NEED a starting paragraph for the following memoir describing the setting and feelings. Start with any sense, voice, or noise.
Need a starting paragraph of the following memoir describing feelings and setting with figurative language like a simile.
Performing the Bridge Kickover; Overcoming the Fear
I do not remember whether it was Mom or Dad who came up with the idea of me joining the Gymnastics class.
All the sessions went on in the designated gym. The schedule said that bridge kick over was among the first things the level II kids had to learn. The other part of orientation was just a preamble. I fondly remember the instructor’s embellished speech about a gymnast who eventually became an astronaut, another who became a charismatic president, and another just the sportsperson who is always at the top. Everything my instructor said was rosier than my grandpa’s garden in our backyard. I liked it because both mom and dad wanted me to be strong, mentally and physically, even more, so grandpa and I were learning that I would become the little lady who could kick some nonsense from messy characters.
On a sweltering hot spring midmorning, all the kids in the gym class, the instructor’s voice rose, in monotone, saying,’ this is how you do the bridge kick over…you use the abdominal muscles and the arms above the head, keep them in line with the ears…”. I was already lost this far; I did not even get a grain of sense what movements these were. I was scared. At some point I thought I heard, “while you’re trying to do all this, the bones in your arms will break, do you see them protruding through the flesh? They will twist, bend, pierce your abdomen…hear and see the blood swooshing!”. I used to call imaginations like these the devil’s whispering over my shoulder, but this was surreal. I thought I could not perform this hailed bridge kick over for beginners. My mind saw the havoc that I feared. My palms became clammy with sweat, and my knees were weak.
Immediately after the instructor finished doling out the instructions, I swung my bag to my back and shuffled on the spot as if my feet were being pricked by something. Emma, the kid next to me, looked at me with pursed lips, rolled up her eyes, and said, “this kick over, to do it will be cool, but it’s tough; I want ballet, not this.”. I answered, not wanting to betray her, “it is better I learn dancing, but if dad insists, I will be in the gymnastics. I just have to.” “Oh! Your dad is like mine?!… he’s also making me stay.”
On the school bus home, I sit next to Emma. We had become friends, but we still had little to share. The silence between us was interspersed by affirmations about how our dads must break this down. The school bus pulled up at the curb where I usually alighted. I said goodbye to Emma. Dad was off-duty, so I found him home busy with his typical repairs around the house and mom in the kitchen. Grandpa sat on his favorite rocking chair in the living room. When grandpa saw me, his face lit up as he teased, “here comes the budding champion gymnast…my little cutie come here and show me the kicker…I know how it all goes in the gymnastics class.” In came Dad, “Mary! Did you learn something in the gymnastic class today?”. “Yes, but it is hard stuff, here is the handbook”, I answered. “Dad please…read the steps and show me how it is supposed to be done, then if madam instructor demonstrates to us tomorrow, it is going to be all good for me”. Grandpa seconded, and together we always were an unbeatable team. “Okay”, Dad answered. The bridge kickover is not that hard, but at first, it is scary. Daddy went on and demonstrated the bridge kickover for me. In our living room, it did not seem as dangerous as the school gym arena. I tried, merely scampering and wobbling. But I now understood what I had to do. When Daddy was done with the demonstration, grandpa nodded in approval and clapped, laughing heartily at my trial. So basically, a routine was established. Every other gym class session was recaptured in our living room, with daddy demonstrating.
On the second day of the gymnastics class, it all made sense. My instructor said, “You start with a bridge.” Her arms and legs were on the floor, face upwards, the torso arched and pushed towards the shoulders. She became like a small hill, only that the space under her body was not a solid mass. Next, she instructed, “now kick your dominant leg,” and threw her body from the previous posture to this one, and she went on, “split handstand,” levered out of the handstand, and finally landed the kick over. “You should each line up here and, one by one, execute the steps.” I responded, “Excuse me, madam, let me go first.” “As you say, little miss and the rest psyche up for you are all next, each for a turn.” I waltzed through the steps. Yes, in my mind, I waltzed perfectly. But it was a good confident one I had given, a combination of my dad’s living room carpet and Madam instructor’s refined one. “You have done just fine, Mary, but there is room for improvement. “Thank you, madam instructor, for teaching me well.” I reckoned that the room for improvement was our living room, with dad as the instructor and under the close watch of my grandpa and mum.