My mother was a ballerina
I have only ever known my mother as my mother. She is a tall woman, standing at about five feet seven inches, with narrow hips and broad shoulders. Her face is kind, aged by years of expressions that have outlined her cheekbones and forehead, but nonetheless she appears younger than she really is. The muscles in her arms and legs are accentuated from the time she has spent on her garden. For a woman who has lived through what society deems the best years of life, she has no fear of sunbathing on the Jersey shore in a bikini. And even after giving birth twice in her early forties, she maintains the figure of a twenty year old marathon runner. Her belly is small, even though she believes that she looks constantly bloated after she eats. I remember when she was pregnant with my brother, and I wondered how her belly button turned into an outie, and then back to an innie.
Her hair color has changed throughout the years. When I was younger, she fooled me into believing that her bright blonde hair was natural, when in reality it was a facade used to disguise any strands of gray she deemed unattractive. Now her blond hair has been reduced only to highlights, maintaining her style by going to the salon every month or so. We have the same hair color, eye color, face shape, and nose according to her and everyone else who shares their opinion. She wears her makeup lightly – mostly because she doesn't need to cake her face in foundation, but insists she feels naked without it.
I never knew my mother when she was younger, but in her words we could be twins. I wasn't the skinniest of children, and apparently neither was my mother. She recalled a story of her playing with a jump rope on the sidewalk outside her childhood home when a neighbor passing by told her to be careful, or she would crack the pavement below.
My mother never overtly called me fat while growing up, but if my disproportionate physique is a carbon copy of hers–you can do the math yourself. I recall being around the age of ten, sifting through old family photos, when I came across a picture of my mother taken during a trip to Salzburg with my father and their friends. This photo predated my existence, and my mother couldn't have been older than twenty five at the time it was taken. She was standing slightly off-center in front of a stone wall cascading with ivy vines. Her brightly colored top and black pants made a statement as she stood before the foliage. She was a flower amongst the field of roses that surrounded her. Her dark brown hair fell just underneath her collar bones, and her expression showed a smile comparable to that of the Mona Lisa. She looked ethereal. I took the photo out of its protective sleeve, and presented it to my mother. Her response was blunt and unenthused: "I look fat in that photo, put it away." I didn't rebuke or affirm her statement, I simply obeyed her wishes and returned the photo to its original resting place.
My mother has always been her biggest critic, and I don't believe she will change any time soon. My mother was a ballerina, and so were her sisters before her. My mother is the youngest of four children; her oldest sister, Sharon, was ten when my mother was born. She founded her own dance studio when she was nineteen. The only space available at the time was our town's Ukrainian center. Eventually, she would move to a studio on the other side of route ten. My mother would attend classes throughout her youth, and eventually would teach for her sister. She was nine when the school bus would pick her up from Our Lady of Mercy Catholic School and drop her off on the highway, adjacent to the center. She would spend her afternoons dancing in the hall and assisting her sisters with classes. Dance was my mothers first love before me. By the time my mother was fifteen, she would trek into the city every weekend to take dance classes and audition for shows or troupes. Even when her father offered to pay for her academic studies, she refused his offer, and focused on her dreams of becoming a successful dancer.
She recalls the audition processes as being overwhelming. Before she could even show off her talents, the auditioners would profile her and the other women according to their looks. An attempt to strive for uniformity, like a factory worker removing any defective products from their assembly line. It would look unnatural to have a dancer who's twenty pounds overweight on stage with a dozen or so other dancers. I feel this genuinely affected the way my mother views herself decades later.
When her dreams amounted to nothing but a husband, a daughter, and a house in the town she grew up in, she continued to teach at her sister's dance studio. My mother was my mentor at home, and at the studio. By the time I could walk, I was enrolled in at least three dance classes a week. And if I wasn't on the floor in my ballet shoes, I was watching the older girls prepare their competition dances. At the end of each year, the studio would host a dance recital for the students to show their parents that paying upwards of four hundred dollars a year on dance classes isn't a total waste of money.
My mother dedicated an hour or two before showtime to doll me up in costume. First, she slicked my hair back into a donut shaped bun, careful to tuck any flyaways back where they belong. She told me to hold my breath as she took an aerosol can of hairspray to coat my head in a thick layer. I always touched the sticky residue on my head before it dried. Next, after my hair was complete, she applied my stage makeup. A foundation shade slightly more tan than my natural olive complexion was applied so–in my mothers words; I wouldn't look like a ghost on stage. My cheeks were given a hefty dusting of rouge, and the lids of my eyes coated in a metallic powder. Having my mascara done was my least favorite part, as my mother asked me to look up and try not to close my eyes as the prickly wand triggered my tear ducts. Lipstick always came last. My mom took a skinny red pencil to draw an outline around my lips that she could color in. Once I was made up, she slipped me into my frilly ballerina costume and left to watch me and her other students dance from the front row of the theater.
When it wasn't my time to shine on stage, I sat next to my mother in the front row and watched the older girls dance. If I had to tell you my favorite part of dance, it would be watching others perform. I was mesmerized by the way their sequined costumes would refract the stage light. The way the dancers' movements would be complemented by the music. The emotion in their faces. Everything was done purposefully, with meaning.
After the older girls had the chance to perform, my mother, her sisters, and the other teachers in our school would perform the opening tap number from the musical, 42nd Street. This was my mother's favorite dance to perform. She would put on her best stage-smile as she would tap across the stage. I would watch her, side by side with my aunts, using their shoes to mimic the beat of the musical number. I have seen my mother do this dance so many times, I have her image ingrained in me. Even with my subpar knowledge of how to do a single-time step, I could imitate this dance in my sleep. But, in that sliver of time when she was on stage, I could see my mother fall in love. She became one with the rhythm; as if it could motivate her every movement. She looked proud, and I continually looked upon her with pride.
Ironically, I never stuck with dance. By the time I reached middle school I recognized that I wasn't considered automatically adorable in my dance costume, and my own self judgment made me hyper-fixated on the way I looked. I liked the freedom to express myself through movement, but I felt the pressure to uphold a legacy I had no interest in. It was never expected of me to take over the family business when I got older, but it was at the very least implied, or hoped. Surprisingly, my mother was never upset that I had made the decision to quit the one activity she truly cherished throughout her life. Maybe she was really good at hiding her disappointment, or rather she was relieved that I may never go through the hardships that she experienced while pursuing her career.
I may not be a dancer, but my mother still is. She dances down the frozen food aisle of ShopRite when a song with a catchy beat plays over the intercom. She dances at the Grateful Dead tribute concerts her and my dad frequent. She dances to her car radio while on her commute to work. She dances to the music I play in my room when I attempt to study. Despite all of life and the difficulties she has endured, she has never stopped dancing.
My mother was a ballerina. I imagine her: hair neatly done, chest covered in a baby pink bodice that matches her tutu. Her leg muscles are defined by the stark white tights she is wearing. Her pointe shoes broken in and fraying from their continued abuse. I see my mother this way and I see someone who is confined to a standard of unachievable perfection. I have the opportunity now to see my mother as a dancer, someone who is moved by the flow of her own rhythm and the beat of her own drum.
Why confine yourself when you have the opportunity to flourish?
Cover Photo courtesy of Genevieve Zakosky. Edited by Yasmin Pesherov.