The gray Marley floor was smooth under my pointe shoe encased feet. I observed the pink satin tips thoughtfully. I fleetingly thought of a title, “The Great Pointe Paradox.” The shoes were a paradox, of sorts. The audience only see the delicate satin that allowed the ballerina to barely skim the stage with her toes. They do not see the layers of cardboard and cloth and glue that go into making the shoe. Nor do they see the extent to which we go to make the grueling manipulation of the shoe seem – effortless. Like so many things, the pointe shoes were pretty on the outside but ugly on the inside.  The pointe shoes were the first mask I noticed. A mask that hid what we sought to forget.

I turned to look around the room, to see what I could observe, what I had always taken for granted, but never took the time to understand. The teacher had not entered the studio. She was late. On my left, but slightly in front, was a tall blonde. She stood erect, waiting for the teacher – as if patiently waiting for authority. Her hands were still by her sides, and she never touched the barre – a perfect student. Her composure would have been admirable, if her eyes had not been, every so often, flitting across the room – silently observing – occasionally lingering on a few whispering girls, wanting – perhaps longing – to join in, but holding back because temperament would not allow. On my right was another girl – a brunette – petite in stature and slightly coquettish. She spoke with a deliberate accent that was vaguely European. She was talking to her neighbor in a needlessly high voice that gave an impression of falsity. She spoke animatedly, with gestures and nods, as if seeking to put drama into the situation. She was on her way to becoming – what they used to call – “cool,” but she was not quite there yet. In front of me stood, or rather, should have been standing, a tall one with black hair. She was popular, perfectly in charge, although outmatched in talent by her blonde contemporary. What she lacked in talent was made up for by style. She buzzed from dancer to dancer talking with so and so for a few minutes before moving on to someone else. The portable barre was only there as a placeholder it seemed, for its owner never returned until the teacher did.

I meditated for a few seconds on the peculiarity of the human condition, how interesting it was to observe so many different temperaments under a single roof. The three dancers I observed were all wearing masks, one wore a mask of composure, the other a mask of drama, and the third a mask of popularity. Each chose, perhaps spent a lifetime making, the mask they desired. I could only guess at what lay under the masks by observing, by waiting for a sign of insecurity that reveals that they are human – a fact we go to great lengths to deny.

The teacher entered the room, and the twenty girls were transformed into dancers. What had, minutes previously, been a mass of voices, high and low, authoritative and submissive, became a mass of moving legs and arms, high and low, smooth and sharp. We spent the first half hour warming up, stretching and lifting and reaching. Slowly, we gained speed, gathering momentum, kicking, turning, extending. Some of the dancers returned to being girls – teenagers – and were lost in the whirlwind. Others, more resilient, kept moving through. It was time to leave the barre, and all was chaos. The dancers seemed to have forgotten that they were dancers – or girls. A bee-like buzzing of voices and running feet and moving bodies spread through the room. A buzzing that hung in the air for a second before collapsing into the former disciplined precision. A mask – once again – a mask that hid the buzzing – that smothered the chaotic spirit – in hopes that it would be extinguished. We moved through adagio, the most dreaded test of balance and extension, then moved on to pirouettes. The dancers who were turners pushed their way to the front row, eager to perform. The jumpers hung back, uncertain. The teacher called out both in turn, the turners and the jumpers. The two labels, masks, were readily adopted because they saved one from the need to acknowledge that there is no such thing as a turner or a jumper – only a dancer.

Turning was delicate, precise, calculated. If a dancer was not perfectly placed, both physically and mentally, she would be thrown off course. The turning spirit was the turning point of class. Those who had been glassy-eyed minutes before were now erect, engaged. They were seized by a force that pushed circular motion, forcing it, then guiding it, finally ending it. After turns came jumps, and, at once, exhilarated faces were lighted up as the floor threw them higher and higher with each bounce, the muscular push of the repelling legs creating a marvelous effect of suspension – a surrealistic image. In the steps they performed, there was no masking. All that was hidden came into effect and faults were put under the spotlight. Some dancers, I observed, retreated into the back row, hiding in the shadows, hoping against hope that they would not be noticed by the eagle-eyed teacher. Others sprung in front of the teacher’s chair, taking center stage, embracing the limelight. Yet, still, they hid under a mask of bravado. A mask that would – one day – slip.

Class was over. As I left the room and strode into the lobby, I was greeted by a smell of fried fish. The dancers were back to being girls again. I climbed into the black leather backseat. Cars were pulling out of the parking lot. They appeared to be almost mechanical, delivering and receiving, parking and moving, only to be replaced by the next batch. A small green car next to me had a big yellow label on the trunk “STUDENT DRIVER PLEASE BE PATIENT.” The student driver almost hit a mother holding her daughter’s hand before braking with a jolt. I then realized that “Student Driver” was also a mask behind which one could hide inexperience, insecurity, perhaps even recklessness. The green car was certainly insured. If the driver had a crash, the car would be replaced, but I wondered if the driver’s life was insured, if it – also – could be replaced. We stopped at a department store on the way back. I observed two girls in their late teens exiting the store. One was wearing skinny jeans that were – inevitably – torn. She had shoulder length dusty yellow hair, while the other had brown hair that was pinned up. Both were running across the street, missing a speeding car by a second. They had barely reached the parking lot before they ran back the other side, racing, it seemed, in hot pursuit of an invisible something. I wondered what it was they were so intent on pursuing to the point of blindness. I then realized. They were chasing a fast-escaping youth. Masking their reckless behavior with the label of “teenage”- a label they were slowly shedding, and yet, yearning for a chance to hold on to it a second longer. What they did not realize was that the object of their pursuit was, in reality, invisible. In fact, it was already gone.

We reached home, a handsome house that lay in a row of handsome houses. As I stepped through the front door, the smell of freshly fried falafel wafted through. I glanced at the mural of Islamic calligraphy on the wall, before noticing the clock. It was 7:35. Time to break our fast. My journey was coming to an end, but I recorded one last mask. In the smell of falafel, in the mural, in the breaking of the fast, I recognized the mask of cultural belonging that hides so much: our history, our heritage, our ancestry. It hid the desire for collectiveness; our craving for “we,” for “us,” for “our.” I wondered what we would see if we shed that mask, perhaps we would find – nothing at all.

• Ayah Gouda