Toe Shoes
Today is The Day
Eight years old and I hate practicing piano. I am not going to do it anymore.
I want to dance.
If I show my Mom I can do the 1, 2, 3, point and change legs, then, maybe - just maybe, I can persuade her to take me to a dancing school.
I need to move my body.
Today is the day. Today I dance. I wonder if anyone will talk to me. There is a crowd of girls giggling together. The teacher, Bobbi Anne, is tall. I love her long black ponytail and the black shiny skirt she wears over her black tights. She and Mom talk while I figure out the big room with the hard floors and a bunch of barres around the whole room. Wow, that is a huge mirror in front. I imagine we watch ourselves dance.
Mom sits with the other ladies in chairs on the side while Bobbi Anne enters the room where all of the girls wait for her, each taking a place by the barre. The piano man plays some music and we begin. First position, plie. Bobbi Anne shows us all how to do it and I follow.
Yes! This is what I want. My arms naturally flow with the music and I am catching on fast.
Weeks and months pass. One day Bobbi Anne says, “Erica, stand front and center to lead the rest of the class.”
I am a star. Can I sneak a peek in the mirror?
This is how music is supposed to be. It makes my body move. I stretch a leg above my head and feel my muscles stretch. I see my leg raised over my head, absolutely straight and strong with my toes pointed.. I turn, pirouetting not once but twice and spot myself carefully - whip my head around - return to my spot. Can I try a third?
Bobbi Anne’s dance studio has become my happy place. Every day after school Mom drives me there and picks me up at dinner time. I don’t want to go home, but Mom says “enough is enough.” On Saturdays I spend all day dancing at the studio. I switch from tap to acrobatics. But I long for the ballet classes.
It is ballet that takes me away - somewhere full of angels. It is mine. I dance and my body and brain leave the others behind. I am somewhere else with the music.
I think about the day I will wear toe shoes. I will slide my narrow foot into the silky pink shoes and stand tall in an arabesque. I can hardly wait until I am old enough. I can see myself pirouetting in a circle. I shall be a ballerina.
At the end of the school year, we are in a dance recital on a big stage. An audience attends.. My mom and dad, and brothers Terry and Jim watch me. I dance in five numbers and one is a solo. No one else is doing any of that - just me. I’ve never known my heart could beat so fast. I’ve never known my mouth to become so dry.
I wear a Russian costume for my solo. Oh my gosh, it is so beautiful. A short dress in so many bright colors. Like a tutu, it swirls when I dance. My head is covered with a princess’s crown that has brightly colored ribbons attached to swing and swirl. The best part is my ending.
It’s flashy. I finish it off with a bunch of Russian squat kicks.
Perfectly danced.
Fall. The year I turn nine. Bobbi Anne tells my mom she has nothing more to teach me: “Take her to Stone-Camryn School of Dance downtown. It’s a school for kids who someday will be good enough to dance on a stage six nights a week.”
I don’t really want to leave Bobbi Anne. She is my friend.
Mom drives me downtown. I have a new leotard, black, new pink tutu and new black ballet shoes. I cross my fingers and pray to someone, “Please let me be good enough. Make the other girls like me.”
185 W. Madison Avenue.
I skip up a lot of narrow stairs just to get up to the door. Mom follows me, trudging. Then we tiptoe in. At the same time, I feel the friendliness and the strangeness of the space. The reception desk is right in the front of the lobby, and off to the left are spacious windows letting the sun shine into a living room. Comfy-looking chairs are all over the place where some girls hang out looking at ballet books. When will I get a chance to look at some of those pictures?
My legs wobble when I walk into the dressing room. Most of the girls’ moms are with them helping them change into their dance clothes. Mine is somewhere else. I know I need to say hello, but everyone seems so busy. Maybe later?
Uh-oh, everyone is leaving. I guess it’s time to go. I fall into the single-file row of girls, some smaller than me, some bigger, as we climb a long flight of stairs up into the dance room. It is huge. A piano in the back, windows on the side and a few rows of empty chairs for the parents. I heard Mr. Camryn tell Mom people can only watch once a month and this is not the day, so the chairs are empty. But Mom never sits in those empty chairs.
