December 20, 2001 — Twelve-year-old Briana Burns turned around and said, “Whoa.”
There was a new person in line for her ballet class. And that new person needed a shave.
Briana traded her shock in for a smile, though, and extended her right hand for a shake.
“My name is Briana,” she said. “I’m 12.”
“My name is Dan,” I replied. “I’m 28.”
Briana seemed bemused. I’m not sure what number she expected me to say. Her eyes opened wide, and her mouth curled downward on one side. It was the kind of look you’d give a guy who spilled brunch all over his Sunday best.
You’re both entertained and empathetic.
“Well,” Briana said after a short pause, “at least you’re not 82.”
Who can argue with that logic? She was right. I am not 82.
But I was still at least double the age of every student lined up in the hallway of the Brenau University dance department on that day, quadruple the age of most.
I wasn’t the only boy, however, and that caught me by surprise. Ballet is right up there on the machismo meter with knitting and eating quiche — that is, until you try it.
“You’re going to realize how hard it is,” said my Gainesville School of Ballet instructor Jolie Long, called “Miss Jolie” by kids and colleagues alike. “The beauty and the art of ballet is that it looks so simple and graceful. But the truth of it is it’s hard and rigorous. It’s tough. You’ve got to be strong.”
For most of the members of my class, white tights and black leotards were the style of the day. They were a gaggle of gigglers, little girls barely as tall as the bars attached to the studio walls.
But I was flanked by Timothy Cape and Andrew Mitchell, the male minority. And they welcomed me into their exclusive club.
Fourteen-year-old Timothy admitted he used to think ballet was “the dumbest stuff in the world.” Now he wants to be a professional dancer.
Andrew started ballet because his father told him that it could help him with baseball and football, that it had worked for several pros. (We all know of a certain Georgia boy named Herschel who dabbled in the dance.)
“It’ll give you better balance and will give you bigger muscles,” Andrew, an 11-year-old sixth grader, said.
“What do your friends at school think?” I asked, thinking I knew the answer. “Are they cool with it?”
“Yeah,” Andrew said matter-of-factly. “I just like dancing.” He looked at me as if I was crazy for asking.
Was I? Did the movie “Billy Elliot” erase all tutu related teasing for boys in ballet? Not completely. It seems some adolescent insecurities take time to surface.
Timothy, a high school freshman, received the stereotypical reaction from some of his peers.
“They’re just like, ‘It’s so dumb,'” he said. “But I don’t care what they think.”
Timothy began taking ballet a year ago after he agreed, at his sister’s urging, to perform in the Gainesville Ballet’s production of “The Nutcracker.” He played the part of a bear.
“You just skip around and pick up a girl once or twice,” Timothy said of the role.
After that, Timothy saw ballet as “a challenge” and enrolled in classes.
“I wanted to keep it a secret at first,” he said. “I was kind of ashamed because I volunteered for this. Then I was like, ‘Well, I like this now.'”
Timothy also liked, I would imagine, seeing how far he had come in a year. To do that, all he had to do was watch me fake and falter my way through the basics.
Most of my classmates already knew their tendus from their soutenus, their glissees from their plies. I unfortunately did not — even after five years of French class.
So it was a game of follow the leader, and I was going into it blind.
“You won’t know what’s happening,” the school’s founder Diane Callahan warned me beforehand. “But because you’re an adult, you’ll pick it up much faster.”
And louder. My “old” bones needed a squirt of WD-40. It sounded as if I was walking on a floor of bubble wrap. I was the ankle-cracker, sweet.
And that was before we ever jumped over a cat.
“This gives me the most trouble,” Andrew whispered to me before we did the jump portion of the class.
“What does ‘pas de chat’ mean?” Miss Jolie asked the class.
Most of the students responded in unison: “Jump of the cat.”
But one little girl looked troubled. She misheard the translation and raised her hand.
“Yes, Rachel,” Miss Jolie said. “A question?”
“Why don’t we jump over the cat instead of on it?” Rachel asked.
Miss Jolie smiled. “It’s jump of the cat,” she said. “Not on it.”
Rachel seemed relieved.
And I was too. I made it through the class with no broken bones and my masculinity intact.
What did Briana think of my performance? Well, it was a mixed review.
“You did pretty good,” she said. “Not as good as everybody else. But for a first day, good.”
And, hey, at least I’m not 82 years old, right?
I’ll be using that one for the next 53 years.