Rediscovering the Feminine

I grasp the bar with my left hand, bend my knees, straighten them, and jump up onto my toes. I look in the mirror to check my posture and notice how my bright blue socks clash against my black leggings and purple long-sleeved tee. “Watch your turnout, girls!” my instructor says, and I twist my feet slightly inwards, trying to maintain my balance. Finally, just when I start to feel my toes give out, my instructor allows us to fall back to the ground—gracefully, though, dropping our arms and bending our knees into a dignified plié before straightening again into the perfect posture.

I did not want to take ballet class. I am not graceful or patient, nor am I girly enough to want to dance on my toes for an hour and a half. In fact, I would classify myself as a feminist, and I saw ballet as the antithesis of everything I believed. Unfortunately, my college requires a certain amount of gym credits to graduate, and I still needed one last credit the final semester of my senior year. I had to choose between an 8 a.m. power training course and a 6:30 p.m. ballet class, and my night-owl self knew that I would die of sleep deprivation if I chose the former; thus, I submitted myself to crucifixion a la arabesque knowing that my time would be better spent repeatedly banging my head against the wall.

At least, that’s how I felt on that initial Thursday evening. But by the third lesson, I found myself actually enjoying my class. Now this was a bigger shock than when I learned that Pluto was no longer a planet, and I tried to figure out how and why I was falling in love with ballet. I could barely admit it to myself, and tried to push the thought from my mind, but I was smiling during our exercises and laughing at myself when I fell. Not to mention, I was sore from all of those damn plies, and I run frequently. Had I gone mad?

To explain, I am most definitely not a “girlie girl.” I drink Guinness, make my guy friends smoke Cuban cigars with me, talk about science fiction, play video games, read history, and watch action movies. Some of my favorite memories are from nights I went to pubs in England with just the guys and drank as much or more than them just to prove I could, and the only time I ever watch romantic comedies is when my gay friends refuse to watch Quentin Tarantino or my mom needs “girl time.” I wear dresses at times and always put on make-up, but it’s only because I know fashion begets respect, and if you look like a hobo every day, you will be treated as such.

Furthermore, I was raised to be a feminist. My mother divorced my father when I was six years old, and although she remarried, she continued to be the main breadwinner in the house. My mother has always worked—though she was part-time when my siblings and I were young—and I found it weird if one of my friends had a stay-at-home mom. I was brought up with the notions that women go to college, women have careers, men and women are equal in marriage, and of course, women can be priests. If Eve ate the fruit first, it was because Adam didn’t stop her, and how do we know that wasn’t simply a story invented by men to justify sexism?

When I was little and wanted to do dance, my mother allowed me to take tap and ballet until I was twelve. Then, she made my sister and I quit so that we could take Kenpo self-defense as a family. “Ballet can’t save your life,” my mother said, and when I protested that a grand battement could kick an assailant in his face, she pretended not to listen. So, I learned how to escape a headlock, knock someone out, and leave a mugger crying on the ground for mercy. This was woman: mighty, powerful, and downright kick-ass.

Ballet was the ultimate contrast of everything I thought I knew. I could appreciate other women doing it because it took a lot of strength, practice, and imagination, but it was just too girly for me. In ballet, the men lift the women, and the audience often sees the women as being nothing but beautiful. My opinion of ballerinas was that they wore poufy skirts and defined themselves on the standards of grace, poise, and gentility—and these are such pre-modern notions. The contemporary and post-modern woman needs power.

However, I’ve learned to ask the question: why can’t we have both? Ballet taught me that women could be both powerful and beautiful—in fact, beauty and grace only adds to our magnificence. Women are unique creatures: we can chug beer, watch action movies, run several miles, break boards with our fists, cook a delicious meal, pursue competitive careers—and look absolutely fantastic the entire time.

Ballerinas are incredibly strong, as I learned from my aching muscles after the first few lessons, and they commit themselves wholeheartedly to their profession. In reality, ballerinas are an image of feminist power and beauty, as they have steady careers and are extremely independent. When a Prima Donna comes onto the stage, she captivates the audience because she exudes more than beauty—there is freedom in her dance.

So how did a nerdy, liberal, post-modern, action-movie-loving feminist learn to love ballet? Part of it stems from my competitive spirit. If I have to do something, I put my all into it, because not only is failure not an option, success is mandatory. I knew that if I was going to survive ballet class, I had to stretch every day, learn the moves, and actually try. I’m still not very good, and my curvy figure will never grace the stage of the Boston Ballet, but I’m better than I used to be.

