"Creative" Non-fiction

I had a hard time with this unit to be honest. Partially because I just didn't have the time to focus on writing these past few weeks. Also, there is something about Creative Non-fiction that just feels contrived. I can't quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it's my instructor's insistence that every element be factual. According to him, not even a sentence of dialogue can be made up. I can't help but think of Tim O'brien's explanation of true war stories:

True war stories are true even if they never happened. But some stories aren't true, whether they really happened or not. For example, there's one everyone knows: one man jumps on an exploding grenade to save his friends from dying as well. It may have happened, but it isn't true. This is because whether it happened or not matters. On the other hand, if the guy jumped on the grenade and everyone died anyway, that is a true story whether it happened or not.

I like that idea. And that's why I included fictional details in my "non-fiction." They seemed to convey a deeper or more general "truth." Also, my instructor will never know the difference. So without further ado, here is an essay I'm considering turning in for the unit final next week. It's rough and neither particularly creative nor profound. But it's true.

Breathing heavily, I attempt a discrete effort at stemming the miniature waterfall trickling down my forehead. I brush aside my sweaty bangs and stumble through yet another salsa step, nearly crushing the nimble toes of the far more coordinated girl on my left.

Due to the persistence of my roommate and several conveniently placed posters inviting me to “ditch the work out and join the party,” I chose to attend a “Zumba” class. Though a Latin-infused aerobic dance workout may initially sound more appealing than my traditional thirty-minute elliptical routine, I still had misgivings. Yet in some remarkable act of masochism or sheer stupidity I found myself slinking into the back of room 134 of the Richards Building last Monday afternoon. Becky, the perky instructor, greeted us with a high ponytail and headset mic to ensure we wouldn’t miss one word of her overly enthusiastic encouragement. She seemed the personification of aerobic Barbie, albeit more modestly clad. However, Becky failed inform me that Zumba combines three of my least favorite things: dancing, athletic activity and public humiliation. Granted, my aversion to the aforementioned activities could stem from my complete lack of skill in the first two areas.

Throughout my teenage years I avoided stake dances at all costs. While I could handle a simple rocking step with my feet, I never knew what to do with my hands. Consequently, I often twirled my hair or fidgeted with my phone to avoid awkward flailing. Similarly, my experience with organized sports boasts no great successes. My inability to remember which basket to shoot toward seriously hampered my brief stint in 7th grade basketball. It may have been halfway through the season before I realized the teams switched baskets at halftime.

Unfortunately, my athletic coordination hasn’t improved since my middle school glory days. I can’t seem to figure out how each of the girls around me remain so perfectly in sync. Did I miss a dress rehearsal? Do they all possess a telepathic ability to anticipate Becky’s every fist pump, even when facing the back wall? It’s as if a puppeteer has strung invisible cord through each blonde, impeccably toned body, yielding almost robotically unified leg lifts.

Yet despite this distinct self-awareness of my every misstep, no one really seems to notice my clumsiness. They’re all too focused on reaching Zumba zen, coordinating their cha-chas to Santana’s Smooth. Perhaps I’ll never “dance like no one’s watching,” but Zumba might just be close enough.