Jackie Madden Haugh - My Life in a Tutu

At eight years old, I was expelled from Miss Nancys School of Dance. I was on trackto be the perfect little girl, but for one brief moment in my young life, I rebelled.Sure, Id done naughty things, like stick my finger into the softened butter on ourkitchen table, then dip it into the sugar bowl for a tasty treat. Or lie that itwasnt me who stole the money from Dads dresser drawer. But this moment was my oneand only act of true childhood mutiny.

From the second I was born, my mother, Lassie Pearce Madden, had been preparing mefor that auspicious day when shed enroll me in my first ballet class. Groomed tobe a prima ballerina herself, she loved the world of dance but gave up pursuing herown craft after junior high school.

I was being trained to be a star, she once said reflectively. But my teacher wasso mean and whipped my legs when I didnt stand straight enough. I decided to quit.How I wish Id stayed with it.

Owning her mistake in her late thirties, she knew it was too late for her. That swansong had exited stage left long ago. After that, my mom wallowed in the world ofhas been. But her daughter was just beginning to blossom. She decided I should pickup where shed left off. Unfortunately, there was just one problem. She was the onlyone feeling the excitement.

Okay, honey, this is going to be so much fun! Mom was chirping like a sparrow welcomingthe first suggestion of spring in the air. Putting her favorite album, The Nutcracker,on the record player, she turned up the volume to Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairyand twirled me in circles. Stand on your tippy-toes, Jackie. Keep your tummy intight. Dancers never slouch.

Before I learned to read, my first picture books were old family photo albums whereMom relived cherished moments over and over with me on her lap.

These are my dolls. There is your Great Aunt Esther, Grammy, and Grandpa. Oh! Thatis our dog, she repeated tirelessly, like a recording.

Id looked at those pictures so many times, I could almost hear in my mind what wascoming next.

And this is me in my ballerina outfit. I was on toe at a very early age. Wistfully,Mom ran her fingers over the faded sepia images as endearing memories took her backin time.

On the delicate, tissue-thin pages before me was a frightening black-and-white imageof my mother in her knee-length limp tutu with a scooped neckline embellished withbillowing silk organza ruffles, looking more like ten yards of fabric drawn togetherinto a ruff (the thick neckwear worn in Western Europe in the 1600s). But insteadof choking the neckline, the fabric was drooping off her shoulders. On her long,skinny legs, satin laces wove back and forth from tiny pink shoes tied just belowher bony knees. In my mind, all this was creepy enough. Werent ballerinas supposedto look like elegant swans in pretty, short tutus and black, tight-fitting leotards(with a few diamonds on them)? But it was what theyd stuck on her head that mademe quiver.

Mommy, why are you wearing weeds in your hair?

Weeds? Those arent weeds. Mom studied the image, puzzled. Thats my tiara. DontI look pretty?

A wreath of garden flowers sat low on her wide forehead. It looked more like a crownof fist-sized brittle clumps of tumbleweeds, just waiting for the first strong windto take them wandering. Fortunately, they were held in place with a thin black velvetribbon. I wondered if the painful expression on her face was due to what appearedto be thorns intertwined in the headpiece or the fact that she had been standingon her toes for too long.

Will I have to wear something like that to dance? I asked, trembling at the thought.

It wasnt that I minded being in costume. From the time I was old enough to dressmyself, Id loved wearing strange outfits and pretending to be any character I wantedduring the process of putting on the final costuming touches. But, unlike my motherwhoalways looked like a movie star straight from the pages of Vogue magazinemy endproduct was typically unconventional and eclectic. Instead of emulating the traditionalballerina in her cotton candycolored ensemble, with precise, technically correctmoves, my style resembled that of Isadora Duncan, the creator of modern dance inthe late 1800s.

On a cold, rainy Saturday afternoon near my fifth birthday, my mother and I had watchedan old black-and-white movie about Duncans life. Enamored with her style, I wantedto know who she was.

Mommy, who is that lady? I asked, watching her float across the screen.

Just some nutty woman who thinks she can dance.

Wow, I whispered, mesmerized by Duncans dancing. I like the way she moves.

That is not dancing, my mother mumbled, acting disgusted at the vision.

How could my mom not like this style of dance? I was in awe of this flamboyant creatureand wanted to re-create her sense of fashion. It was obvious she felt free: hairwild and blowing in the wind as she twirled her body, barefoot with rainbow-coloredscarves streaming off her neck and shoulders.

To re-create her style, I began to wear unrestrictive, multicolored skirts and longshawls from the dress-up box. With rows and rows of brightly colored beaded necklacesaround my short neck, and gold bangles traveling up both arms, I pranced around ourhouse free and unfettered, waving my limbs in abandon.

Thats what I was doing the day Mom came to get me ready for my first ballet class.

Honey, take all that stuff off and come see what I bought you. Youre going to lookso sweet.

There on my bed, laid out in order of application for my bubble-shaped body, wasthe beginning of a tortured two-year career as a tiny dancer. At the end were pinkballet shoes, funny little slippers with a strap across the top, and elastic stringsthat would prove to never stay tied. Next were the customary pink tights that gravitywould constantly pull south from my blubbery midsection, leaving a rumple just belowmy bottom. This not only looked odd, but also created much discomfort.

Mom, I look like Im still wearing diapers, I yelled, trying to pull the tightspandex back up again.

Oh, honey. It doesnt look that bad. Maybe I can buy you another pair in a largersize. I want you comfy.

No! I wanted to scream. To me, comfy was being in my play clothes, sitting in thesandbox or climbing a tree.

Topping off the costume was a lackluster black leotard, which did nothing to complementmy out-of-proportion physique.

Where are the frills, ribbon, or lace? I wanted to cry. This is boring.

Now, lets get dressed. Youre going to look so cute, Mom said in her singsongyway, as she led me to the garments. Once we get this on, Ill put your hair in abun.

A bun! No, Mommy, not a bun, I pleaded. You always pull my hair too tight.

Exasperated at my fuss, she turned and forcefully tried to make me believe: thiswill be fun.

An hour later, my body stuffed into spandex and my hair glued to the sides of myhead, I stood in a dark school auditorium with twenty other squirming kindergartners.We wrapped our small hands around a makeshift ballet barre, tummies sucked in tightand feet in first position, as we desperately tried to create the perfect pli withoutfalling over.

Jackie, stand up straight. Hold in your stomach, Miss Nancy ordered. And stopwiggling. Whats wrong with you?

Excuse me, what time do I get to go home? I asked, carefully raising my hand straightto the ceiling.

Why? Arent you having fun? Miss Nancy asked sharply.

There was that word fun again.