Ballet Lessons

By Elizabeth Foss
Herald Columnist
(From the issue of 8/15/02)

I was in the dressing room of the ballet school with my daughter, Mary Beth, and two other five-year-olds. Mary Beth was dressed in the school uniform, a plain blue leotard. The other girls were dressed in fancier, prettier leotards.

"We’ll be the princesses," said the first little girl. "The princesses are very beautiful."

"Yes," agreed the second, "and Mary Beth will be the queen."

That’s nice, I thought. They’re including her.

"Oh yes!" continued the first, "Mary Beth can be the queen. Queens aren’t very pretty at all."

"That’s right," said the first. "We’re the pretty ones."

My heart sunk. I watched Mary Beth’s eyes fill with tears. Every elementary school playground trio gone bad came rushing from the archives of my memory. Every petty, catty high school clique taunted me with the hard-won knowledge that girls can be very cruel.

And then one more memory came to me. It was Mary Beth, just a few weeks old, sitting in an infant seat at my friend Alice’s house. There were a dozen or more children there that day and I had crept away to nurse her in a quiet corner. When she was finished, she drifted to sleep in my arms. I put her in her seat and sat back to look at her. Her beauty literally took my breath away. She was my princess, my queen, my lovely little girl.

Drawing myself back to the present, I put the finishing touches on her requisite bun and whispered, "I think you look so very lovely today." She smiled at me and went off to the studio to dance. As I gathered hairbrush and bobby pins, I glanced around. The place was full of feminine accoutrements. Leotards and ballet shoes, leggings and lovely dresses hung waiting for the girls who would wear them with the grace of a dancer. Mary Beth loved this place, this haven from our male-dominated home. Looking around more closely, I also noticed mirrors everywhere, two scales, and several diet soda cans. I began to wonder about what we tell girls about beauty.

Still stung by the cattiness of little girls, I returned home to tell the tale to a friend who is a former dancer. She remembered well the emphasis that even the best studios placed on body image and appearance. She remembered the inevitable comparisons that occur when girls stare at themselves and other girls in the mirror for long periods of time. She also remembered how much she loved the studio, the culture, the valuable lessons in movement and carriage she learned there. Sighing, she said, "This is only beginning. Here is where you have to set the tone."

"Oh, I know. I told her she is beautiful and I plan to tell her again when she returns home. Mike is on board to mention it as well. And maybe we’ll find a really pretty leotard for next week…" I rambled on.

"Well, that’s fine," responded my friend. "But then you are echoing the idea that beauty is an outward attribute. What you want to affirm is that beauty is from within. Beauty is virtue. Grace is God within her. It’s all very nice to dance beautifully and to look lovely but you want her to be lovely."

I thought back to that baby girl. Chances are she was wearing a pretty pink outfit (when you have a little girl after three boys, pink is all you put her in for the first three years). But, truth be told, I don’t really remember her clothing that day. I remember the fresh-from-God luminous beauty of a newborn. I remember the tangible feeling of grace that enveloped me as I sat there watching her. I remember marveling at the artistry of her Creator. I remember being glad that I had named this lovely creature after the Blessed Mother. I wanted her then and I want her now to live a life filled with grace and beauty. And that has very little to do with ballet school.

Foss is a freelance writer from Northern Virginia.

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