My younger sister always ran in first, her delicate fingers tightly scrolled around the flimsy handle of the patent leather case that held her change of clothes: A flounce of pink tulle, black leotard, tights and the soft, leather sippers that made no sound against the polished wood floor of Miss Hertha's ballet studio.
Like most of the other little girls our age, we spent many of our best days draping our tender frames in sequined castoffs from our mother’s wardrobe then prancing about the house with the dramatic carriage of immured aristocracy awaiting rescue by the Prince.
But lately I had begun to detect unfortunate disparities between my awkward deportment and the sweeping grace of Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella; and on this afternoon, at six years old I would be told something that would inform my self-perception for the rest of my life.
"Watch where you're going, Suzi!" I heard the mild concern and frustration in my mother's voice calling out from the car in the parking lot as she grappled to release my infant brother from his car seat.
“How many times must I tell you to stop looking down at your feet when you walk? You'll develop a hump! Now hurry inside or you'll be late for class!"
Looking up I watched the winsome flock of diminutive dancers enter the building ahead of me in an animated flutter like a covey of black and pink sparrows; and with one exception they were all exquisitely dainty.
The exception, a larger, black-haired girl whom I suspected was also a bit older, was a sweet but rotund cherub of a dancer with enormous cheeks and dimpled elbow’s, whose hefty steps even the soft, calfskin of her slippers could not adequately muffle.
“Whatever else I’m not, at least I’m not her,” I considered in mild consolation, as I removed the orthopedic shoes I wore to correct my knock-kneed alignment.
As always, Miss Hertha stood in the vestibule dressed to perform, her gray hair pulled back against her scalp with theatrical precision folding into a tight chignon as smooth as polished silver at the base of her long neck.
We regarded her with awe; how her pale, seasoned arms wafted above us in greeting like the dual fronds of an exotic palm caught in an extraordinary breeze and the way her toned back bloomed up from her slim hips with only the slightest arc.
This was the poise we sought and the excellence that set her apart from other women.
Even our mothers whose bodies, broadened by childbirth and weighted by the drudgery of domestic life, outwardly displayed their indelicate compromise with perfection in spite of their hope that we would aspire to more.
Along one side of the dance studio on a small platform affixed to the wall was a bank wooden chairs in which our mothers, siblings, or other guardians would sit and observe the class. The facing wall accommodated a large mirror and the ballet barre, both extending the length of the room.
At the beginning of each class, Miss Hertha would position herself at the front of the room next to her accompanist on piano; and as the music began, she would call out our names one girl at a time. This was our cue to dance across the room to our place at the barre from where we stood in front of the seated spectators - arms raised, palms facing in, toes pointed.
I waited my turn, anxiously observing the winnowing dancers before me, hoping as I did every week that I would measure up.
“Excuse me, little girl.” I heard a voice at my back.
“Little girl,” a woman said tapping my shoulder with her thick fingers.
“Your tutu is not fastened.”
I turned and saw the wide outline of her broad face from her seat behind me; a pearl necklace sitting high on her throat wedged neatly between generous folds of powdered flesh.
Drawing me backwards with a sharp tug she zipped up my costume and began to hook the small clasp at the top when she stopped abruptly, chuckled and said, “My goodness! We are a little chubby for our tutu, aren’t we?”
WE ARE?
In that instant my lumpish reflection appeared in the mirror across the room and I now saw clearly just how unlike my fellow troupe members I was.
I was horrified, and as Miss Hertha called out my name, I was certain she must also regard me with disgust, and all I could feel was the hot color of failure burning to the surface of my skin while the grim connotation of those words continued to sear my reality like lye.
And as I struggled to raise my arms above my head - arms that suddenly felt lubberly and graceless, I made what proved to be a terrible mistake - I believed her.
It is a sad but curious fact that we often let casual remarks or incidents have so much power in our lives. We let them define us rather than the other way around. This was so for me that day. My desire to belong, to fit in, to excel, and my hypersensitivity regarding every perceived flaw and inadequacy led to years of eating disorders, drug abuse and other destructive behaviors.
Of course, my days with Miss Hertha came to an end that afternoon. I petitioned my parents for other options and refused to return to ballet; and while my father held fast to his argument that, "All the best athletes are broad-shouldered, knock-kneed and pigeon-toed." this was clearly an advantage that did not apply en pointe, and I no longer wished to shove my square frame into that particular delicate, round hole.
Fifty years later I see the obvious absurdity of that moment and of the thousands of other innocuous moments I vested with corrosive power. I’d like to think I am much stronger and wiser now. I’m still rife with insecurities but no longer to the point of destruction or abnormal despair.
In fact, most days I am quite content and happy.
Just don’t ask me to dance.
