Ballerina Boy Erin - Chapter 1

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This week's short story.

When I was but a precocious six-year-old boy an occurrence one sunny day in September changed my life forever. I can remember that day as clearly as any in my entire life. It was the day my mother took me for my first ballet lesson. What possesses a mother to inflict the wrath of barbs, snide comments, the stigma of femininity, etc., on her son by initiating training in classical dance? Why not cub scouts, soccer, or even gymnastics? Up to that point, you would most certainly surmise that  I was a "normal" boy. I played with trucks, wore down my sneakers running and jumping, and regularly ended the day soiled and sweaty from  "boy" play. But I was also a "creative" boy.

Mom had already sent me to lessons in Suzuki violin and piano, which I  loved. The teacher informed my mother that I was a "natural" in music.  I  also went to children's art classes throughout that summer. So in addition to being a busy  "boy", mom was really allowing me to explore the "arts".  When mom came to me and told me of her intentions regarding dance, I was curious about why, but most of all I was curious to learn what ballet was all about.   Sure, I had seen the Nutcracker, but I never ever really thought about the people that danced.

The next afternoon she showed me by taking me to a rehearsal of a   regional ballet company, one that she had danced in when she was younger.  It was so much fun to see the flurry of activity, of beautiful women on their toes in perfect symmetry, and ably muscled male dancers lifting those ballerinas and practicing great leaps and jumps into the air. And of course,  the music was played throughout the whole rehearsal. I do so love music!

It all seemed so natural, so inviting.  Then I got to meet some of the dancers.  My mom was quite well known and maintained an active presence with the company, so when the dancers greeted me, I was treated as a celebrity. A  beautiful ballerina with ginger tresses hugged me as she said "I bet you can't wait to come here and dance with us. Have you started your ballet training  yet, Erin?" I  really didn't know what to say. The thought of dance had never crossed my mind before. I had up to this point seen pictures of mom around the house from her career but had never thought much about ballet. I simply smiled back at the dancer.

Before I could say no, I heard mom over my   shoulder exclaim "Erin will be dancing with this company by the time he  is  16; he'll be starting his training next week." Another dancer chimed  in "We  all hope that you'll come back and dance with us Dana, we miss  you!" My mom offered a polite "I would love to Clarise, but right now all of my attention is needed for this talented child of mine. I'll be  back to dance with  you, and when I do, Erin will be here dancing with  us!" As we said our goodbyes and were walking down the stairs from the studio, I asked mom  "what will ballet lessons be like? I don't know  anybody who takes ballet."

Mom replied "Probably none of the boys that you play with within the neighborhood take ballet, but I'm sure some of the kids in your class at school will be starting at the same time you are.  You're gonna love dancing,  Erin. I just know that you will!"

As a naive little boy, the next day in 1st grade brought about a more than moderate level of humiliation. During recess, I went around asking all my classmates whether they were starting ballet lessons like I was.  A few girls just said no, probably because they didn't know anything about ballet,  all of the boys not only said no, but they made faces about it, and used phrases like "dancing's for girls"; "you must be a  sissy"; "boys don't do ballet"; "boys that do ballet are fairies". I  found four girls that said that they were going to start ballet and were very excited about it.

Except that when I told them that I  was too, they also made faces and evoked most of the same comments that the boys did.  In addition, they added statements like "so are you gonna wear pink tights like us?" and "We didn't know you wanted to be a girl, Erin, but I   guess it goes with your girl's name."I was completely taken aback. You see I  grew up in a very nurturing house with no use for stereotypes and biases. In fact, there was never ever talk of "boys do this" and "girls do that".  My mom had been a single mother from the time I was 3.

Dad left us for another woman and moved to Paris with her. We saw him maybe once a year until I  became a teenager. I haven't seen him since. I know he wouldn't recognize me now. I hope that he is fine. He calls mom now and then. As an only child, my mom and I had the best of relationships, and always taught me to "be myself", and that anything I ever wanted to do was within my reach. By the time I was five, I could play both the piano and the violin. By the time the day ended, the whole class was a buzz about my taking ballet. It got so bad that  Ms. Thornton, our teacher,  made an issue about how it was not only okay for boys to do ballet, but told us about great ballet dancers like Mikhall  Barishnikov and Rudolf  Nureav.

She even pulled out a picture from a book and showed us a male ballet dancer. That hurt a lot more than it helped. When my classmates saw this guy in tights, they all envisioned me as a little boy who obviously wanted to become a little girl. Why else would any "normal"  boy take ballet?

