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.