It is totally silent. No one speaks as each girl and a couple of young boys take a place on the barre. I find a spot and hold on tight. I notice one girl has beautiful long legs and her hair is wrapped in a fancy bun with pink flowers all around it. She looks like she can dance. I wonder what her name is.
I don’t know who is teaching class today. One of the girls tells me Mr. Stone and Mr. Camryn take turns teaching. I ask, “Which one do you like better?”
She says, “Oh, we all want Mr. Camryn. He is not as strict as Mr. Stone and sometimes even makes us laugh.”
Later, I read about them both in a ballet book. They both danced with the Civic Chicago Opera ballet. Mr. Stone is string-bean tall and thin with long, graceful arms and a stern face. The book tells me he is known for his tough love teaching style and he insists on technical perfection. He scares me.
Mr. Camryn is an expert in character dancing. His face looks soft and nice, but the girls in the dressing room tell me he can be tough on students, too.
Mr. Camryn glides into class, greets us and tells everyone my name. I smile with my face. After barre exercises, which I can do because they are almost the same as Bobbi Anne’s, he tells me to stand in the middle row so I can follow the first row. It is not that hard. I just need to learn the combinations and I think I will be okay.
Next week, on a Wednesday after school, Mom gives me some money and tells me to use it for the streetcar and bus to get downtown. Then I can buy a snack at the end of class at the store next door. “It will be dark when you come home, so use the rest of the money to take a taxi to the Illinois Central train and either Dad or I will pick you up from the station. Let’s look at the schedule to see what time you should be home.”
I fold my ballet clothes to stuff them into my ballet bag and find something to put the money in. It is a short walk to the streetcar stop. I am not used to riding a streetcar, but I climb on and take a seat where no one else is sitting. Oh please, God, don’t let me get lost.
I look around and discover most riders are Negroes and I feel like they are looking at me strangely. I make myself small, folding into my body and pretend to read the ads at the top of the car. When the driver pulls a chain to let me know it’s time to get off and find my bus stop, I breathe.
Mom told me which bus stop to take to get downtown at the right place. The streetcar is weird, but the bus is awful. It smells weird like gassy fumes and my stomach becomes sick.
I make it to my stop and walk the seven blocks to 185 W, Madison . I tell myself to focus on the street signs - memorize them. Whew. The hard part is done. Now it is my time to have some fun.
A few weeks pass. Mr Stone, the hard man with no heart, is teaching this class. It is a Saturday and I am dancing in three classes today. He starts the floor exercises with, “Erica, move to the front row.”
I move. I can’t wait to tell Dad and Mom. He dances a combination slowly and the class walks it. I watch the girl with the perfect bun and pink flowers. She is my leader. Then the music starts and we dance it. I remember it all with no mistakes. My heart follows the music and my feet somehow follow my brain. Mr Stone says, “You can stay in the front row, Erica.”
I learn over the weeks and months that we all count our criticisms and compliments. Our scorecard. What I fear most is not getting any comments. Being ignored is like saying, “You are not worth my time to even notice you.” So far, this isn’t happening to me. I go home after each class to report my score to Mom and Dad. They nod.
Going home is harder than getting there, because I don’t know the way to the IC train. Once I got into a taxi. It is dirty with burned-out cigarettes on the floor and old newspapers stuck onto the seat, and the driver looks old and mean. When I tell the driver where I want to go, he asks me, “Where are your parents, little girl?”
I said, “I am alone”, and now my body stiffens and I hold my breath. Now he knows I have no one to be with me. “Mister, I have money to pay you for the ride. Will you please take me?”
He looks me over again and the engine rumbles its start.
The train is nice. It is well-lit with comfy orange seats and is mostly empty by this time of night. I tell myself to stay awake or I will miss my stop.
On many Saturdays, my dad finishes his rounds at the hospital in time to take me home. Often, he takes me to lunch before we hit the road either at Maurice’s or Tofenneti’s.
On the drive home, Dad turns on the Lyric Opera on the radio. He does not ask if I want to listen to opera. He does. He turns the volume down every once in a while to explain the opera story to me or something about the music. He tells me which are his favorite operas and which are Mom’s. I learn to like the music, but the part that makes me crave riding with my dad is that no one else gets to do this. He finds time to ask me about my lesson and my thoughts about ballet.
These lunches and rides home are part of my love for dance.
