Nia Sioux pirouettes along the line of refreshing truth and self validation in her memoir Bottom of the Pyramid, sharpening each point of this multi-sided answer. 

Released on Tuesday, the book is practically a horror novel. A former child star on the reality series Dance Moms, Sioux recounts the Abby Lee Dance Company and its atmosphere of bullying and racial discrimination that she grew up with. 

While some of the other dancers on choreographer Abby Lee Miller’s competition team have also published memoirs, Sioux’s is the only one to strike back against her perpetrators. 

Anyone who claims to have once loved Dance Moms is in for a media literacy audit. Yes, reality TV is not meant to be reliable, but while Bottom of the Pyramid provides context to the moms’ infamous on-screen faceoffs, anyone who cared enough to read between the lines could’ve predicted this book a decade ago. 

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The book begins with a foreword by a fellow Dance Moms child star, Chloe Lukasiak, whispering over the notable political points. Though sentimental while giving Sioux her flowers, it was mediocre. It felt like she didn’t read the book herself and just wrote the most generic thing she could. She explained her personal perspective, but I cannot say it was moving. It was too brief to budge me. 

Nevertheless, Bottom of the Pyramid reads easily, flowing well out of necessity of its heavy subject matter.

Sioux recovers in the following introduction, explaining her scarred thought process behind the book’s title. Miller would rank the dancers’ performance weekly, with their headshots taped in a pyramid formation on a wall. She belittled whoever found themselves at the bottom as the weakest link. 

This was often Sioux, every week. In the book, she equates the bottom of the pyramid to be the strongest piece. The pyramid itself wouldn’t exist without it — those at the top couldn’t appreciate the skyline without the foundation’s support. 

“I’ve always known one important reality: When you’re at the bottom, the only place you can go is up,” Sioux wrote.

Her mother was a dancer and her parents signed her up at Miller’s dance studio out of pure convenience for its location. Neither knew the gasoline they were purchasing when investing in lessons with Miller. 

Sioux calls Miller’s presence “tremendous,” describing her to be “loud, big, and usually draped in black.” Miller forced her to wear yellow, Sioux writes, insisting that Black people look best in yellow. 

Sioux’s favorite color is pink.

Most dancers at the studio were scared of Miller, and Sioux makes it clear this memoir is not meant to be kind in Miller’s characterization as a “real live Miss Trunchbull from Matilda.”

Recounting countless incidents such as racially charged remarks, age-inappropriate gifts and routines, body shaming, social ostracism, screaming matches, career sabotage, crafted rivalries, instigated meltdowns and manipulated footage — Sioux sheds light on Lifetime feeding kindling to the dance company dumpster fire for ratings.

Again, anyone who paid any sort of attention knew this already. Miller would play nice for the camera when she could be bothered, but her nasally compliments never felt genuine, no matter the meaningful back score the producers would slap on the final edit. Part of the drama was that the audience knew the scale was rigged and production was corrupt. Every once in a while, Sioux would get thrown a sympathy bone, and the audience would rally behind the underdog character that the producers made out of her. 

This book added shocking context to some of the things the audience didn’t see, but those who actually paid attention can skip it. The episodes tell on themselves.

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Holly Frazier didn’t remove her daughter from the studio because of their tricky contract with Lifetime and because of Sioux’s relentless determination to keep going. She stayed on Dance Moms for seven seasons, from ages nine to 15, appearing longer than any other dancer.

Dancing between to stay or to go meant that Sioux’s pirouettes were across hot coals, both then and now. Then, she stayed and grew thicker soles. Now, she writes that she does not regret what shaped her.

There was warmth there, Sioux insists, friendships and memories and irreplaceable character development. 

And the cover is gorgeous. Sioux sits in a vibrant yellow dress among a memorial of her old dance costumes, triumphant. 

The opening track, “Agnus Dei,” lights the fire with lead singer Abigail Morris’ vocals, establishing the project as an edgier addition to their discography. It is an interesting introduction with a British glam Queen-esque tone, asking: “Was that enough to make you come? Am I enough to make you stay?”

Staying true to their core, The Last Dinner Party serves layered lyricism, nodding to both romantic and religious themes.