Nevertheless, my appreciation for ballet stems from much more than my perfectionist attitude. One day, I realized that I could almost do a split, put my hands completely on the floor without bending my knees, lift my leg in an arabesque without falling, and grand plié with steady knees. I was strong and successful. I lifted my head high when I did my ballet walk, because for some strange reason, I felt confident and beautiful as I crossed the wooden floor, feet turned, back straight, eyes focused ten feet up on the wall, and smiling. Femininity is beauty and power, and ballet allows a woman to realize that she does not have to choose between the business suit and the frilly dress—she can have both.

I still am not graceful. I often fall while standing still, trip over my feet, spill food on myself while eating dinner or drinking coffee (in my defense, my travel mug leaks), and I have difficulties moving my arms in front of my body in ballet class because certain large feminine parts get in the way. But I can make fun of myself and laugh at my mistakes, and now I can balance on my toes in perfect posture for a solid minute—or even on one toe. The earth will implode before I trade in my pint of Guinness for an appletini or watch 10 Things I Hate About You for personal enjoyment, but I’ve discovered that what makes a woman feminine is far beyond any stereotype: it is a combination of elegance and strength that is best exhibited in watching a ballerina on the stage. She runs towards the middle, spotlight on her pale face, white leotard, and gossamer tutu. Spinning quickly in a delicate turn, she lands on the tip of her toe as she bends forward and lifts her leg behind her. At that moment, there is nothing in the world more beautiful or more powerful than her glorious figure, and she exudes confidence and poise—the very model of modern woman.

Encounter in the Philadelphia Museum of Art

Walking through the Philadelphia Museum of Art with my hands in my coat pockets, I fingered my camera as I stared at the many paintings. My sister was enraptured by some Cézanne, and I lost my friend in a series on poplar trees. I had just left the Impressionists with a memory newly touched by fresh and beautiful images of thick brushstrokes and exaggerated, dreamlike colors.

However, I decided to give the other pieces some attention and began to explore the modern art section. I looked at a soapbox sculpture by Andy Warhol and tried to interpret its meaning, then peeked at a collection of forks and knives dangling on a string from the ceiling. After more searching, I finally entered a room with seven or eight paintings, all of which dated after the 1950s.

There were a few interesting paintings in the room, but none that really struck me as anything special, so I was about to leave. Suddenly, though, I noticed a woman sitting on a bench in the room, staring intently at a painting. She was dressed in the navy blue uniform that identified her as a worker at the museum, and she had gorgeous chocolate skin. She appeared to be in her early thirties, and her eyes drooped from the exhaustion of a long day. But there she sat, looking at the painting. Her mouth frowned slightly as she stared, as though the painting resonated some long-forgotten yearning.

I looked at the painting to try to understand her captivation. I wish I could remember its exact details, but all I can recall is that it had a violin in it. My mind was still trapped in the confines of a Monet painting of London’s Waterloo Bridge in the fog. I had stared at that painting for quite some time, getting lost in the swirls of gray wrapped around the bleak stony blue bridge. The painting looked just like the city had one day in December of 2009, when I was on a break from my studies at Oxford University. A light mist covered the ground as the wind blew fresh snow in my face, and I was walking through London trying to find peace and solitude in what had been a miserable day. I had gone to Hyde Park to see if it was really as picturesque as the Romantics seemed to imagine, and the cast-iron street lamps shone through the snowy mist with a glow reminiscent of nineteenth century oil lamps. I closed my eyes and held tight with wet mittens to my cup of Galaxy hot chocolate, hunched against the cold as the moisture from my breath began to freeze and melt on my scarf with every inhale and exhale.

I hadn’t seen Waterloo Bridge that day, and staring at Monet’s painting, I wished that I had walked to Hyde Park from Baker Street instead of taking the Tube, even if it would have taken me several hours.

Knowing how much the Monet had affected me, I wondered with even more intensity what memory or emotion the violin painting induced in the woman. Suddenly, as people often do, she sensed me staring at her and turned slightly, scowling just enough to let me know that my gaze was unwelcome. I pretended to observe the painting directly past her. She turned back to her painting, picked at her nails for a bit, and looked back at it, having already forgotten our brief encounter. She exhaled deeply, and I could sense that her mind was in the painting, far from the museum and Philadelphia.