When I got home that day, I was in tears. Mom was immediately at my side. She asked what was wrong. As I sat sobbing by her side, my face resting upon her sweater, I recounted my story from the day at school.  She hugged me tightly and whispered to me "Erin, my darling child. You are so very talented in many ways. It is your right and privilege to do whatever you wish to do. There is absolutely no reason to refrain from ballet training just because your classmates don't understand the arts.  They will get over it and will accept you as a person who has lots of talents.

You'll see. You have nothing to worry about. Trust me". I said  "mommy, maybe it's not such a  great idea to do ballet. I know it will  probably be fun and all, but do I really  have to wear girl's tights?"  She looked down at me with a stern face and proclaimed "Yes, all dancers must wear the proper dance attire for class, just like a football player wears a helmet. In order for you to stretch and to have  complete  flexibility to jump and leap, you need to wear clothing that is not   restricting." "But mommy, why can't I wear shorts, or even sweatpants.

I  can move around fine in those.""Tights serve another purpose, dear.  They allow the teacher to see your body and to constantly align your posture so that you learn correctly. You know Erin, tights were invented  for male ballet  dancers in France, so although girls wear them under  their dresses, their  origination was for guys just like you." "I  understand, mommy, but I bet  that I'm the only kid my age that does."  "Don't worry, your friends will still  be your friends through all of  this". (That never really turned out to be true,  unfortunately, but  looking back now it doesn't matter in the least).  She added "and you're  bound to make new ones from ballet class."

So that brings us to the fateful day in September many years ago that changed me forever. After school that day when I got home, mom was there waiting for me with my ballet gear. "Erin, since the studio doesn't have   changing rooms, we'll get you into your dancewear here." "Mommy, you   mean I have to wear tights outside?" "No, dear, you can put on a pair of sweatpants over them until we get to the studio. Now let's get undressed".  After taking off all my clothes, mom handed me a small thing that kind of looked like underwear but it wasn't. "That's a dance belt  Erin. All guy dancers wear them to protect their privates". We both giggled a little. After slipping it on, next came the white tee shirt,  followed by a pair of black tights. Mom showed me how to put them on,  one leg at a time, bunching up the material from the toes up. "You have to be careful putting tights on dear," she said. "They are delicate and you can snag the material quite easily.

Be gentle." So I was careful,  very careful. I can still remember the feeling that I  had when the waistband of my first pair of black tights reached my midsection. I  looked down at my legs. Is this how I was going to portray myself to a  class full of kids my age, some I had never even met before? I  can still remember that feeling so well. It was like displaying my body for all the world to see. Mom then said "You look so sweet! With your beautiful   blonde hair, you look like a miniature Peter Martins!" Mom always took great pride in making sure my hair was well attended to. She trimmed it herself and had always kept it long.

When I was five she settled on a  dutch boy style, and at six my hair was still in that style. Recently she had refrained from trimming it, and it was reaching my shoulders. I  didn't mind, because a lot of the boys in my grade had longer hair, but when I saw myself in the mirror in my dance tights, the lines between boy and girl really started to blur. "Okay honey, now put on these white socks, and then I have 4 pairs of ballet slippers for you to try on. We  need to find the pair that fits just right."  I couldn't believe that now  I had to wear shoes that really looked like girl's shoes.

I mean soft black slippers that barely covered my feet, with a black strap across my instep. "Mom, these are girls' shoes!" "No, Erin, they're not! Try this  pair on." After three tries, mom found the perfect fit. "Okay,  let's go.  Aren't you excited? I am", she said. "I'm scared", I said. "Erin,  you'll have a great time. I promise. You're going to remember this day for the rest of your life". Mom didn't know how right she was then, and I'm not sure that if she knew how I would turn out, she would have taken me to that first class. But she did.

After donning sweatpants, we drove in the car to the studio. We lived out of town on a country road. The ballet academy was in town, right on  Main Street next to a hardware store, a beauty salon, and a restaurant.   There was lots of foot traffic on that street, and the school that I  went to was only a block away. As we walked up to the door, I could see inside the studio. It so happened that there was this big window from the street that allowed everyone outside to look in on the dancers. I  guess it served the purpose of promoting business for the teacher, but for me it was devastating.

Not only would I be on display in front of who knows how many girls inside, but to each and every person who curiously peered in the window.  We went inside, and my mom introduced me to the teacher, Miss Bartow,  whom she knew. It seemed that Miss Bartow danced with my mom 10 years before as a child dancer in a Nutcracker production. Miss Bartow played  Clara, and my mom was the snow princess.  So after pleasantries were exchanged, Miss Bartow's attention turned to me. "Are you looking forward me to becoming a dancer, Erin?" she asked. "Yes  Miss Bartow, I said sheepishly. "We'll take good care of him", Miss  Bartow said to my mom.

