“Mom, can I go there?”

I looked up from typing my latest assignment at the sound of Nia’s voice. “Go where?”

She pointed at the TV screen, where a little girl in a ballet costume was twirling and pirouetting onstage. “I want to do what she’s doing.”

I quickly put two and two together, but still asked the question to be clear. “So you’re saying you want to take dancing lessons?”

“Uh-huh.” She bobbed her head up and down excitedly. “I want to dance.”

“Hmmm.” Nia wasn’t aware of it, but I had just navigated to the Dallas Black Dance Theater’s website for class times and costs. “We’ll see. Let me speak to your father about it first.”

And later that April evening, after some serious discussion about the time, effort and expense that would be involved, Calvin agreed that we would test Nia’s resolve with the six-week Summer Academy Workshop Program, where she would receive an hour of training every Saturday morning for tap and ballet.

While Nia was super-excited about her upcoming classes and brand new dance gear, Calvin remained unsure. “You’re sure we’re not putting too much on her, and that she’ll want to keep doing this?”

“If Nia wasn’t able to hang, she wouldn’t have asked about it in the first place. I think that it’s important for us to honor her wishes and see where they can take her.”

Calvin’s concerns were understandable, given the rigorous training and the discipline that the training demands, but I understood her initiative from the beginning because of our creativity-endowed gene pool.

Nia’s late great-grandfather George dabbled in oil painting. His daughter Trina — my maternal aunt — is a trained dancer who’s been featured in many stage productions in my native Ohio.

My uncle Wes sold short stories to magazines years before I became a professional, while my knack for interviewing likely came from my father’s late uncle, Emanuel Irby, who hosted personalities for a local talk show in his hometown of Sandusky.

In spite of that wellspring of talent, it took me years to coalesce my interests in music and media into a profession. So I hoped that allowing Nia the opportunity would accomplish one of two things: Convince our dancing diva to pursue more training or to leave her natural performing acumen in the hobby column for the amusement of family and friends.

Her first public recital was last Saturday. Almost one year after she displayed an interest in dance, Nia sat among hundreds of costumed girls assembled for a group photo on center stage at the Majestic Theatre, eager to perform segments of tap and ballet for us, Grandpa Sam, sister Layla and cousins Elijaahh and DJ.

And minutes later, as she twirled, spun and shimmied under the spotlight, personifying her nickname of “Diva” for all to see, our firstborn daughter was fearless and fabulous, glowing with a confidence brighter than the sparkles in her aqua blue ensemble. I was mesmerized by what we were all witnessing: a young girl’s dreams taking root and boldly blossoming right before our eyes.

Nia was her usual low-key self when everyone engulfed her with congratulatory hugs and kisses after intermission. But her giddiness returned when she reached into her backpack and thrust out a marble-based statuette. “Look Mom, I got an award!”

“‘Dallas Black Dance Academy, Spring Recital 2012,’” Calvin read aloud. “We’re putting this up on the shelf in your room. Good job, Baby Girl.”

“Thanks, Daddy, but we have to leave room for the other ones I’ll get.”

We rode home exchanging secretive smiles about the future: Whether Nia would become an instructor at the lauded dance academy or even a triple-threat dancer/actress/director, no one knows for sure.

But what we’re definitely certain of is that, as her mother and father, we heard her hopes and nurtured her goals from the very beginning. So no matter where Nia’s gifts lead her, the path won’t feel so daunting since she’s already taken that first step.