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Alissa Millar

Ms. Gardner

English 10H/6th

22 January 2017

An Empty Railcar

Would you like a cast or a boot? my mother asked me when I was just four, over confident and

over imaginative. Of course I answered boot, picturing the most fashionable, bright pink rainboot adorned

with butterflies. One can only imagine my disappointment when she gave me a bland, navy blue, strappy,

and inflexible contraption to reset my fourth metatarsal bone, which I had broken when I told a fellow

playground-goer that I knew how to climb the monkey bars. I did not.

Oddly enough, the traumatic experience of hanging from the first rung of the monkey bars at Del

Oro Park, screaming for my mom, seeing her running towards me from across the soccer field my older

sister played on, helplessly feeling my hands slip, and landing straight atop my foot didnt teach my any

lessons. It did not stop me from telling my best friend Abby that I could do a flip on the trampoline. It did

not stop me from lying to get into the 4th grade Miwok Spelling Bee (sorry, Mom). It still does not stop

me from telling my ballet teacher that I sew my own pointe shoes (thanks, Mom). Even from the innocent

age of four, I would not let anything stop me.

According to my mothers 3rd Edition copy of Anatomy: A Regional Atlas of the Human Body by

Carmine D. Clemente, the weight of the body is transmitted by the tibia to the talus, which then

redistributes this weight to calcaneus inferiorly (the heel of the foot) and the navicular bone distally

(toward the heads of the metatarsals and the ball of the foot). Perhaps this flaw of dishonestly was

caused by the breaking of my metatarsal, throwing off the whole weight transmission process of my body

and, in turn, never allowing me to find the balance between truths and fibs. Perhaps this pattern is not a

flaw at all, only a way I subconsciously push myself; if I say I can do it, I must be able to, right? Perhaps
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that is just another lie to myself. Even so, I have never allowed any time from questioning this pattern,

only time for moving forward.

From the time I was all healed up and on, my feet never stopped moving. They whirled round and

round as I belted the lyrics youll look sexy in your socks, from Shania Twains Party for Two, my

favorite song of course (imagine my parents horror). They sprang from my sisters mattress as I

proclaimed to her that one day, I would become a country singer. They thrashed underwater, not to swim,

but to remind my swim teachers how much I despised swim class. They involuntarily kicked under the

desk throughout elementary school. They accidentally rammed right into Abbys little brothers friends

face in her grandmothers backyard, as I pumped up and down on their wooden swing. They truly did

carry me everywhere I needed to go, without thinking and never ceasing. Im sure if gravity did not hold

them to the ground, my fidgety feet would have carried me far beyond the clouds.

My mothers favorite gift to give any new mom is and has always been Kate DiCamillos The

Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. She read it to me and my sister, Caty, so long ago that my mind

has only kept bits and pieces stored away. One quote still resurfaces after all these years, as it left my

five-year-old self pondering over philosophical thought far too complex. It reads, they traveled on foot.

They traveled in empty railcars. They were always on the move. But in truth, said Bull, we are going

nowhere. That, my friend, is the irony of our constant movement. I never understood this concept of

going nowhere until I reached the ripe old age, or so I thought, of about twelve. The unwavering

movement of my feet and mind, now weighed down by a confusing, harsh social scene and poor fashion

choices, finally slowed and I suddenly felt stuck. Early adolescence had gifted me with a new found

self-awareness yet an ever-lowering self-assuredness; thus, my confidence levels plummeted at the exact

same time the expectations I held for myself skyrocketed. I found myself caught in a relentless limbo,

feeling as though my feet were glued to the top of the hill I was barrelling down.
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Not long after my life had slowed into this pushing and pulling lull, dancing started to consume

all of my time. Even as I began eating more chicken flavored Cup Noodles for dinner and doing the

majority of my homework on the floor of the crowded locker room at Suzannes Dance School, the

improvements I had made allowed me to regain some of the confidence and outspokenness I had recently

lost, in the studio at least. Every aspect of my dancing steadily strengthened: my technique, the quality of

my movements, my turns, my leaps. One feature shined above the rest, though. My feet. Every day,

someone new would compliment me on the pointe and flexibility of my feet. It was the one major thing

everyone noticed about me at dance, from the littlest girls at the studio to So You Think You Can Dance

and Dancing With the Stars Allison Holker.

My proficiency in pointing my feet should have been a huge boost to my self-esteem, a weight off

my back, but it wasnt. My ballet instructor Becky, a.k.a the woman everyone at the studio fears from day

one and the greatest admirer of my feet, quickly slapped me with a reality check before my ego could

grow. She said to me, Alissa, your feet are beautiful, but you are weak. Your flexibility is useless

without strength. This led me to learn a plethora of obscure ankle strengthening exercises, but most of

all, it led me to push myself. Hard. I became determined to make sure my flexibility, my pointe, my major

strength, would stay as strong as possible. I became determined not to get sucked into a limbo again, this

time between enough and not enough.

My tragic flaw is not my tendency to fib or the weakness of my ankles. It is my blinding

determination, my infinite momentum, my unwillingness to let anything interfere with my path. It is my

fear of ever pausing. I am the empty railcar that Edward Tulane traveled in; my feet are the endless tracks

that allow me to travel forever, without thinking and never ceasing. Without all of the people in my

life--my mom, fellow playground-goers, Abby, Shania Twain, Becky--I would never stop or slow down.

My feet would always be stuck, not in place but in constant motion, truly going nowhere. It is these
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outside forces that fill me with purpose and meaning, because they make me see the surrounding world

rather than just the road ahead.