The Day I Fell In Love With Ballet

I started ballet when my Grandma Winnie, my dad’s mother, gave me a month’s worth of lessons for my sixth birthday. A dance school had opened in Cordell, where Dad had grown up and my grandmother still lived, about 15 miles south of our home in Clinton. The teacher, Carol, offered ballet, tap, and jazz classes in the basement of the local movie theater – a narrow, dark space made of gray concrete that, as I think about it now, in no way seems like a good place to teach dance.

I don’t know if I had indicated in any way that I wanted to take dance lessons prior to this, although I do know that I had an affinity for music. My parents both really enjoyed classical music and had an extensive collection of vinyl albums. The story goes that when my mom was pregnant with me, I would always get very active at night, kicking when she was trying to sleep, but if they put on Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 (the Van Cliburn recording) I would calm right down. It’s still one of my favorite pieces of music. [Two and a half years later, they’d try the same method to calm my sister in utero, but it just made her kick harder…their first clue that we were going to be two very different kids.] The record player was often in use at our house, and while classical music was the predominant genre, my dad also loved jazz, especially Louis Armstrong, and soundtracks such as West Side Story also regularly hit the turntable. I’m pretty sure I danced around the house to whatever music was on, as children do, but I don’t think there had been any discussion of formal lessons before I received this birthday gift.

My mom contacted Carol to see what we needed to do to get started, and she recommended that we come and observe a class so that I could see what it was like. We did – and I have very vivid memories of that experience.

I remember that I wore one of my favorite outfits – plaid polyester bell-bottom pants in red, white, and navy; a navy long-sleeved shirt with a broad white collar; and navy slip-on clogs with a wooden sole. (Yes, it was the 1970’s.) I especially felt the clogs were appropriate for the occasion, because I could stand on my toes in them – which is all I knew about ballet at the time.

I remember that I was immediately impressed by the feeling of the class. The formality and discipline made it seem very special, this gathering of students and teacher, almost religious in its ritualized structure and concentrated focus.

I remember that I was happily satisfied by the way music and dance were combined specifically and purposefully in each exercise. That marriage made so much sense to me as I watched, even with no understanding of the French terminology or any knowledge of the concepts underlying the technique.

I remember being engaged by the progression of the dance steps in size, complexity, and dynamics as the class developed. From being stationary at the barre to traveling across the floor; from small movements of nuance to expansive dancing that encompassed the entire body; from slow, long steps to those that were quick and darting – the ever-changing nature of the class work enthralled me.

I remember turning to my mom in the middle of the class, grabbing her arm to get her attention, and whispering intently “I am going to be a ballerina.”

After the class, when Carol came over to talk to us, I told her I loved it and couldn’t wait to get started. I then said to her exuberantly, “See, I can ALREADY do THIS!” and proceeded to go up on my toes in my clogs and twirl around.

I remember feeling very accomplished at the time, and interpreted the two women’s laughter as indulgent pride in my amazing and obvious talent. Later, when I was a teenager in the midst of high-level ballet training, Mom would tell this story and I was always quite embarrassed by my younger self’s over-confidence and lack of proper knowledge. Of course, now, with an understanding of childhood development and years of experience teaching countless youngsters who have shown me how they too can stand on their toes, it just makes me laugh.

I took from Carol for three years before she quit teaching to raise her family. By then, another studio had opened in Clinton and I was taking classes there as well, from the woman who would be my primary teacher during my formative training. But I learned a lot of lessons during those first years with Carol. I learned how to do my own ballet bun at age six, because by the time I got out of school and we drove to Cordell for my class, I would be late if I didn’t get ready in the car. I got my first experience of “the show must go on” when my partner in one of the recital dances broke his leg and I had to go it alone. And Carol cast me in my first solo role at age eight, and coached me on the importance of really being the character, a lesson that has always stuck with me.

But most importantly, I’ll never forget how magical she made that first class seem to me. I try to impart some of that magic every time I teach.