The Dancer

Dance came to me late in life.  I was sixteen when I saw the television special Baryshnikov on Broadway on Swiss television and became obsessed with the legendary ballerino, deciding that I should be just like him.  My Mam backed me, the whole way, facilitating the taking of dance classes (for which she paid), the acquisition of dance wear, and many books about Baryshnikov.  Mama went to the trouble (I think of it as trouble, as a mother, she probably did not) of coming to see me dance in shows, and even helping me to choreograph routines for the annual ISB Talent Show, listening to music with me, helping me to pick the songs, the steps, and the ‘stumes that would make up the routines.  This was different than the dancing she and I did around the living room when we rolled up the rug and did the bump and the frug - this was something that might have led to a career for me.  Except for one thing…

I had no talent.

I was a good enough dancer when it came to disco dancing and boogieing around the house, but I didn’t have the right body or skillset to make it as a dancer.  Nevertheless, My Mam did everything in her motherly power to feed the dream and to take it as far as it could go, but the one thing, in my scant years at the barre, that moved me the most was that which was tangible.

Lorenz Trachsel

When I began my lessons at Ballet Studio Halamka, I knew nothing.  My first day there I wore a white Capezio tank top leotard, black tights, and ballet slippers.  And underwear.  Another boy dancer, Lori Trachsel, had to have a boy to boy conversation with me about dance belts because, naturally, Mom didn’t know anything about that.  He even gave me one of his (I didn’t worry from wearing someone else’s dance belt - I was just happy to not have to go out and buy one) and he threw in a pair of leg warmers.  Well, actually, they were sort of ankle warmers, that’s how small the pale mauve garments were.  After a few months in class, I had done enough shopping to have a proper dancer’s wardrobe.  I was on my way.

When I graduated High School I went to Uni in Texas… well, Jr. College.  I continued to try to be a dancer, operating under the handicap of having bad feet, no turnout, no discipline, and no talent.  I danced in class (when I went to class) and in shows at the Drama Department, and I danced with love and joy in the place where talent and turnout belonged.  I danced enough that my newly acquired leg warmers were threadbare, which I actually liked because the missing heels in the gray garments made for perfect exposure of the heels of my Capezio jazz shoes - a prime way to dance, and a look I considered supersexy.  It was not, though, a look My Mam thought was very nice - she never liked me to have holes in my jeans or any other garment.  She told me she would like to make me a pair of leg warmers, which surprised me because Me Mother did not knit.  I suppose she knew how to knit, but she didn’t do it.  You know, knitters knit - they do it all the time, they do it obsessively, the do it for relaxation, love, and passion.  That was not my Mother.  Still, she wanted to knit me a pair of leg warmers, and I never, never ever, said no to Mama. 

We went to the yarn store and examined many different shades of color, until I found the two that I liked the best.  Mama bought them, and went to work, and I found myself watching her working on the leg warmers and growing excited for new, Mama-made, custom designed garments in the exact colors that I had chosen.  And when the leg warmers were finished, I wore them with joy, with pride, and with gratitude.  My Mommy had made me something, from scratch, that showed that she knew me, that she saw me.  I loved those leg warmers.

My dance career ended before it even began. I made believe I was a dancer, and one or two college professors put me in occasional situations fo feed the fantasy, but, once in the real world and auditioning, it became abundantly clear that there was a wall before me, and I had hit it. The dance clothing went into a drawer, went to the back of the drawer, and my treasured white Capezios and burgundy & blue leg warmers were buried for decades. Unseen, except in my heart and memory.

A few years ago, my husband and I were doing a household purge.  We threw out/gave away bags and bags (and not those cheap little bags - we used the big Hefty bags) of stuff.  We got rid of file folders of old, useless paper trash, we disposed of books, record albums, toys, hats, and clothing.  It was liberating and lightening. I loved it.

I kept the leg warmers.  I didn’t become a dancer, but, for a little while, I got to feel like one.  I carry that feeling, Baryshnikov, Lori Trachsel, and My Mam with me, wherever I go. But the leg warmers, I store in a drawer, where they will be safe and warm. There they are, and there they’ll stay.