They are the only ones who speak clearly. We are the only ones to give them sound. 34 noisy tap shoes with 4 pieces of silver metal perfectly screwed into the bottom. 34 amongst an entire class of seventeen. Seventeen senior dancers learning in the studio. 

From down the hall, you can hear them, but up close you can see the magnificent making of the sound. The sound is thundering. They strike sharp sounds from hitting the floor. They get tightened and they wear out and they catch the floor between their smooth steps and radiate the sound of the silver metal and always are heard. This is how they speak. 

If one of the seventeen forget the counts, we would all tap around like happy feet, each trying to listen for the right counts. Six, seven, eight one yells when one forgets. We’re together. When I am too tired and too sore to keep tapping, when I am giving up before class is over, then it is I look at my teacher. When there is someone there to inspire in the studio. One who danced on Broadway stages. One who strived and didn't stop till he succeeded. One whose only reason is to show and to teach.