Ballet, Tap, and all that Jazz
I have been toying with the notion of taking up dance classes again (at this juncture, it has been 28 years, give or take, since my last class). I’m not particularly jonesing to stare at my middle-aged physique in a room lined with full-length mirrors, nor do I think my rheumatoid arthritis is going to make me the jump and jive all-star in the group, but it would afford me the chance to get moving a little more, hopefully meet some new and unstuffy people, and…big BONUS here…afford the opportunity come recital time to don sequins and rhinestones galore.
Southern belles grow up in dance class. Small towns may or may not have cotillion clubs or finishing classes, but you can bet your grosgrain tap shoe laces they all have some sort of dance teacher who gets everyone shimmying and shaking as soon as they can stand. We don’t just learn ballet and tap, these classes are where we learn from our youth how to project, and to sparkle and shine. As for myself, at the ripe old age of two, I tore a picture of a beautiful ballerina out of my mama’s fashion magazine and presented it to my wish granter in chief, aka my granddaddy, and simply stated, “I want to do THIS.” Naturally, he insisted that my mother enroll me in dance class at the next and earliest opportunity.
Never mind that I could not walk to my spot in class in my “snap shoes,”—toddler speak for tap shoes. My dutiful mama would carry me to my masking-taped marker on the dance studio floor, drop me in my assigned position, and leave me to scuff my baby feet along to the record to my heart’s delight. I remember being absolutely crushed that, around age five, I was cast as a rose petal rather than the title role of “Thumbelina” in our recital. Apparently, the head character went to a senior girl who had the audacity to perform en pointe. (I don’t even think my feet were fully formed at that stage of the game, but my competitive streak was clearly fully developed).
You can see where dance suits a Southern belle quite well—it gives ladies of all ages a chance to display their personality from their charm, charisma, and dare I say, dramatic flare, all set to music and in costumes one might normally not get the chance to don on our side of the Mason Dixon line. How often does a girl from Georgia get to flaunt her ruffled rhumba dress and shake some maracas? More often than you would guess, thanks to our small town teachers like Jazzy Jane and the Cut a Rug School of Dance. Bob Mackie, eat your heart out.
Here she is, miscast as a lowly rose petal. Oh, to have been (12 years older and) Thumbelina.
And lest you wonder how I became such a citizen of the world, here is how it began (also, clearly sticking a feather in one’s hair was a critical part of dance instruction in the 1980s). Every Southern girl has a picture similar to this one on display in her childhood home.
It would be my hope that, once a maraca shaker, always a maraca shaker. I have to believe that sparkle and shine is so engrained in a Southern girl through these adolescent dance drills that it is like riding a bike—the ability to throw out jazz hands and perform a Cincinnati time step never really leaves you no matter how long it may have been. I may not remember why I walked into this room, but ball changes, pirouettes, and fan kicks are a language eternal. The only place I draw the line is twirling fire batons—never have, never will. While I admire their panache, most human bodies are made of about 60 percent water…mine is at least 80 percent aerosol hairspray and those are not odds this belle is willing to take, even for a standing ovation.
I’ll end this post with a jazz hand salute to all you former dance class gals out there—we knew we were never going to grow up to be professionals, and that was just fine by us. I like to think we have managed to rule the world in our own bedazzled, feather in our hair, wink and a smile kind of way. Now, go out there and, at our age, DON’T break a leg!
