into a good college, and then get a job that pays well…  but for me, success has never been about making the most money. It’s about actually doing something for the community. After high school, I knew I couldn’t just sit around for another four years and learn about doing something someday. I really wanted to do something today.”

Thus, Tali began applying to gap year programs—she interrupts the rising anticipation of the narrative to tell me that her parents were skeptical of her pursuits: “I was like, ‘I’m going to take a gap year,’ and they were like, ‘What? No you’re not.’” Tali then motions to her t-shirt that has “Global Citizen Year” printed on it, telling me that in spite of her parents’ skepticism, she was admitted to the Global Citizen Year gap year program. That August, Tali flew off to a small village in the Amazon Rainforest in Ecuador, where she taught 750 primary school students, while also working at a local Health Clinic. Tali’s role ranged from teaching a special education class, to translating between patients, families, and medical professionals. Later that year, Tali’s love of dance drove her to begin teaching ballet to local children, while also taking Ecuadorian dance classes. When I ask what has changed the most about her since her gap year, Tali smiles and sighs simultaneously — “that is really really hard to decide on,” she says. She pauses for a moment, carefully selecting the words she is about to say as she looks off to the side of the Atrium. Tali, reestablishing eye contact with me, begins by saying, “it was a huge confidence boost,” as she learned to be independent in a developing country. Tali continues, stating that her gap year fundamentally altered how she sees the world; now she values community action over that of an individual, a perspective which has inspired her to dedicate her future to serving developing countries. In fact, after graduating from Cornell, Tali hopes to work somewhere in Latin America—“maybe in Colombia,” she notes. However, Tali proceeds to tell me that perhaps her biggest transformation was a physical one, with scars that still tattoo her identity today. 

Tali sets the scene for me: it was a humid, sunny day in Ecuador, and she was with her host family at the local zoo. Mykel, the eight-year-old middle child, desperately wanted to go see the lions once more before leaving. Tali agreed to take him. As they were walking away, Tali tripped on a rock, fell to the ground, and experienced what she describes as “the most pain I’ve ever felt in my life.” Tali’s speaking quickens with the escalating action of the story—I am astonished as to how it is possible for her to speak faster than she already does. She notes that all she remembers is speaking Spanish through tears to communicate with the locals, and telling Mykel to call his mother. Mykel, not understanding the severity of the situation, instead used Tali’s phone to take pictures of her. Tali notes that at that moment “I knew it was broken… I knew my foot was broken.” For a dancer, this is arguably the worst injury to bear. Being in a developing country at the time, Tali was unable to get a proper diagnosis or a proper cast for her foot until three weeks later when she returned to the U.S. In spite of the trauma of this experience, Tali brings out her phone to show me the pictures Mykel took, laughing as she scrolls through them. After a few minutes, Tali puts her phone away and ruminates upon the reality of her injury: 

“You know pointe ballet? The style where you dance on the very tips of your toes? I used to practice that style six days a week. But since I broke my foot, I’ve never been able to do pointe again. I actually spent the summer in between my gap year and coming to Cornell re-learning how to walk… I think now—for me—it’s less about being the girl leading the dance at the front of the room, and it has become more about giving other people the opportunity to share the same joy I once had in dancing.”

In spite of her broken foot, Tali managed to walk the path less travelled upon arriving in Ithaca as a member of Cornell’s Class of 2020. In the months that preceded her move to college, Tali researched emergent literacy in a primary care clinic for low-income families in Cincinnati. Tali backtracks to explain emergent literacy: “it’s all the skills kids learn before they learn to read—like pre-reading.” Through evaluating MRI scans of children’s brain activity during certain tasks, Tali found that dance motor skills and emergent literacy are closely related—in fact, exercise in one stimulates growth in the other. All at once, Tali’s experiences in Ecuador and her research converged; sitting up with elation, Tali says “I remember rushing into my mom’s car after work that day.” The remainder of Tali’s sentence emerges as a stream of consciousness: “I told my mom that I was going to start this organization and I was going to combine dance and literacy and I was going to call it Ballet & Books.” Merely months later, Ballet & Books was born.

Today, Ballet & Books is a national organization with chapters in Ithaca, New York, as well as Virginia, Michigan, Florida, and many more . In just three years, Tali has created a community organization with its own website, logo, t-shirts, Facebook and Instagram pages, as well as 25 mentors who spend their Saturdays at Southside Community Center reading one-on-one with children after the children’s dance class. In doing so, Tali transformed an idea, existing only in her mind, into a reality that now helps children in low-income families across the country. I am struck by Tali’s commitment to community action, as she explains that in Ecuador “I learned that whatever my organization was going to be, it had to be about the community, not the individual. It’s not the individual that changes the world… It’s the product of cohesive community action that does.” Smiling and leaning forward on the sofa, as if to tell me a secret, Tali reveals that “I had no idea Ballet & Books was ever going to become this big.” She continues, recalling how during her freshman spring she made these “crappy, crappy flyers about Ballet & Books.” It still blows her mind that today Ballet & Books has a fully developed brand. Tali glances at the time. She has an African Dance class at 7 pm, so I decide upon one last question to conclude the conversation—one that was as enjoyable as talking to a friend I had known my entire life. Before we part ways, I ask her what her goals for the future of Ballet & Books are. Tali sighs and smiles at once, saying “the short term goal is to have Ballet & Books continue at Cornell for years and years to come”—a goal that I, as a member of the organization, do not foresee being an issue. Tali then claps her hands together, as if to say a prayer of gratitude, sharing that “the dream, though, is to have Ballet & Books chapters open all over the place… to become like Girls On The Run,” an institutionalized organization for community engagement. 

Upon hearing Tali explain how she learned to cope with losing her full ability to dance, I am struck by her resilience. Dance is arguably Tali’s first love—How does one proceed with life after losing something they love? I am inspired by how Tali took her individual loss—a point in her life that, were it not for her resilience, could have been her all-time low—and transformed it into something that gives a community strength. Within one summer, Tali re-learned to walk and dance. Within one year, Tali established a community organization—giving strength to little girls from low-income families through literacy and dance. Tali is not simply an inspiration to students; rather, she is an inspiration to everyone, regardless of age. If everyone in the world could be as dedicated, passionate, and kind as Tali, we would live in a world without trouble. If everyone could fulfill their personal losses by giving others strength, the world would no longer need to brave the perils of hate, injustice, and wrongdoing. 

The next time I see Tali is on a brisk sunny day in Ithaca, at the Southside Community Center. Visitors passing through can see 25 girls between the ages of three and eight wearing pink tutus, leotards, and ballet slippers. Chloe Robinson, a Junior at Cornell University, leads the tiny dancers in a ballet routine. Tali, peering in from glass door, notices many girls sitting on the ground, not participating in the dance routine. Tali interrupts the music with her booming voice: “woah woah woah, I see way too many of you not dancing!” She takes the children’s hands one by one and gently brushes them into two straight lines, telling them that “you guys have to get excited about dance; you are grown children”—which erupts playful laughter from the mentors in the room—“and I expect more from you… our recital is coming up soon!” Tali continues, leading the children through exercises to help them focus: “lean all the way to your left… lean all the way to your right… now scream as loud as you possibly can!” This is accompanied by the whistling shrill of 25 children screaming. The music begins, and now, all 25 children plié and rond de jambe in unison—the sight is incomparable to the initial attempt at the routine. Tali sits down on a nearby stool with a determined look on her face—not even for a moment does she take her eyes off of the tiny dancers. “Looking good Ella,” she says. “Keep up the good work Supantra.... That’s what I like to see Edith,” Tali continues, coaching every single girl before the music fades away.