I am now taking lessons three days each week. Mr. Stone and Mr. Camryn and some of my girlfriends at the school all become my second family. I stay in the front row most days - sometimes I need to move to the middle row, but Heaven forbid, never the back row.
Mr. Camryn, the hard one with a heart and humor, teaches the Character dancing class. It is similar to folk dancing. It is a chance to take the very strict and structured ballet steps and loosen them up. I can change from always pointing my toe to creating a square toe.
I become completely free with my body. Of course, I still have to do the steps Mr. Camryn choreographs, but it is not only okay with him, he likes it when I put me into the steps. It is an escape from the discipline - for a whole hour. It is recess.
One class Mr. Camryn asks all to choreograph our own dance to any song or poem we like. I choose Cockles and Mussels. I dance it in front of the whole class to the music of the Irish anthem. I use glissades to wheel my barrow and jetes to cross the streets broad and narrow.
I see Mr. Camryn smile.
Years pass and I am no longer the rookie. I welcome new girls into the changing room and show them where the bathroom is. I joke around with Mr. Camryn and I am friendly with Mr. Stone. I never know when his mood will shift and send one sharp comment lashing out at me. I want to disappear when this happens.
In the dressing room, I watch the older girls put on their toe shoes and wish for the day when it will be my turn. The tall girl with the bun and flowers is moving onto toe. I watch as she places the lamb’s wool carefully on her toes to protect them from the hard box. Then she slides her whole foot in and ties the pretty silk ribbons criss-cross on her legs. It is graceful-looking. My turn is coming.
At twelve, we move from the city of Chicago to the suburbs. Traveling is different now. It is easier. All I have to do is hop on the Northwestern train and get off an hour later at the downtown stop - the end of the route.
However, walking back to the train station is not safe. I step over bodies of men who sleep on the sidewalk. I don’t know why they are there. Sometimes, someone asks me for money.
I walk faster.
My parents tell me they can’t pay for all my lessons. I don’t want to give up what is mine. I ask Mr. Camryn, “Can I work the phone and reception desk on Saturdays for help in paying for my lessons? My parents say they can’t pay for so many classes. I promise I will work hard.”
“I will talk to your parents. I think that would be fine.”
Dancing gets harder. It is finally time to get on toe. Those pretty pink shoes with long silky ribbon ties are deceiving. The toe is hard wood. When I stand on the toe to balance, my first reaction is “Ouch, that hurts — a lot.” Ballerinas must toe dance. My arches are flat. My foot is stiff. Mr. Stone suggests, “Erica, go home, fill a bucket with hot water, massage your foot into a bent position and soak it in the hot water. We have to get you on toe.”
I soak my foot. I am stupid and I am failing. My body is wrong. Maybe in time I will stand on toe. Everyone else is on toe. My dream turns into a nightmare.
I keep dancing in my soft ballet shoes and I continue with character dancing. I try a toe class and I fall off my toes. I stay in the back row and do not need anyone to tell me to go there. I know.
I pretend it does not matter. But one of the girls who started the same day as me is invited to perform in the recital. I am not. I think she is not that good - she is not that much better than me. I don’t say anything to Mom or Dad.
Slowly the front row of ballet class is a stranger. Slowly I count fewer criticisms and compliments. I am fourteen now. Still I try to get on toe, still I try what I know is not going to happen for me. Still, I move to the music and find my joy, but it grows less.
Somehow my heart is stolen.
At fifteen, I tell my parents I need a vacation from dance. They tell me to finish the session. It is paid for.
Dad, I think, is disappointed. He likes me to dance.
I quit.
But I cannot stay away, so I call Mr. Camryn and ask if I can come back. He welcomes me. He explains, “We often lose our dancers when they get to high school. I am happy to hear you want to come back.”
“But I am no good. Why do you want me back?”
“Because you love to dance.”
I try for another year. I am a senior in high school. I can no longer stand my own failure. I feel shame. I use all my energy for traveling downtown, but once I get to the studio I am limp with dread. I tell my parents I want to see a high-school football game once before I graduate. I want to go shopping with my girlfriends.
I am done. I know my truth, yet it is painful to swallow.
I still find joy in moving my body to music. I like to defy gravity.
Today,when I ski the mountains of Colorado or California, I sing Edelweiss to myself and ski to the rhythm of the song in my head.