One of my darling students hurries over to me before our evening ballet class. Normally she’s the all-smiles type, but tonight her mouth worries, her chin faltering before she reaches me.
Dancers are made to be resilient, you must understand. We are (or act) extremely confident or extremely tough, trained in indefatigability but remarkably unskilled at recognizing danger and respecting limits. This is partly because the industry is so competitive and waits for no one, but largely because ballerinas are big balls of tangled romanticism and belief. “I’m FINE,” we smile, hiding a slight limp. We don’t like being scared because it wastes time and breaks character. There’s no place for even mild panic backstage. That’s when your understudy steps in, and besides, anxiety takes away from the story.
So, when a ballerina winces and says, “It hurts, a little”, you better believe she’s in a world of pain. This student, now standing nervous and stalling at my side, is one of my most glad-hearted gladiators, so I’m listening to her worries well before she finds the words to speak.
It’s her hip, she chokes out. But it’s fine, she says, she just needs to take it easy with certain movements. Just on one side, she adds quickly. But she might have to drop the show next month, mentions she, mumbling something about physical therapy and the financing of it. I know she’s not uneasy about the money, but rather queasy about the idea of sitting out and watching part of class. That’s one of the worst sentences to serve as a dancer: Don’t do – sit still. Her confession is scattered, half to herself and half to me, the tone and volume of her voice rising and falling, halting and flooding, like static sputtering between stations while tuning an old radio. She divulges her dilemma and confesses her fears, and I know she doesn’t want to. I probably touch her shoulder while she gesticulates animatedly, eager to have me understand, and interrupt her when I find another natural pause in her speech. My voice dips into the pitch it tends to assume when I want to comfort or quiet or clarify. I thank her for telling me, and commend her caution. It is difficult to listen to doctors! They are usually the ones telling us to don’t do and sit still. We go over her options for recovery, the options that keep her in the studio and call for the least amount of rest. We discuss the virtues of floor barre and patience and honesty about her situation and reach a calm together, working with only the information we have and without the endlessly conjectured what-ifs. Finally, I tell her that I won’t cut her from my pieces or give away her featured part in my choreography. I remind her that the show is a month away, and four weeks is a wonderful amount of time for any kind of healing. Her pain sounds comparatively minor, like a catching tendon caused by a couple bad habits, and absolutely reversible. If, however, she ever needs to drop the spring performance for whatever reason, that decision will be entirely hers and I will completely understand. She nods, involuntarily reiterating that she’s probably going to be fine, and I hug her. We watch the class before us curtsy and make their way out of the studio, and we let go to trickle in. Time to dance.
The exchange takes just a minute or two, but pulls me back to my own ballet academy memories most vividly. I think of how terrified I’d be to walk up to my ballet teacher at the time, what bravery it would require to face the beautiful and brutal culture of ballet and say, “I need a moment.” If I’d been fifteen, I would’ve been replaced instantly, accused of laziness. But then, I most likely would’ve lied. I wouldn’t’ve told my teachers at all, would never have been comfortable enough to let them in on my humanness. Mortality was a dirty little secret, so you kept quiet, iced your ankle when you got home, and popped ibuprofen before coming back. We lied about why we’d have to miss rehearsal, claiming family deaths and serious illness even when you’re uninjured but want to go to your grandmother’s 88th birthday three hours away on a rehearsal-heavy Saturday because you’ve missed the last eleven years and you’re not sure how many more birthdays she’s got left, or we lied because we needed to take our SATs or study for AP testing because even occasionally placing school above or before ballet was an unspoken betrayal of loyalties. So many artistic decisions are based on who’s at the right place at the right time. So, anything could happen on the day you missed rehearsal. Everything could change. We learned from the unlucky ones who told the truth. We all lied and couldn’t trust each other. It didn’t take a mean spirit to accidentally reveal or miscommunicate each other’s whereabouts and reasons. Hearsay had us judged too severely and abandoned. I remember how much we lied, and how lonely that could be.
I don’t understand teachers who perpetuate this pattern of agony. Has it been so long since we shook in our own boots? Don’t you remember, and don’t you wish it’d been different? When you needed a moment, as a fifteen year old aspiring ballet dancer and human being, were you trying to pull a fast one and the wool over your teacher’s eyes? No. You were probably just trying to make time to finish your homework, or attend to your pulled hamstring. We shouldn’t assume the worst in our students or punish them for admitting they need help. Usually, they’re not asking us for a single thing, and usually, they don’t ask for more than a few hours. They just need some slack, just a moment.
When our students ask for a moment, they’re not asking for absolution. The students who don’t want to be ballerinas won’t become ballerinas by accident, and the students who do want to pursue a professional career will be so unhappy about sitting out anyway. As a teacher, it’s nothing short of cruel to add to the emotional duress, the psychological burden ambitious dancers already carry. Has it been so long since we were students? What did you need from your teacher back then? Can’t you give that to your students now?
Ballet seems uphill and unforgiving, but it’s not ballet who makes us cry and want to quit. It’s people. People will make you feel like you’re not cut out for the field and people will tell you, like they’ve told me, that your body isn’t built to wear at tutu or that if you’re serious about this you’ll lose the weight. This callous disregard for your constant sacrifice comes from people who forgot what it’s like to be your shoes. They will be everywhere.
Dancers, forgive them. And don’t forget that you love to dance. It’s not ballet that messes with your head. It’s bitterness, and it’s bad teaching.
Teachers, try watch what you say and do. I see my students’ cheerful determination and willing communication (even when they are very scared, like this student that day) as a direct reflection of the environment I’m cultivating as a teacher. What kind of classroom are you creating? Your students look up to you and respond to you and need you and your approval in a way that only young minds can. Be gentle with your students. The good ones will want to stay. And staying in this game is hard enough as it is. If you can make it easier for them for just a moment, why wouldn’t you?
I know. Tough love is mighty effective and made us who we are today. But after much deliberation and heartbreak and rebuilding, I believe the best thing you can do as a teacher is to love the thing you’re teaching. Be passionate about your subject, not punishment. And don’t tell them only the horror stories of ballet, the ugly parts. You don’t have to lie and gloss over the grit entirely, but you also can’t completely devalue the thing we all love. It’s not about building a false sense of confidence for them or lowering your expectations or yelling less. It’s about leading by example. Work hard as a teacher, perform your face off for your students. Show them that it’s possible to be talented and tireless, that it’s possible to be hard-working and happy. Show them that dancing is worthy of our love. More dancers will keep dancing because they’ll remember how you made them feel. Isn’t that what we want – or do we enjoy the days another dancer, another student quits?
Teachers, teaching isn’t giving up. It’s giving other dancers a chance. Tell them what it was like back in your day and how lucky they are to have you if you really have to, if you feel that’s useful or part of your duty. But teach happily, and patiently. Tell them about the state our ballet world is in now, absolutely. But also tell them what ballet can be.
