i got dance in my pants

Three years old was "too young" to participate in Miss Linda's Ballet Academy in the mid-seventies in Columbus, Ohio . . . or so it had been decreed.  "Ballet I" For Children would consist of primarily five-year-olds, though Linda Robinson would occasionally accept a "Mature Four."

I was not yet four.

To say I was a "Mature Three" prances beyond oxymoron and does a double pirouette on the word "lie."  My mother is a truthful lady, so she didn't even try.

Thus, week after week, three-year-old me was expected to wait patiently for 30 or 40 minutes of torture as the Fives and "Mature" Fours plie-ed and relevee-d and -oh!- performed leaps across the floor diagonally (!) at Miss Linda's store-front-sorry-excuse-for-a studio in suburban Ohio on Wednesdays at 4:00.

Cut my three-year-old heart out.

I will die.

(... Or come very near death during my next performance art piece that I like to call "Miss Linda is a Dream-Crusher," but which is sadly misinterpreted and crudely dubbed by my critics as "There Was Another Tantrum Today And Someone's Getting a Spanking When Dad Gets Home.")

My sister (5), of course, was enjoying the class on a certain --shall we say-- "technical" level?  Yes, her first, second and third Positions were painfully accurate and her bodily proportions and straight little legs really lent themselves to the art form, but even a three-year-old could see that what she was lacking was passion.  "It can't be taught," I thought to myself, with a sigh and an almost imperceptible shake of my oversized head.  (It's true, with cheeks as fat as mine, ballet might have been dangerous for a child so top-heavy, but balance had always been my strength.)  "I blame the director," I decided, eyeing Miss Linda and clutching my baby-doll who had acquired the unsurprising, though somewhat obvious name "Naked Baby" based on the fact that I never dressed her.  No, I did not lose her clothes.  She's expressing herself.  Dummy.

While the role of Dance Critic came naturally to me at the age of three, I knew in my heart that it was really just a creative crutch.  It was the thing I'd turned to because my own artistic passion had been blocked.  Additionally, it could not be denied that my parents' second child (me) emerged into this world with less-than-ideal dancer qualities:  Pigeon-toed and Knock-kneed, as cruel fate would have it, made crueler still by an insatiable desire to

dance.

Wednesday after Wednesday I was asked to watch these children crucify the choreography in complete ignorance of the story being told through the movements.  Was there no emotion in this room?  Was there no soul?  Why must I be subjected to this sheer lack of respect for beautiful ballet?  Could they not see that it was shriveling my future inner child and my current child-child?

And then came My Moment.

In many artistic circles, it is known as a "Breakthrough,"  "Facing Your Demons," or, as Joseph Campbell said in The Power of Myth For Tots:  "Follow Your Bliss."  And follow I did.
Mostly, I sanctioned myself to a small alley of hard-wood floor near the observer chairs (otherwise known as "straight-jackets for the insanely inspired.")  And while the Fours and Fives executed gross parodies of classical dance, I soared on the sidelines.  I could no longer be detained on "the bench" of the ballet studio.  My calling was too great.  I must

dance.

Naturally, the glowing reviews were encouraging -- the other moms loved my performance.  Miraculously, my pigeon-toes turned outward when the music played and who could focus their attention on my crooked little knees with all the emotion behind my impromptu movements?  (I could hear the murmurs that my Mom might have a little choreographer on her hands.  She nodded modestly, but we both knew that a DANCER I was, and was destined to be.)  My elder sister watched with awe (years later she would twist this memory and claim her expression was really a mixture of embarrassment, horror, and slight amusement, but by then I was twelve and could see through her thinly veiled jealousy.)  By the end of the 40 minute class, I was invited by Miss Linda Robinson herself to become a member of the 4:00 Wednesday Ballet Class for Kids.
"I'd be honored," I said, and then I peed in my tights.
My debut performance was that very Spring.  My sister and I were both selected to dance in a exquisite piece entitled "Pink is for Little Girls" performed to a song of matching lyrics.
I did not follow a single motion of planned choreography.
While my sister obediently executed the moves with a skillful accuracy and an occasional attempt to wrangle me back into the (ugh) line --I'm not judging here, but I'd really hoped to see Miss Linda think outside of the floor-plan box a little.  Had she never heard of Anne Bogart's Viewpoints???-- my performance was a complex mixture of unleashed-primal-yet-beautiful movements and stark-fucking-stillness wherein fear and a realization of the enormous audience was visible in my three-year old eyes; A Choice, of course...  Remember, I am shattering convention here.
The whole experience was exhilarating.
The applause was deafening.

Special thanks to Sheffield Chastain for his video contribution which inspired this posting and for giving me the courage to write on a subject matter so near to my heart.  The second recording is the adult me.  Both recordings were filmed and edited in the Astoria Studios on 33rd Street.  We'd like to thank our neighbors for not complaining.