The smell of Cedal hairspray permeates every corner of the room. The cornerstone product of every dancers “beauty bag”. More often than not, applied way too liberally. With vast amounts of overspray. I am standing with at least one hundred other girls in the now familiar post-audition, nail-biting waiting game. My tummy is full of butterflies. Not so badly that it makes me sick, as it usually does before the audition, but enough to make me feel hypersensitive to my surrounds.
I feel like I have danced well. I pragmatically say to myself that I have done my best. At twelve years old I feel wise beyond my years as far as these situations go. I have become accustomed to doing reasonably well. I am almost always in the top twelve now. It has taken a lot of work. From causing a ruckus in the society over a repeated exam, due to a scorned ex-teacher’s dismal and unfair mark, to my constant battle with my lack of natural turn-out, my unremarkable pointe and my not fit for purpose body shape.
I have wanted to be a ballerina since before I can remember. Starting classes at three years old, dancing is so much a part of my being, I can barely separate that part out. I see music as movement, I am in perpetual flux, never sitting still, always practising. I dance when I am happy, I dance when I am angry. There is movement for every emotion, and it is such an easy way for me to express myself.
The teacher in charge of the audition emerges from the studio. She rings her little bell, as if requiring peoples’ already captured attention. All the girls gather a little closer, the apprehension palpable in the room. The fussing stage mothers and pushy teachers of the auditioning candidates shuffle in a little also.
I check the number pinned to the front of my leotard and wait. The numbers are read out. I hear my number and a rush of relief and happiness crashes over me like a wave.
Close behind me I hear a teacher say, “Oh, not her again.”
My stomach plummets from the crest of the wave straight towards the endless abyss like a crazed and out of control bungy jumper. A hot and prickly sensation, starting somewhere I can’t quite ascertain right now begins burning up my neck and flushes my face red. I bite my lip as I try desperately to hold back the tears. Any sense of achievement or excitement is torn away in a few short, sharp, flippant words. They hate me because I am good.
My Mum looks at me and can’t understand why I look so disappointed. I should be happy. I know the teacher that spoke is being so hideous because her own daughter is in my age group and doesn’t always go through. I tell mum about what was said, and she tells me to ignore them.
I often catch myself, especially when I am teaching, feeling frustrated with the students. The urge to say something disparaging wrestling unconsciously with my memory of being crushed by that woman. That woman who really deserves no major role in my life, but whose cameo appearance is painfully enduring.
My own kids and step-kids provide more opportunities for glib remarks or offhand quips. Words that have the potential to sear through any protective layers that they may have created for themselves. When I feel the agitation rising in my chest, I feel her shadow behind me. I keep my mouth shut.
One of my closest friends often reminds me of my worth and points out my expertise. These complimentary words make me squirm with discomfort. I deeply desire validation and have sought approval for my whole life, but struggle when it is forthcoming. Compliment me, just a little, not too gratuitously. Someone may hear you. Someone may hear you and pass comment or judgment. Safety in mediocrity.