I never imagined that my estimation of myself would be destroyed at age five and lead to decades of self-destruction.
By Susan Creamer Joy - Friday 09 Sep 2011
My younger sister always ran in first, her delicate fingers tightly scrolled around the flimsy handle of the patent leather case that held her change of clothes: a flounce of pink tulle, black leotard, tights and the soft, leather slippers that made no sound against the polished wood floor of Miss Hertha’s ballet studio.
Like most of the other little girls our age, we spent many of our best days draping our tender frames in sequined castoffs from our mother’s wardrobe then prancing about the house with the dramatic carriage of immured aristocracy awaiting rescue by the Prince. Yet despite the swaddled reality of that tender age, protected as it was from full comprehension, I had begun to detect unfortunate disparities in my awkward deportment and the sweeping grace of Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella; and on this afternoon, at five years old I would be told something that would inform my self-perception for the rest of my life.
“Watch where you’re going, Susan!”. I heard the mild concern and frustration in my mother’s voice calling out from the car in the parking lot as she grappled to release my infant brother from his car seat.
“How many times must I tell you to stop looking down at your feet when you walk? You’ll develop a hump! Now hurry inside or you’ll be late for class!”
Looking up, I watched the winsome flock of diminutive dancers enter the building ahead of me in an animated flutter like a covey of black and pink sparrows. With one exception they were all exquisitely dainty.
The exception, a larger girl whom I suspected was also a bit older, was a sweet but rotund cherub of a dancer with enormous cheeks and dimpled elbows, whose hefty steps even the soft, calfskin of her slippers could not adequately muffle. Although at the time the specific criteria that qualified what was celebrated or shunned in or about a person was a concept still vague in my cartoon-swept psyche, I was old enough to have a faint awareness that such a distinction existed; and in that moment as I regarded my softly corpulent dance mate, I found myself oddly defensive and hostile.
“Whatever else I’m not, at least I’m not her,” I considered in mild consolation, as I removed the orthopedic shoes I wore to correct my knock-kneed alignment.
As always, Miss Hertha stood in the vestibule dressed to perform, her gray hair pulled back against her scalp with theatrical precision folding into a tight chignon as smooth as polished silver at the base of her long neck.
We regarded her with awe; the way her pale, seasoned arms wafted above us in greeting like the dual fronds from an exotic palm caught in an extraordinary breeze and how her toned back bloomed up from her slim hips with only the slightest arc. This was the poise we were advised to seek and the excellence that set her apart from other women.
Even the carriage of our mothers, whose bodies broadened by childbirth and weighted by the drudgery of domestic life, outwardly displayed an indelicate compromise with perfection in spite of the hope they carried that their daughters would grow up to reflect more.
Along one side of the dance studio on a small platform affixed to the wall was a bank of wooden chairs in which our mothers, siblings, or guardians would sit and observe the class. The facing wall accommodated a large mirror and the ballet barre, both extending the length of the room.
At the beginning of each class, Miss Hertha would position herself at the front of the long hall next to her accompanist on piano, and as the music began, she would call out our names one girl at a time. This was our cue to dance across the room to our place at the barre from where we stood in front of the seated spectators—arms raised, palms facing in, toes pointed.
I waited my turn, observing the light and willow-like movements of the dancers before me hoping as I did every week, that I would measure up.
“Excuse me, little girl.” I heard a voice at my back.
“Little girl,” a woman said tapping my shoulder with her thick fingers.
“Your tutu is not fastened.”
I turned and saw the wide outline of her broad face from her seat behind me; a pearl necklace sitting high on her throat wedged neatly between generous folds of powdered flesh.
Drawing me backwards with a sharp tug she zipped up my costume and began to hook the small clasp at the top when she stopped abruptly, chuckled and said, “My goodness! We are a little chubby for our tutu, aren’t we?”
WE ARE?
In that instant my lumpish reflection appeared before me in that wall of mirror across the room, and as Miss Hertha called out my name, I was certain she must also regard me with the same disgust with which I suddenly regarded myself. In the blank revelation of that moment all I could feel was the hot color of humiliation burning to the surface of my skin while the grim connotation of those words continued to sear my reality like lye.
I struggled to raise my arms above my head—arms that suddenly felt lubberly and graceless—and I made what proved to be a terrible mistake; one that would inform my self regard for decades to come: I believed her.
It is a sad but curious fact that we often let casual remarks or incidents have power in our lives. We let them define us, rather than the reverse. This was true for me that day. My childlike desire to belong, to fit in, to excel, and my hypersensitivity regarding every perceived flaw and inadequacy led to years of eating disorders, drug abuse and other destructive behaviors.
Of course, my days with Miss Hertha came to an abrupt end that afternoon. I petitioned my parents for other options and refused to return to ballet; and while my father continued to hold fast to his argument that, “All the best athletes are broad-shouldered, knock-kneed and pigeon-toed,” this combination was clearly an advantage that did not apply en pointe.