"It's a shame that he's going to be the only boy  in the class, but we'll see  that he enjoys every minute of ballet!" As I  heard her say that I was the only boy, the really funny feeling that struck me from the time I first put on my tights became even more pronounced. It was as if I was in a situation where I was completely out of control. Was I really doing this? It felt like I  was walking off a  cliff, that I would from that point on be viewed by everyone that knew me differently. Like a boy who wanted to be a girl

perhaps? I was lightheaded, and felt very beside myself, literally and figuratively. I  had never experienced this feeling before, although from that day on it became very normal to me. I guess I would now describe it as  "giving in"  to the "real" Erin Hendricksen.

That day I accepted Erin  Hendricksen who loved everything about dance, with no reservations about

the stigmas that go along with a boy taking ballet. It was to turn out to be as   "natural" a fit as anyone could ever imagine. Nothing anybody could say mattered after the end of that first class. The class lasted an hour,  and I loved everything about it. I loved moving to the music, and I loved stretching at the

barre. I loved bending my legs and feet into the different positions,  especially when I could do it better than my classmates, 11 six-year-old girls in black leotards and pink tights. Sure, they looked at me when I first came in and whispered to each other. Four of the girls were from my class at school. I knew that the next day in school I would really be in for it, as they told all their friends about me in their ballet class. Would they be telling their friends about how well I did, or how brave I was to be the only boy? No,  they told their friends how "pretty" I looked in my tights. But the funny thing was that after that first ballet class, nothing that anyone could say mattered anymore. I was a "new" person.

When mom picked me up after class, I was so thrilled about my first experience in ballet that I ran out without my sweatpants. As I reached the car, with a big smile on my face and an exuberance in my run from the door I said "Mommy, that was the most fun I ever had" My, mom exclaimed "It looks as if you had a great time. I told you that you would! Now, aren't you forgetting something, Erin? Would you like to go  back and pick up your  sweatpants?" I quickly turned around, and even though a bunch of girls was snickering about me going out of the studio wearing my tights, (one even called out "Hey Erin, you forgot to put on your skirt!") I didn't care.

I  told my mom how well I did, what a great time I had, and that I couldn't wait to go back for my next class. She was really thrilled about that. I really think that she always envisioned me as a great dancer someday. I must say now that I had the  "best" upbringing. Mom helped me develop as a  person, as a unique individual, with no regard for masculine versus feminine.  I will always admire her for that. Her brilliance and open-mindedness allowed me to become the person that I have become, and to be proud of myself.

When we arrived home I went inside and begged her to allow me to show her all the things that I had learned. She diligently watched as I quickly repeated all of the positions while I held onto a chair in lieu of a  barre. As I  stretched down into a plie' mom cried out "that's wonderful,  Erin. I am so proud of my talented young dancer! You've learned so much in just one class! Would you like me to have a little dance studio built out in the sunroom for you to practice each day? We could both use it.  I'm dying to get back in shape, and I'd love to help you with your dancing since it seems that you enjoy it so much. " I showed my affirmation of that idea by running over to mom and giving her the biggest hug that I could. "Oh yes, I  would love that, mommy! That way, I  could practice every day, since my lessons are only once a week.

Could we have a barre and mirrors, just like at the dance studio? Please?" I  pleaded. "Why of course", she said."That's necessary for any dancer. I  will call the contractor tomorrow morning". That was such a special day in my life, as I have mentioned before, and a pivotal one too. Although  I put on a sweater over my tee to stave off the chill of a  New England late summer evening, I never took off my tights and ballet slippers the rest of that day until I went to bed.

The next day I endured comments from my classmates, but it didn't seem to bother me. Inside I felt like ballet was all that I ever wanted to do due to dance and dance and dance forever. If it meant that dancing required me to wear tights, then so be it. I would wear a dress if that's what my ballet teacher required. I was proud to be a dancer, and  I happily let it be known that I was glad to be a student of ballet.  Within a week the dance studio was completed in our former sunroom, a  big, bright, wonderful space in which over the next 13 years I would spend thousands of hours doing the thing that  I love so very much,  ballet. Many of those hours over the years were spent beside my mom, as she served as an inspirational teacher in many ways.

