Years of teen dramas and high school horror stories prepared me for P.E. I was never a fast runner, never played a sport for more than a year, and I hated the screech of smelly gym shoes on freshly polished floors. P.E. was the bane of my existence—until I took Dance and Yoga sophomore year with Mrs. Foote. 

My fourth-period Dance and Yoga class was made up of 30-or-so girls, a supportive community of ethereal girl bosses who would never judge your mile time and would always offer you a hair tie. If Wonder Woman’s fabled Amazonian tribe of warrior princesses existed, they resided in the upper gym from 1:25 p.m. to 2:55 p.m.

Heading this pack of girls was Mrs. Foote, our queen bee. A woman who was willing to let us play the new Harry Styles single in class to make our warm-up go by faster. Once, during my warm-up, I was beckoned by Mrs. Foote. Was I in trouble? Had she finally realized I walked the mile as soon as I was out of sight? 

“Hey, Amira, who’s your favorite superhero?” Mrs. Foote asked. Within a week, she had picked up on my love for Marvel and decided to start a conversation with me about it to get to know me. What a benevolent queen she was. 

Dance and Yoga was a safe space. In the sacred presence of the yoga mats, we were all friends. When you led a dance—no matter how rhythmically challenged—everyone in the class would applaud you enthusiastically as if Beyonce herself had reigned down from the heavens to execute a masterful bit of choreography. 

I raise a glass to this community of women, able to turn the hellish state of team sports into the utopia that is Dance and Yoga. Thank you.