Fifty years later I see the obvious absurdity of that moment and of the thousands of other innocuous moments in my past which I have vested with corrosive power. I’d like to think I know better than to do that now, and although I am still rife with insecurities, they no longer lead me to the point of destruction or abnormal despair. In fact, most days I am quite content.
Just don’t ask me to dance.
Like most of the other little girls our age, we spent many of our best days draping our tender frames in sequined castoffs from our mother’s wardrobe then prancing about the house with the dramatic carriage of immured aristocracy awaiting rescue by the Prince. Yet despite the swaddled reality of that tender age, protected as it was from full comprehension, I had begun to detect unfortunate disparities in my awkward deportment and the sweeping grace of Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella; and on this afternoon, at five years old I would be told something that would inform my self-perception for the rest of my life.
“Watch where you’re going, Susan!”. I heard the mild concern and frustration in my mother’s voice calling out from the car in the parking lot as she grappled to release my infant brother from his car seat.
“How many times must I tell you to stop looking down at your feet when you walk? You’ll develop a hump! Now hurry inside or you’ll be late for class!”
Looking up, I watched the winsome flock of diminutive dancers enter the building ahead of me in an animated flutter like a covey of black and pink sparrows. With one exception they were all exquisitely dainty.
The exception, a larger girl whom I suspected was also a bit older, was a sweet but rotund cherub of a dancer with enormous cheeks and dimpled elbows, whose hefty steps even the soft, calfskin of her slippers could not adequately muffle. Although at the time the specific criteria that qualified what was celebrated or shunned in or about a person was a concept still vague in my cartoon-swept psyche, I was old enough to have a faint awareness that such a distinction existed; and in that moment as I regarded my softly corpulent dance mate, I found myself oddly defensive and hostile.
“Whatever else I’m not, at least I’m not her,” I considered in mild consolation, as I removed the orthopedic shoes I wore to correct my knock-kneed alignment.
As always, Miss Hertha stood in the vestibule dressed to perform, her gray hair pulled back against her scalp with theatrical precision folding into a tight chignon as smooth as polished silver at the base of her long neck.
We regarded her with awe; the way her pale, seasoned arms wafted above us in greeting like the dual fronds from an exotic palm caught in an extraordinary breeze and how her toned back bloomed up from her slim hips with only the slightest arc. This was the poise we were advised to seek and the excellence that set her apart from other women.
Even the carriage of our mothers, whose bodies broadened by childbirth and weighted by the drudgery of domestic life, outwardly displayed an indelicate compromise with perfection in spite of the hope they carried that their daughters would grow up to reflect more.
Along one side of the dance studio on a small platform affixed to the wall was a bank of wooden chairs in which our mothers, siblings, or guardians would sit and observe the class. The facing wall accommodated a large mirror and the ballet barre, both extending the length of the room.
At the beginning of each class, Miss Hertha would position herself at the front of the long hall next to her accompanist on piano, and as the music began, she would call out our names one girl at a time. This was our cue to dance across the room to our place at the barre from where we stood in front of the seated spectators—arms raised, palms facing in, toes pointed.
I waited my turn, observing the light and willow-like movements of the dancers before me hoping as I did every week, that I would measure up.
“Excuse me, little girl.” I heard a voice at my back.
“Little girl,” a woman said tapping my shoulder with her thick fingers.
“Your tutu is not fastened.”
I turned and saw the wide outline of her broad face from her seat behind me; a pearl necklace sitting high on her throat wedged neatly between generous folds of powdered flesh.
Drawing me backwards with a sharp tug she zipped up my costume and began to hook the small clasp at the top when she stopped abruptly, chuckled and said, “My goodness! We are a little chubby for our tutu, aren’t we?”
WE ARE?
In that instant my lumpish reflection appeared before me in that wall of mirror across the room, and as Miss Hertha called out my name, I was certain she must also regard me with the same disgust with which I suddenly regarded myself. In the blank revelation of that moment all I could feel was the hot color of humiliation burning to the surface of my skin while the grim connotation of those words continued to sear my reality like lye.
I struggled to raise my arms above my head—arms that suddenly felt lubberly and graceless—and I made what proved to be a terrible mistake; one that would inform my self regard for decades to come: I believed her.
It is a sad but curious fact that we often let casual remarks or incidents have power in our lives. We let them define us, rather than the reverse. This was true for me that day. My childlike desire to belong, to fit in, to excel, and my hypersensitivity regarding every perceived flaw and inadequacy led to years of eating disorders, drug abuse and other destructive behaviors.
Of course, my days with Miss Hertha came to an abrupt end that afternoon. I petitioned my parents for other options and refused to return to ballet; and while my father continued to hold fast to his argument that, “All the best athletes are broad-shouldered, knock-kneed and pigeon-toed,” this combination was clearly an advantage that did not apply en pointe.
Fifty years later I see the obvious absurdity of that moment and of the thousands of other innocuous moments in my past which I have vested with corrosive power. I’d like to think I know better than to do that now, and although I am still rife with insecurities, they no longer lead me to the point of destruction or abnormal despair. In fact, most days I am quite content.
Just don’t ask me to dance.