I know that she was happy to get back into dance in a serious way,   after the years spent in the business world. (Mom was one of the early   "geniuses" in computer programming, and through her software innovations has collected millions in royalties). As a child, she had trained for a  career in ballet but was so good academically that she found it impossible to turn down a full scholarship to Yale.  She became one of the early pioneers in computer science and was offered a faculty position upon graduation, but went to work with a large computer firm instead.

Her fifteen years in the software field during a period of rapid growth bought her not only financial independence but an opportunity to retire from it and devote her time to things that she enjoyed, such as me! She moved us out of Hartford and into the beautiful  Vermont countryside when I was four, and our lives were so much better because of that. I owe so very much to my mom and to her dedication as a  mother, teacher, mentor, role model, and an unselfish giver of unconditional love.  But I'm sure if you've read this far by now it's rather evident that this is as much a testimonial to my mother as it is a story of my life.

Other than the days that I took lessons in violin and piano, I would come home after school and don my dancewear and practice my positions and flexibility exercises. Mom started taking an accelerated interest in my development. After spending fifteen years of her life taking ballet,  and dancing in regional companies for ten (while she kept impossible hours developing programming for insurance companies), she was so very capable of teaching me so much. And she did. Ballet helped bring us even closer together. After a couple months, I stopped violin so that I could attend a  second ballet class, this time with older girls (they were seven thru nine years old). The teacher was aware of my rapid development and was making every attempt to assist me in my development thru more classes. I am sure that she felt the pressure of my mom's expectations,  and did her best to give me the best training possible.

During Christmas break, mom was at the sewing machine touching up a hem on one of her dresses. I walked over and asked "Mommy, how old were you when you learned to sew? Is it hard to do? It looks kinda neat!"  She stopped the machine and turned to me, with a sparkle in her beautiful blue eyes " Erin, your grandmama taught me when I was seven. I wasn't interested at first, because just like you all my time and energy was directed towards ballet, but as I became a teenager I found that sewing came in handy for dance costumes, plus it was fun to be creative and design my own adaptations to patterns. So when I would design and sew a  dress, for example, it was uniquely mine. It never wound up looking like the picture,  because I wanted it to be different and made it that way.

And if you do it enough, sewing isn't that hard. Why? Would you like to  try it, dear?" I  moved in close to the sewing machine "Can I? Can I try to sew right now?".  Well, as you can probably imagine, that was the beginning of another creative skill that my mom introduced me to that I  took on with a passion.  From that day on I would spend a good couple hours per week working on sewing projects, starting with a potholder,  moving on to pillowcases, and eventually to things to wear. I still sew regularly now. I find it very relaxing,  and very satisfying.

When I turned eight, I was becoming quite accomplished at ballet,  and my mom deemed it time to move to a higher level of instruction. So she started to take me to the school of the regional ballet company. I  auditioned with children much older and was admitted. This meant a real step up in dedication, for I would be taking class three afternoons per week plus  Saturday mornings. I was thrilled. And to top it off, the teacher was the same ballerina that I had met that day when I was six and just beginning.

"Erin Hendricksen, you have made remarkable progress in your dancing over the past two years. Welcome to  our school." Miss Tingley exclaimed. "I will work very hard, Miss  Tingley, because I really want to become a ballet dancer when I grow up," I said proudly. Miss Tingley was a  hard teacher and a serious taskmaster. She would not accept anything until it was performed or executed flawlessly. Or so it seemed to us. But she was also a great teacher.

I learned so much from her, and I respected her ability and talent in an overwhelming way, but sometimes my presence rubbed her the wrong way. It seemed that her ideal male dancer was tough, muscled,   and simply an able partner to support the beautiful movement of the prima ballerina. He must be strong for lifts, and sturdy as a ballet barre. I was very small for my age, small-boned, and exceptionally graceful for a boy. Miss  Tingley would offer comments to the girls that  I regularly did movements with more intrinsic beauty and grace than they did. Although she admired my talent, she saw no use for it so far as my dance career was concerned.

One instance, after class, she told me that I should have been born a girl because  I had all the makings of an exquisite ballerina..my legs were proportionately longer than a  boy's(even though I was small), I had small, beautiful hands,  and the way I used my hands and arms for expression was better than any of the girls in class. She said it was almost as if I understood every note of music, and was translating it into a visually moving picture for the audience. I  really didn't have a clue what she was talking about, but I  said thank you anyway.

She did tell me then and numerous times after that she thought it might be a good idea if I got my hair cut. I guess I should take a few minutes and talk about my hair, my mom, and me. As I mentioned before, my mom loved my hair long. As a tiny child, she let my blonde baby curls extend down my back until I turned five. At that time, my hair was straightening out, my blonde locks were turning towards a light brown,  and she compromised on her long hair stance by cutting my hair into a  dutch boy style. I kept that style pretty much until I was eight.

