My bullies and heroes

My secret was out. “Local ballet star wins scholarship,” read the headline. It was accompanied by a photo of me, posing in tights, smiling garishly with too much of mum’s make-up. Surely no one would read page 24 of the local newspaper? At least no one I knew.

But at school the next day, I was greeted with:

“Nice photo in the paper, ‘nancy’ boy!”

“Did you forget to put your make-up on today, ‘fairy floss’?”

Snigger. Mock. I was the hottest verbal punching bag that day. Ballet dancing, throughout all my 10 schooling years, had been an unspoken secret. Finally, my cover had been blown. I was out of the ballet closet. Fortunately, I was graduating from high school soon and the ribbing was short-lived.

For fear of bulling, I had kept silent. Telling not a soul. And why should I set myself up for knocks? As a seven-year-old boy, growing up on New Zealand’s Rugby-hardened shores, it quickly became apparent – even at a young age - that ballet wore an unmanly tag. So – stay quiet and bruise free. Mine is a familiar story for many fledgling male dancers.

Patricia Rowley’s School of Dance, my local dance school, initially boasted (from memory) about seven young male ballet dancers. (I think Leroy in the 1980s television dance show, Fame, had some influence on this.) By the time I reached 13, I was the only boy left. Not just at my local ballet school, but – as far as I was aware -- on Auckland’s North Shore (with a population around 200,000). To quote Daffyd Thomas from Little Britain, I sometimes felt like – with full Welsh accent -- “The only gay in the village!” Except I was not gay. Yet certainly different; I did ballet.

Ballet’s attrition rate amongst boys is understandable. School kids can be brutal. Keeping my secret was not always successful. Evidence of a leak became apparent when some of my acquaintances severed their association. Segregating me. I'm reminded of an upsetting church service, where the once amicable youth group sat unexpectedly and pointedly separate from me. They positioned themselves just far enough behind to throw the odd paper projectile and unchristian snipe: “Weirdo.” “Girlie-boy ballerina!”

Surviving this unappreciative environment called for encouraging champions. In contrast to the outside world, within Patricia Rowley’s mirrored dance studio I was on a par with King Tut’s treasure: a precious boy gem. Unique. I suspect I caused rightful envy from the over-populated ranks of ballerinas. Oh well. (They would eventually pay me back in pas de deux.)

Vitally, I also had supportive parents. Mum was forever stitching costumes and commuting to competitions. And my balletomane dad never – and I do mean never - missed attending dance classes. He walked me to and from ballet, two to three times a week. He afforded me an opportunity to air thoughts with a trusted male sounding board. In the process I discovered a genuine masculine face to ballet.

Most people’s idea of ballet evolves from children’s television shows and department stores. Like most parents, an inescapable part of my time is spent watching my daughters’ favourite television programs: The Wiggles, Angelina Ballerina, Peppa Pig and Emma! I have noticed attempts at de-genderising ballet. Peppa’s daddy – Daddy Pig – shows off some wonderfully nimble entrechat sixes while reminiscing about shows spent with Mummy Pig. Angelina Ballerina frequently dances with the hip-hop and ballet dancing mousling, AJ. And I am sure I spied a male Wiggle – I think the purple one – attempting an arabesque.

Yet predominantly ballet is marketed as a wand-carrying fairy. Just today, I watched Humpty Dumpty on a popular children’s television show wearing ballet’s most recognisable prop, the tutu. But I thought Humpty was a boy? Maybe he is experimenting with cross-dressing! How modern.

Every major retail outlet - Target, Myers, David Jones, Big W, Pottery Barn – panders to and makes a lot of money from ballet’s princess image. Clothes, bed-sheets and dressers are frequently adorned with every young girl’s music box fantasy of a pink-tutu ballerina. This provides ballet with a double-edged sword: much-wanted advertising yet misrepresentive – that ballet is just for girls.

It often surprises uninitiated pundits that in the real world ballet companies are evenly populated with a 50/50 gender split. Male ballet dancers do not wear pointe shoes and tutus. Indeed they are often asked to portray strong masculine characters. Think of Coppelia’s “Jack-the-lad” Franz; Giselle’s wandering-eyed ladies-man Count Albrecht; the sword-fighting romantic Romeo; and not to forget Petipa’s gallant princes, who are accustomed to downing evil witches, sorcerers and the odd brewed pint.

Once-upon-a-time in 1990, before YouTube and the Internet – yes, there was such a time – TV provided the main portal to the world. Channel One (New Zealand’s ABC equivalent) released a timely series: Yuri Grigorovich’s productions with the Bolshoi Ballet. I fondly remember watching, with my dad, a wild black haired Irek Mukhamedov rallying his gladiators for one last stand, with Khachaturian’s stirringly heroic Spartacus score providing impetus. Okay, in retrospect it was slightly corny. However, the 13-year-old in me still gets goose bumps.

This unashamedly masculine image of the male ballet dancer was inspiring, powerful, exciting and brilliant. At some future point – hopefully before 2090 -- I look forward to retail and media catching up and marketing ballet more honestly, with less cliché. Not necessarily with a sword, but at the very least with men. Then, perhaps, the bullying will ease.

This article first appeared in the April/May issue of 'Dance Australia'.