I had the sudden desire to ask her about the painting. Why did it provoke such an emotional response? What did she see when she looked at the brushstrokes on the canvas? What did she feel? What was her story, that a simple painting of a violin could entrance her when she worked at the museum and had seen hundreds of paintings every day of her career? I wanted to ask and even felt my mouth begin to open; but I panicked. I didn’t want to ruin her moment, to break her train of thought. Suddenly I thought the worst: what if she wasn’t entrapped by the painting? What if I was over-romanticizing the situation? She might have been bored and simply staring at whatever met her eye-level, and that painting could have been nothing for her but a distraction from her tedious day. How strange would it be, then, if some creepy red-haired girl interrupted her boredom to ask what she thought about art?

In my hesitation, I lost all courage. I wanted to beg her to tell me what she thought, but for some reason I could not. I walked out of the room and made my way back to the Monet. My friend and my sister were nearby and ready to look at other exhibits, but I stopped once more to stare at my painting. I thought about that day in Hyde Park and how the cold mist felt on my tender face, and I closed my eyes to remember.

Cricket Pt. 1

The first time they met was at a party. She walked in right as he was climbing the stairs, over which he promptly tripped and tumbled down. But he didn’t break his neck, which was good, and he bumped into a gorgeous girl whose large breasts cushioned his head for the rest of the evening, which was very good.

The second time they met was at a bowling alley, each with their separate group of friends, who all seemed to know each other. He was bowling horribly until she came over to borrow a pencil; he bowled a strike then and every time after the whole night.

The third time they met, she introduced herself and gave him her mobile number. After he got home, he misdialed and accidentally phoned the local radio station, who informed him he was their tenth caller and had won 500 quid.

The fourth time they met was at the corner pub, just the two of them. The bartender confused him for an old friend and gave them free drinks all night. When they said goodnight, they kissed outside her place for a solid twenty minutes before her flatmate stumbled across them, crying over another lost love. And when they parted, his brother called and apologized for everything that had happened over the last 4 years.

So he called her Cricket, because she brought him luck. And she called him Alistair, because that was his name.

Cricket was tall and beautiful in the most ancient sense of the word. Her skin was pale and smooth, her hair long and chestnut brown. She had no marks or scars except a tiny freckle on her upper right arm, which she referred to as “The Freckle.” Her eyes were big and blue and framed by long, black eyelashes that brushed her sunglasses in the summer. She had a pretty, heart-shape face, and her small nose had just the slightest upward tilt, giving her an air of sophistication. Her lips were naturally pink, and her cheeks had just enough red in them that she never wore rouge, except for costume parties. She had the envious quality of being both thin and curvy at the same time, with a glorious hourglass figure that made Marilyn Monroe look rugged and angular, and she was stunning in her usual attire of dark-washed skinny jeans, long jumper, and ballet flats. She spoke as one who had grown up in central London—which she had—but tried to sound like she had gone to Oxbridge—which she had, Oxford actually—so that she ended up with a brilliant accent that an American impersonator would have completely ruined.

Alistair reminded Cricket of a statue from her Greek mythology picture book. He was taller than her, about 6 feet, and muscular, though not so much as to have his muscles show through his clothes. He was slightly tan all year long, with hair the color of dark chocolate, and his face was round except for his jaw, which protruded ever so slightly in a very handsome manner. His eyes were brown, but with golden glints, so that his mother would get lost in them when he was a baby. He always had a 5 o’clock shadow, even after shaving, but his facial hair was fine enough that it never scratched. He often dressed in old jeans and hand-me-down shirts from local thrift shops, giving him the appearance of one who really didn’t care about his appearance; and in actuality, Alistair would always rather sleep the extra ten minutes than put any effort into his clothing. He spoke as though he had grown up in the North—which he had, Newcastle-upon-Tyne—but had spent some time in America—which he hadn’t, this being a testament to the quantity of Hollywood films he had watched growing up.

They fell in love one night while sitting on his sofa and watching the news on BBC. By now, he had everyone calling her Cricket, even her mother, and she had upgraded from jumpers to long-sleeved shirts. As the newscaster informed them of the latest tragedy in Iraq, she curled into his chest, wrapped in blankets, and breathed his scent: soap and, somehow, a hint of cinnamon. His lips got lost in her hair until they found her scalp, which they brushed gently. An advertisement flashed for Crème Eggs, which were finally in season, and she sat up enough to kiss him. Their eyes closed, their lips meeting as two strangers moving apprehensively to a favorite song, the fires danced deep in their hearts, warming them to the tips of their fingers and the ends of their toes. Parting for breath, they opened their eyes, and the gold in his eyes was lost in her ocean blue.