A guitar riff reminiscent of Arctic Monkeys’ style guides listeners into “Count the Ways”, an outstanding gothic-rock recount of an omniscient romantic pain. The guitar felt fresh and new, and their overall experimentation is cozy.

They meet their storytelling quota with “This is the Killer Speaking”, encouraging a sing-along with the band’s backing vocals. Describing a romantic connection that ultimately met its demise, the lyrics are gut-punching.

“Your kindness didn’t last beyond a fry-up and my spit upon your sheets,” Morris sings. “When your hand is bigger than my heart / You can crush it just the way you like.”

But then they lost me with: “You look like a weeping saint with your infected eye.”

I understand the intent was to flip off your ex, but the adjective choice of “infected” stuck out like a sore thumb. Why “infected?” Why introduce the imagery of a stye or pink eye? Then I remembered the spit on the sheets and what that infection might imply. It’s a gross, but funny, joke.

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Though that song was a cheeky little puzzle to figure out, “Rifle” was just unsolvable. It was theatric, interesting, apocalyptic, rousing, but left me wondering why the French at the end?

Another review called it sophistication, but I thought it was pointlessly grasping at intrigue. In fulfilling their legacy of layered lyricism in the beginning and middle, a subversion like that at the end shouldn’t confuse the listener — it should be an easter egg. I wanted to find something interesting when I searched, “Is anyone in The Last Dinner Party French?”

No, they’re definitely British.

Unfortunately, this is where my green check mark streak stopped on Spotify. The last chunk of the album was mush, not flavorless but texture-less.

“Sail Away” was calm and pretty, but I would bet money that “I’m more than a girl, I am a seaside” will eventually be an Instagram caption for an esoteric photo dump.

The three song run, “Woman is a Tree,” “I Hold Your Anger” and “Sail Away,” are the holy trinity to convince tortured young women who can’t afford a therapist to scream these marketably vulnerable lyrics on their recently announced tour. Featuring opportunities for that cathartic collective scream is nice, but it didn’t impress.

Surprisingly, the magic does not translate through headphones for a more vocally forward project. My ears became tired. The listening experience felt far from dynamic with the same repetitive group chants.

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“The Scythe” is a song that Abby Lee Miller would’ve choreographed a lyrical group piece to. And on the album’s last song, “Inferno”, I realized why I felt confused. Their PR team undoubtedly asked AI what their next move should be to keep the momentum from their 2023 hit “Nothing Matters”.

They definitely read the rubric, turned it in on time and the focus group may have loved it. Yet, it feels cleansed of the earwormish quality of their debut.

Ultimately, it’s still an amazing project, but you have to appreciate it like abstract art in a museum. It’s impactful, but you’ll forget about it until randomly scrolling through your camera roll one day.

From The Pyre must be served hot and fresh, loud in a concert hall. The beginning was fantastic, but the album should’ve leaned more into the rock-edge that it teased. Though a sufficient expansion on their sound, it is primarily effective in its purpose to sell tickets.

I really hope that they play more of their first album than this one at The Anthem in April — I guess I’m sold.

The invasive bugs were first found in the U.S. in 2014, according to the Department of Agriculture’s website. They feed on a variety of plants and can further harm them by producing a fluid that “promotes sooty mold growth.”

A sense of duty taps me on the shoulder whenever I come across a lanternfly every three steps. I look a bit crazed as I try to catch the one flying away from me, but I want to do my best to be a righteous civilian. Even though I wasn’t able to donate to that GoFundMe I saw, I can still do my part to help get rid of these pests.

Freshman psychology major Alexis Yonkers recounted walking on the sidewalk — or more accurately, a graveyard of lanternflies — adding to the body count with the bottom of her shoe.

“They’re like dumbass cicadas, they’ll just fly straight at you,” Yonkers said.

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Andzelika Berestko, a fine arts graduate student, describes the bug squishing as “doing a dance” when she spots people stomping left and right on the ground. She said when she used to work in New York, she’d see people there brushing the bugs off their clothes.

“It almost became this cultural agreement,” Berestko said. “Like we are linking hands to kill them.”

But Berestko believes the casualness about killing the bugs is quite jarring.

She said personal beliefs prevent her from killing bugs, such as mosquitos, but acknowledged the suggestions from scientists to do so with the lanternflies.