Mom and I talked about what I wanted to do with my hair. I really don't know  why but I mentioned  that I might like to let it grow."Mom, would it be okay for me to let my hair grow longer? I don't think I would like short  hair." Mom heard my comment and sprang to life "Why of course, Erin, you always looked so sweet when your hair was long. You have the perfect face for long hair. I think it suits you. How long do you want it to  grow?" "I'm not sure mom, I'll let you decide when it looks right.  You're the expert". She exclaimed "I'm not so sure that's a great idea,  Erin, since I might prefer your beautiful hair to reach your waist before I trimmed it. Let's just let it start growing down your back.  It's already shoulder-length now. We'll keep the ends even and see where it takes us.

One thing about long hair, dear, is that it will be much   easier to get into a ponytail for dance class than it is now." Well, to make a  long story short, we never really stopped letting it grow until it reached mid-back. But during that time, Miss Tingley told me that if  I was going to continue in her class, and was going to wear my hair long, I must adhere to the ballet tradition that hair be off my neck, so no ponytail. Mom told her that I liked my hair long and that she wasn't about to cut it. For my next class mom french braided my hair(which certainly commanded an astute audience from all the girls in my class).

Miss Tingly told me "I'm sorry Erin,  I do not allow the young ladies in my class to wear their hair braided, so you, having long hair,  cannot be granted an exception. If you persist in wearing your hair so long, then you must put it in a traditional ballet bun." I  went home and told mom. At first she was taken aback, but asked me "do you mind wearing it in a bun, Erin? I'll certainly go in and talk with Bebe if you want me to, but she's stubborn about ballet etiquette. You know, we could cut it short and be rid of the problem? What do you say?" I was  aghast."Mom,  are you suggesting that I cut my hair? I thought you loved my hair long.

I wasn't sure for a while how much I'd like my hair really long,  but  mom, I really love it, and want it to stay long, I really want to grow  it  even longer!" "I'm glad you feel that way, Erin, I love your hair, I  would have been devastated if you had wanted to cut it, it really looks so becoming on you, but I really wanted you to be honest and not just try to please my wishes. If you don't mind, I will be glad to put it in  a bun for you." I was relieved. "Thanks, mom, I'll do anything I need to when it comes to ballet".  So that's where I wound up with my hair. I  kept it mid-back length until I  came to New York as a nineteen-year-old "ready for prime time" ballet dancer. Just before I left Vermont, my mom cut it shorter for me in order to enhance my chances of being hired into a major ballet company. That was a  day that I'll always remember also,  for both of us cried after she finished.

Kind of a nostalgic sobbing,  mostly over the love we shared and the feelings we both had about the coming to a close of my "childhood". She only cut it to shoulder length,  but it definitely was a "shock to the system".

After elementary school, my mom decided that I had put up with enough abuse from my classmates about my being a ballet student and my hair,  and anything else that made me different. For instance, in 4th grade, we had a weekly show and tell. One Friday in the winter I had just finished a  sewing project. It was a black velvet vest, and I was so proud of myself for getting the buttons just right, and being able to work with such a  tough material as velvet. Mom said I could wear it to school, so I wore a white turtleneck with black pants and my new velvet vest that day. Nobody said anything until the show and tell began and when my turn came I walked up to the front of the classroom. Everyone thought I was going to pull something out of my pocket, but when I instead proudly told the class that I had made the vest that  I was wearing, the classroom broke out into chaos. "You mean you sewed it, Erin?" one girl asked? "You sew? only girls sew!" cried out another girl.

The boys just laughed at every remark the girls made. One girl who I'd started ballet with pointed to me and said "hey Erin, ballet boy! What else have you sewn? Are you gonna wear a dress to show and tell next week?". It didn't take long for my teacher to get upset and stop my classmates from the barrage of verbal abuse. "Quiet, everyone! There is absolutely nothing wrong with boys learning to sew. Some of the world's greatest fashion designers are men, and my father was a tailor, which meant he knew how to sew and did alterations to men's suits, and created custom shirts and other clothing for many people. I am proud of my father, and I am proud of Erin,  for his accomplishment. That is a fine job, young man. You have many talents. Don't let the immaturity of your classmates deter you from the things you like to do". "Thanks, Mrs. Greene", I said as I went back to my seat.

When I told my mom what had happened that evening, she said  "I think we need to think about an alternative to public school for you next year. I think I know just the place".