Dance Class Seeks Change in Rhythm of Youths’ Lives

PACOIMA — Elizabeth Urbina learned at an early age how to move to the rhythms of her neighborhood.

If one of her junior high schoolmates tried to bully her, Elizabeth would curl her fists--ready to fight for the respect she knew was crucial to a teen-ager’s life in Pacoima. But when local gang members said that respect could come more easily if she joined their ranks, Elizabeth would sidestep that lifestyle with a smile and a “no, thank you.”

She did so because she’s smart, she said. She knows how to survive.

Gangs aren’t for her, the 14-year-old said. “I don’t want to get into trouble.” Even so, she admits, she won’t turn away from a fight. “Sometimes I can’t control myself. It comes naturally. But, it causes problems.”

But Elizabeth has been trying to acquire a sense of control with something else she finds comes naturally--dancing. Through dance, she and 18 other teen-age and elementary school-age girls from the northeast San Fernando Valley have begun a search for new rhythm in their lives.

Dance is something that more girls enrolled in the Los Angeles Police Department’s 6-year-old Jeopardy program are turning to in this section of the Valley.

The effect, program officials hope, is one where the poise and balance found on the dance floor extends itself into other aspects of the girls’ lives.

“A lot of these kids are just looking for some control,” said Detective Dick Knapp, coordinator of the Foothill Division’s Jeopardy effort. “They don’t know that there is a completely different world outside their neighborhood. We want them to see that there is.”

Although some Jeopardy students may learn about that world through horseback riding, drama or other activities, the dance students undergo an exploration of a completely different type. Theirs is an internal journey, dance teacher Dianne Mares said.

Much like virtually every class in the LAPD program, Mares’ group is a mixture of streetwise teen-agers and bright-eyed elementary school children. Parents of teen-agers considered to be “at-risk” by both police and teachers are urged to enroll their children in the program. Parents of elementary school children usually enroll them in Jeopardy to guard them against potential problems later.

Most are dropped off by family or friends in front of the sweat-filled San Fernando warehouse used by Foothill Division’s Jeopardy program and picked up when class ends on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Some find rides with their classmates.

Given their troubled backgrounds, a few students are bound to show up for class with a load of school or domestic problems on their minds, Mares said.

Elizabeth sometimes vents about problems at school. “When somebody mad-dogs me, I can’t take that stuff,” she complained. Translation: If someone stares her down with disrespect, she’ll fight.

Unlike other Jeopardy members who are able to beat out such frustrations in more traditional efforts, such as boxing or basketball, Elizabeth and other dance students must force themselves to clear their minds by simply focusing on the way they move.

Many times, Mares said, their motions are awkward--true to the rest of their adolescent lives. Sometimes, however, students reveal genuine moments of grace.

“I’m trying to help them find the beauty in themselves,” Mares said. “I treat the class as a real dance class and, sometimes, they don’t like it. Their bodies aren’t used to moving like that.

“But, for their age, they already have a lot of problems,” she said. “They want to have fun and relax. So, I don’t make it too stressful.”

Consequently, dance sessions consist of stretches, turns and simple modern and jazz dance steps practiced repeatedly to the sounds of contemporary favorites such as Seal or Coolio. When a student shows signs of progress, Mares moves her on to more complicated routines.

“I don’t want to put too much pressure on them,” she said. “They need someone who’ll listen to them. Sometimes, they feel hopeless.”

When the 23-year-old Mares began teaching the dance class more than a year ago, she said she was the one who felt hopeless.

Persuaded to participate in the program by her mother, Brenda Mares, a Jeopardy board member, the aspiring professional dancer initially thought she could relay to her class some of the kinship she often felt with other dancers during her career.

For several weeks, however, her only student was a shy 9-year-old who refused to open up to her. Mares said she often felt her efforts were futile, particularly when more students showed an interest but were forced to quit by their parents.

Other students, meanwhile, refused to take direction from her, often rolling their eyes when she asked them to perform basic stretches or dance routines.

“I went home crying a lot in the beginning,” she said. “I couldn’t believe they lived such hard lives and that some parents were so indifferent.”

But after a while, more and more girls--even some boys--began showing up at the tiny warehouse corner reserved as her studio to give the class a whirl. Some were even enthusiastic.

Now, the echo of Mares’ “5-6-7-8” can be heard rising over the thumps of Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise” as her class practices turns or cartwheels in preparation for a November recital.

“Better, Anabel, much better,” she says, encouraging one student as she walks on an invisible balance beam.