By Ashley, 2000
I stepped out of the cramped Ford Probe and stretched my legs. Finally, we were at the hotel! I saw a few heads full of the telltale Soft Spike curlers, the choice of curly-haired champions, rush in through the doors ahead of me, and the excitement began to build. The three hours in the car were deemed fully worth the trouble. We were in Indianapolis during the summer, ready to experience the best time of the year: the annual Indianapolis Feis.
As this was a Saturday-only feis, my family and I had reached our hotel the Friday afternoon beforehand. We quickly began the process that had become second nature to us in the few years that I had begun my competitive Irish dance experience. We left our bags in the car; as she checked in, my brother and I scoped out the area for carts. Upon finding one (usually the rejected, gimping cart) we took it outside and began to unload. On went the heavier bags, the backpacks, and then the pillows. My brother hung jackets on the hanger and started to wheel it inside; I stayed behind to close up the car and carry my costumes. As they cost $1150 between the two, I don’t trust many others with the heavy load. That night, I fell asleep to new but still familiar sounds. Some may dislike hotel life, but it is one of my most favorite parts of traveling.
The next morning I woke up with butterflies not only in my stomach, but whirling around in my head and making my skin tingle as well. I was nervous, again.
It was the day of the Indianapolis Feis.
Moaning, I rolled out of bed at 7:30. As usual, my mother was awake before me. Rummaging through my bags, I pulled out my usuals plus nude nylons, white "poodle" socks that could reach up to my calves with the help of the godlike substance known as sock glue, and a tank top. I pulled my dress bag into the middle of an open space and unzipped it, searching for the lime green bloomers that matched my dress. These strange pieces of the costume are for modesty when we kick our dresses up; also called lollipops, kickpants, and spankies, they remind one of poofy granny panties. I was a sight to behold after I slipped my jeans on — the hip-hugging pants left at least an inch and a half of bright lime green satin showing across my waist.
I threw on a sweatshirt.
I brushed my hair up into a bun, and stabbed bobby pins in it within an inch of its life. Then, I searched for my extra hair. Trust me, the only reason I wasn’t tripping over beds and ramming into partition walls that morning was because I had a curled hairpiece. Wig caps and hairpieces are often used in Irish dancing, as the norm is curled hair. With the piece, I was actually able to get sleep Friday night, instead of having my hair yanked out while the curlers were set in, attempted to be slept on, and then taken back out again.
The clock hit 8:00 and I was itching to go. Opening ceremonies were to start at 9:00; the competitions themselves were soon after. We still needed to walk to the convention center, check in, set up "camp" at our table with the other school families, and of course check out the hallway of vendors. We grabbed my costume, shoe bag, hair kit and my painting and easel for the Fine Arts competition.
Luckily we reached the center only fifteen minutes later to the sound of a Scottish bagpiper. The feis was held on the center’s second floor; my ears picked up the National Anthem at ground floor. I felt like Doug from The Cutting Edge, rushing down a hallway with hockey equipment in hand to make the Olympic Games.
After check in, scanning my entries listed on the back of my number, I found they left me off of the Fine Arts competition. It was another adventure in dance land as I ran to drop our things off, while my mother got in the "Corrections to Syllabus" line. The volunteer was very nice to us, as they often are at Indy — the mistake was corrected within ten minutes. In the non-dance competition room, the set-up went almost without a glitch — there was only one more run back to get a forgotten extra number to set by the painting.
The few non-dance competitors filtered in the room. Amongst them was my friend Ana with her Irish soda bread. She is also a dancer, but her future focus is to be a master of the culinary arts. I hear that she usually wins every soda bread contest that she enters.
I would have to ask for a bite of the winning piece later. Right now, the main goal was to get back to the table, stretch out and warm up, and get my costume on. The last part could wait at least an hour, however; this year, I was a Novice dancer.
I surveyed the large ballroom before me. Divided by partition walls, there were four stages down the right side, and five down the left. On the left wall, the middle stage was the largest — this was the Championship stage, which had also held Opening Ceremonies. The rest were for non-Championship and Adults.
Ceili dances and other figures were set farthest away from me. The beginners started their light jigs on various stages around me.
I meandered around, enjoying my last few moments of freedom. This was what I enjoyed most, simply watching the dance being performed. The dancers lined up along the back of each two-inch-tall plywood stage, competing two by two. I could tell a good dancer when I saw him or her, or have my heart break as a little one forgot her steps and went back into line in tears.
As the Advanced Beginners gradually took over the stages, I went back to our area and put on my costume. Dressing at a feis is a talent all its own. On went the shoes and dress, and off went the jeans. Hair was already done. We attached the Velcro pieces from my cape to my shoulders, and buttoned the bottom down. This is especially important, and not only do you not want your cape to fly everywhere because of appearance points, but you don’t want to whack your competitors in the head. It’s just not good manners or good karma. The tank top stayed on underneath the dress. As it gets quite warm, especially at the outdoor no-shade Chicago Feis, this is a very necessary piece of the costume. To cool off, most dancers will unzip the long-sleeved top and let it hang down, the skirt still set around the hips.
By the third or fourth competition, feis participants come together like a well-oiled machine. If a dancer can’t reach her zipper to put her dress back on, and her mother is nowhere to be found, she can simply ask the person next to her if they would re-zip her dress. The people are a breed all their own — they are make-up consultants, stylists, costumers, banks, Greyhound buses, trainers, coaches, shoulders to cry on, but so much more. "Is my hair okay?" and "Ohmygawd, your dress is beyond cool!" is coupled with competitors sharing crucial information. "Watch the top right corner, it bounces a bit, and the middle of the back gets slippery." "Do you remember the timing to your set so you can tell the musician? No? Well, why don’t you dance it for me and I could try to figure it out."
I looked around the room, seeing the boys in their sleek pants and silk shirts, and the girls in a rainbow of colors. It seemed as though a flock of graceful, proud tropical birds had descended upon the ballroom.
I smiled to myself, now in costume as well, officially ready to begin my day. This is how I was meant to be. This was where I belonged.