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The Women's Page
Tales from the adult dance student avant garde

Canadian girl gets her chance at last
"To dance, put your hand on your heart and listen to the sound of your soul." ~~ Luigi

When I was very small, the public television station aired the Nutcracker Ballet every year on my birthday. After the guests had gone home, and the wrapping paper was cleaned up, I sat on the floor of my living room in my nightgown, a candy cane in my mouth, and my eyes glued to the television set. The dancers were fairies, clouds of tulle and ribbon that drifted across the stage. I watched, and knew there was nothing better than to be like them, becoming one with the music that even then could make my heart swell and ache.

When I was six, my mother enrolled me in my first dance class. I wasn’t a vision of tulle, but by first grade, there were real ribbons on my slippers, and as I stumbled through the exercises, I knew there was no more graceful dancer in all the world.

A month into my second year of dance, we moved from Ottawa to a remote rural town. My mother feared that the only ballet teacher in town was disreputable, and wouldn’t risk my health for any amount of tulle and ribbons. Ballet lessons would have to wait.

As we moved from one small town to another over the next four years, I religiously begged for lessons. But money was always too short, and the drive was always too long. Slowly the ribbons frayed and fell off my slippers, and I wore the black leotard until it could not stretch another inch. I saved my allowance for a month and bought a pair of satin bedroom slippers that almost looked like real ballet shoes and danced in my nightgown.

One day, in fifth grade, I was visiting a friend. I ran my hand across the book shelf in her bedroom, and my index finger froze on the bridge of a little blue paperback with a pair of ballet slippers sketched on the back. I took it off the shelf and paged through it. My heart beat a little faster.

"Can . . . could I borrow this?" I asked.

"That? You can have it if you want. It’s stupid book, anyway."

I smiled my thanks and held my treasure tightly. Suddenly, I was impatient to get home.

Later that night, safe in my room with my book, I discovered the story of a little girl who went to the National Ballet School in Toronto. As I read, a dream began to unfold itself in my mind. According to this precious book, if you showed potential, money was no object. Girls under twelve weren’t required to have any ballet training at all, only the right body-type, flexibility, and stamina. I was convinced that with a bit of time, I could muster enough of all three to blow those dance teachers right out of their tights.

I wrung every drop of information about ballet training from our town’s tiny library. Using the exercises I found there, and what I remembered from the long-ago classes, I pieced together a routine. Every night I practiced, straining to do the splits and using my little white desk as a barre as my sister snored. My parents began to worry about me. I could not think or talk of anything but ballet.

"Why do you want to live so far from home?" they asked.

My scout leader sighed as I traded a dozen pictures of dancers for my arts and handicrafts badge.

"It’s a hard life, Amanda," she said. "You’ll never eat another candy bar."

A friend of my father’s shook his head as I shared my plan.

"It’s impossible. You’ll never do it. You can’t. You haven’t got the discipline or the stamina."

With each rebuff, I pressed my lips tightly together and vowed, "I will, I will, I will."

Months passed, and the audition time drew near. I knew from my book that the audition tour came to northern Ontario in January, and I began to watch the early news each night, hoping they would list the dates and times. Butterflies began to shed their cocoons in my stomach, and my late night workouts became a little longer and harder.

A few days after Christmas, my mother and I were driving home from the library, and I noted that the auditions were probably coming up. She thought a moment and nodded.

"Yes, Daddy and I saw something on the news about that last night while you were in bed. I meant to tell you. It was really neat. They showed clips of the auditions."

I blinked a few times, trying to understand.

"Last night?" I asked. The words froze me into someone else. Someone blank and stupid. "You mean they had the auditions? Already?" I could feel the blood draining from my face, and my voice cracked in disbelief.

"Yes," my mother said, and then noticed I had gone entirely pale.

"Oh, you know, they were very hard auditions, honey. You couldn’t have done it. They made the little girls jump in place for an entire minute . . ."

I rode the rest of the way home in silence, biting my bottom lip. At home, I locked in myself my room and threw my ballet books against the wall with all my strength. I buried my face in my pillow and cried and cried, heartbroken. Next year I would be twelve. It was all over, that quickly.

Years passed, and slowly the sting of disappointment began to dull. Soon I was in high school. I grew an inch a year, and realized that on pointe, I would be taller than any male dancer. With a sigh and a stray tear or two, I folded up the old dream and laid it to rest with my teddy bear and my baby teeth.

We moved again, this time to Raleigh, NC. The desire to perform didn’t sleep for long. When I was 16, my parents allowed me to get a job. Now I had money, and I could pay for lessons. I called a bunch of schools, but chickened out each time. "I’m too old…I’m too big…I’m too tall…"

I settled for voice lessons.

I began training my voice and going to auditions. After a year of hard work, I made it into the chorus of a pre-professional production of Cinderella. The acting wasn’t difficult, and the singing was challenging but doable. I met my match when it came to the dancing. It was hard, and all of my cast mates seemed to be taking at least one form of dance class outside of rehearsals. I was still too scared to step inside a dance studio, and when I got my raise, I enrolled in a scene study class. Things went so well that I decided I would major in musical theatre once I made it to college. The only problem was, the musical theatre program presupposes a strong dance background. I had some serious catching up to do.