In turn, I started questioning myself when catching glimpses of crushed wings attached to red-smeared marks on the sidewalk. Why did I abandon my empathy to execute a kill order I didn’t even fully understand?

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Freshman psychology major Rorie Allen said she learned about the lanternfly problem from a family member working in nature conservation.

“Yeah, it’s a huge problem,” Allen recounted her family member saying. “It’s not so much anymore because the birds and the bats are finally starting to eat them.”

According to the University of Maryland Extension’s website, natural enemies of the spotted lanternfly include various bugs such as spiders, stink bugs and assassin bugs, as well as birds.

Brian Walsh, a horticulture educator at Penn State Extension and longtime studier of spotted lanternflies, characterizes the campaign to kill them to be blown out of proportion, according to a Vox article from 2022.

“We’re not going to eradicate them,” Walsh said in the article. “We need to look at this as more of a chronic problem.”

I realized the murderous rhythm in my feet was fueled by self-indulgence rather than an informed conservation effort. But the birds and wildlife can’t catch them all, so it still feels permissible to take action with our feet on our day-to-day walks to help protect the environment.

A month later, nothing back in Maryland feels adequate anymore. Now, I miss European cafe-culture anytime I’m in line getting a mediocre latte and an overpriced pastry.

It seems two other University of Maryland students shared a similar experience, romanticizing a Euro-summer escape.

Orli Ospital, a freshman theater and psychology major, found herself most charmed by the “gorgeously made” historic architecture in European countries. She compared their historic everyday buildings to overly modernized landscapes in the United States.

I also miss walking everywhere, for both my health and the environment. Helena Barros Checcucci, a freshman psychology major on the pre-med track, lived in Belgium and has an appreciation for the city’s environmental awareness.  Brussels’ annual car-free day is an example of this initiative. Bikers, public transit users, and others in walkers put American highway culture to shame.

Checcucci also noted that even outdoor markets crowd the streets. Ospital said she enjoyed her lack of physical discomfort and freedom to eat anything she desired while abroad.

But I have to remind myself of all the times I wished I was back home. Now that I remember, it was a lot.

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Ospital said she had family in France, but she still felt dismissed by locals when she was there. I experienced similar attitudes in Portugal and Spain, plagued by awkward staring and nonconsensual games of bumper cars.

Checcucci said “literally every corner” in Europe was polluted with the omnipresent cloud of cigarette smoke. At a certain point in my trip, I felt that people would bump past or cut in front of me simply to fumigate me with their cigarette smoke.

Yet, I thought the Europeans had something I didn’t. The grass seemed greener, which was why I booked the plane ticket, why so many of us do.

It feels like Europe has become a playground for many repressed young people from the United States. It’s whimsical and “romanticized”, Ospital said.

“Everyone’s taking pictures of the pretty parts of Europe and everything, but no one’s talking about the terrible politics that are happening in France right now and other terrible things across Europe,” Ospital said. “Europe is so romanticized because [people] only take pictures of the perfect things in Europe.”

While this is the case with any travel destination, accessibility truly allowed the pendulum to swing in the European countries’ favor.

Checcucci also said an American value was the need for convenience.

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Simply put, if you want your coffee fast, you will inevitably get watered-down sugar milk. Checcucci said Americans are entranced by this convenience.

Sacrificing quality for convenience is uncommon in most European countries, Checcucci said. She explained that their culture makes it easier to find bakeries and other amenities.

Ospital’s family pre-plans every travel trip, and she equates success with that same attitude.

“If you want that cute coffee shop, you have to look it up, you have to find it, you have to search for it,” Ospital said. You aren’t just going to find the cutest coffee shop just by walking down the street in Europe, in DC or wherever.”

When thinking of all the European characteristics that charm us, at first it seemed that it added up to a looming superiority. Coming home to the university’s e-scooters and syllabi, Ospital tries to romanticize doing her homework and scented diffuser as daily highlights.

Checcucci enjoys American football for the spirit more than the game. Her European friends romanticise her tailgate Instagram posts, Checcucci added, and she still laughs with her friends who comment about living the American life.

“Europe romanticizes America, so so much,” Ospital said. That includes yellow school buses to cheerleaders.

Coming back home and forming my routines again, I find that the answer to quench escapism is effort and patience. Though I am still a fan of a good vacation, I must begin my search for my favorite local cafe.