The feeling was mutual and spoken without words. He merely sighed and cupped her cheek in his hand, and she blinked slowly in affirmation. They could have screamed it out the window or composed a symphony about it, but the quiet understanding between the two of them was that their love was like that of lovers of old, and he would gladly launch a thousand ships for her and she would gladly succumb to the snake’s deadly bite for him. When they finally spoke, it was regarding the next night’s activities.

“Are you going to Tom’s tomorrow?” he asked, brushing her hair from her face.

“I am. Are you going?” she asked.

“Yes. Phil’s given me the night off, I had to promise I’d take Saturday night for him.”

“Saturday? But I thought you were going to go to Bristol with me to visit my sister.”

“I was,” he said, “but this was the only way I could get Phil to work for me. I’m sorry, love, but I couldn’t blow off Tom’s engagement party, and I’ve already met your sister. Plus, I’ll make loads working the bar on Saturday, and I’ll take you somewhere nice if you like.”

She understood, and she wasn’t upset, but she pretended she was, knowing that he would try to cheer her up by tickling her. He always knew when she was fooling him, but he loved the game and went along. Soon enough, the two were laughing and breathless and lying on the floor in a stupor.

At Tom’s the next night, they met with their friends after she left the law firm. Jack was there, and so was Marianne, and Peter and Aggie and Susie A, but Susie K was at home with the flu. Mitchell was there—it was at his party that Cricket and Alistair first met—but he was desperately in love with Susie K, so he left as soon as he heard she was sick. Betty drank too much and started flirting with Alistair, and Cricket bumped into an old boyfriend, but Tom was so happy they came, and his fiancée Julie was lovely. Julie was fluent in French, and so was Cricket, so the two got along well enough to reminisce about their university days for half an hour. Tom took the opportunity to speak with Alistair, with whom he had worked for several years before joining the police.

“Alistair, Alistair, Alistair,” Tom said. He was a middle-aged Scot who was more beer than blood. His face was pink from drinking, but experience allowed him to held his ale well. “I’m so glad ya came! I was worried, cuz Cricket thought cha might hafta work, but ya came!”

Alistair smiled at his friend. “Of course I came! Phil nearly choked when I asked, you remember how awful he was. One night I asked for, and I thought he would give me the boot. And I’ve worked there 5 years! But I held my stand, and eventually he gave in.”

“’ow could I ’ave doubted ya for a secon! Ol’Alistair!” He put his arm around his friend and smiled. “’ower things goin with the beautiful Cricket, eh? Bet she’s a bit a ’eaven.”

“Things are great, Tom, really. I’m happy, you know?”

“Aye, I know! Julie, mate, I jus don’t get ’ow she ended up with me!” As if to prove his point, Tom let out a brilliant belch that had Alistair grabbing his side in laughter. “But you’re wit

Cricket, so stranga stuff ’appens!”

“What do you mean?” asked Alistair.

“Cricket! Oxford University, gonna be a barrister, dad’s a doctor, mum’s practically royalty. For Chrisake, Ali, she’s speakin to me girl in French, and you can’t even say ‘Bonjour.’”

Alistair sighed. “Tom, don’t you think I know that? Jesus, I feel like an idiot around her sometimes. At the end of the day, she’s been off trying to save the world, and I’ll have served a group of American tourists their first pint of ale, only to watch them make faces and spit it out. Honestly, my biggest accomplishment of the day is getting one of the new boys to clean the toilet for me.”

Tom chuckled. “Aye, Ali, I’m only jokin. The girl’s obviously nuts for ya, no idea why though. Jus ya ’old ona ’er, promise? Cuz I’m spectin ya to make me Uncle Tom someday, eh!”

Alistair shook his head, but continued to smile at his old friend. Tom talked about the local football team for a few minutes, but Alistair only half-listened, watching Cricket out of the corner of his eye, listening to her perfect French accent as she talked about God-knows-what. When Tom finally left him to go to his Julie, Alistair went to Cricket, grabbed her around the waist, and kissed her hard, because he knew he didn’t deserve her, and she kissed him back, simply because she wanted to.