A family friend, who is also a ballet teacher, offered to help me, and so, in a little garage studio, I began taking private lessons. It was great – there were none of the sprightly 80 pound eleven-year-olds I feared so much. There was a barre, and mirrors that cut off my head but showed me my working legs and butt in all their glory, (Hey, I don’t look as bad as I thought) and there was an excuse to wear a leotard and tights, and real ballet shoes. Four months later, it was still great, but it wasn’t enough. One day my dad dragged me along to Home Depot for paint, and I ended up side-tracking him into buying the stuff to build a barre of my own. I added an hour a day of the simplest barre exercises from my lesson. I started looking just a little like a ‘real’ dancer

Six months later, it’s still not enough, but my confidence is up. Tomorrow I attend an evaluation at the area’s most serious ballet school. They have agreed to train me as seriously as if I really were headed for a professional ballet career, as long as I agree to train as seriously as if I were! The prospect of six classes a week lies before me, and I couldn’t be happier. My parents and friends are shaking their heads again, but I don’t care. I’ve found out that college will be postponed for a year due to lack of funds, and all I can think is. "Wow! More time to dance!" -- Amanda

Update 1/02: A lot has happened since I wrote my story six months ago. I made plans to attend the prestigious studio beginning in the fall semester. I danced a solo in my teacher's recital, and was crowned "Grand Duchess Imperial" -- the school's highest honor -- for all the work I had done in and out of class to improve myself and the school. It was a dream come true, and I relished every moment.

I was supposed to have to wait to go to college, but after a lot of hemming and hawing, and applying for loans, I decided to make a go of one of the public universities in the area. It didn't have a musical theatre program, but it did have a BFA acting program, and I could make up with a music minor and extra dance on the side.

I was all set, but at the last minute -- literally less than a month before the school-year began -- I was contacted by a tiny liberal arts college in, of all places, Ypsilanti, Michigan. I had even forgotten that I had applied to the school. They wanted to know if I
was still interested and I said, no, no, no, no, thank you. I have a school, and a roommate, and a plan. No thanks.

But I couldn't get the phone call out of my head, for some reason. I was really tortured. I did NOT want to major in literature. I did NOT want to move to Michigan, hundreds of miles from my family. I did NOT want to go to a school with less that 200 students. But something was calling me, and in the end, I couldn't resist.

For some reason I knew I had to go, and leave behind both my family -- and my dance school! With tears and a troubled heart, I packed my bags for Michigan. I had no way of explaining my decision. My long-suffering parents just shrugged their shoulders, a little relieved to have me "abandon" performance, and much grieved to have me move halfway across the country.

School was very hard. I've always been a good student, but I never planned or prepared for much of an academic career. Academics were always the bridge I had to cross to get to something I liked better. Performance opportunities at the school seemed non-existent. I have no car, and was largely bound to the tiny campus. Their theatre program was in its first year, with almost no resources. I had nowhere to dance.

One day, entirely by chance, I happened to glance out my apartment window at the house across the parking lot. Little girls in black leotards were going in the back door. I dropped my history book, grabbed a scarf, and was across the parking lot in a flash. Our neighboring house was a ballet studio!

The people were very friendly, but they offered only one adult class, which conflicted with my mandatory philosophy class. (I hate philosophy class.) My dream had slept before, and I knew what to do. If I could not dance at school, I would do what I had done as a child - dance at home.

My beloved bedroom barre was left in North Carolina, but my teacher had given me a book of ballet classes as a graduation gift. So I did what I could in my little apartment to at least keep myself flexible, and in the meantime threw all my energy into the drama program. Freshman weren't allowed to take the class, but I begged and pleaded and promised my way in and was rewarded with the most challenging acting experience I'd ever had.

To make a long story short(ish), the production was an incredible success. The president and provost of the school were thrilled, and plans are underway to greatly expand the drama program.

We were reviewed by the Ann Arbor News, and I waited with fear and trembling for the review to come out. When it finally did, I was standing in front of a convenience store news stand. I opened the paper with shaking hands, read the first paragraph, and had a little Miss America crying moment.

I was shocked, thrilled, and delirious with excitement. I ran into the street and almost got hit by a car. The reviewer had loved us, our play, and ME! As a result of my success here at school, I may get the chance to act in New York over the summer. If that is the case, you can be sure that every spare minute will find me at the Broadway Dance Center! In the meantime, I have found a dance school in Ann Arbor that seems to almost specialize in adult dancers. They are incredibly sweet and encouraging, and I plan to spend a lot of this spring semester in their studios, taking every class I can afford.

Update 10/02/02: I've moved again. Now I'm in Connecticut! I was born under an unlucky money-star and have to take some time off from college. I quit university in Michigan, and don't plan to go back. I'll continue my education in this area, because the pre-professional acting opportunities in
the CT, NY, NJ area are amazing. I've already been in one paid production and I've only been here two months. In fact I'm just now waiting for a cast list for "Picasso at the Lapin Agile" to come out (keep your figners crossed).
I'm shopping around for yet ANOTHER ballet school. This time it looks like there's a lot to choose from in the area.

Update 10/07/02: Well, I haven't heard back about Picasso at the Lapan Agile, but I did get the lead - Rose Maybud, in the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta Ruddigore. I was shocked and thrilled...it doesn't go up until March, which will give me time to do Picasso if I do get it.