Reverence

            by Annie Rigney

 

“You must now forget everything you have ever learned.  Everything your teachers have told you up to this point has been a lie and must be erased from your body and memory.” This is how it began.

Ever since I could walk, I had dreamed of becoming a prima ballerina. Pink tutus and diamond tiaras were my exclusive wardrobe until I was 8 years old. But the days of frilly costumes were over. Ballet was no longer about butterflies and prancing ponies, it was about art. It was about perfection. I knew that to succeed, I would need training. Serious, rigorous, training--the best of the best.  I found it in a small forgotten corner of Oakland. Nestled between the freeway entrance and grungy apartment complexes, the Academy of Classical Ballet would become my home, my happiness, and my despair for the next six years of my life.

Her fierce, green eyes darted about the room with the intensity of a tiger, about to pounce on its prey. The ballet mistress was all of five feet tall. Her stature, though small, was enhanced by her intimidating presence which seemed to resonate throughout the entire building.  She was dressed all in black and her left arm hung limply from her crooked elbow.  Rumor had it that her partner had dropped her on stage when she was in her prime, and the freak accident had ended her career. I don’t think she ever recovered emotionally from that loss. Her bitterness lingers to this day.

I had arrived to class cloaked in my innocence and my passion for ballet, yet now I felt suddenly naked before Ms. Lorell. Everything? Forget everything I’d ever learned? We took our places at the barre as Ms. Lorell had instructed and were told to stand still for what seemed like hours. First position, second position, third, fourth, fifth. My legs burned. The rest of the class was a blur save for her last words.

“Tonight when you go home, I want you all to look up the word ‘Reverence’ in the dictionary. This is how you will treat me as long as you remain here at this school.” I went home that night and with a great deal of effort, heaved our Oxford English Dictionary onto my tiny lap.  “A feeling of profound awe and respect and often love; veneration,” it read. I delicately copied the fine black lettering into a notebook, and on the car ride over to ballet the next day, I rehearsed the proper definition of the word the whole time, so eager was I to please Ms. Lorell.

 I soaked up every bit of information that she had to offer. Every technical detail, artistic preference, or way of conduct. “Always work 110% in class every day; 100% is not enough. I should be able to hang from your upper arm; that’s how strong it should be, and yet your lower arm must be as delicate as a flower. Always turn in towards the bar when you turn to face the teacher; any other direction is impolite.” And finally, the most important and possibly most harmful rule: “No one else will give you what I can give you.  They will not care enough or know enough to teach you. You are nothing without me,” I believed everything she told me.

 We became her army of ballerinas. She was the sergeant, we the soldiers, and yet she always seemed to be the enemy at the same time. Every lesson began with a strict march around the room and without fail, there was always a casualty in battle.

“Ellie what are you doing? That is entirely incorrect.  I don’t know where you got it in your stupid head that that is how you should dance. Why can’t you be more like Annie?” My cheeks burned while Ellie’s quivered. How could she single me out like that?  How could she make me the new target of the class’s jealousy? Ellie was now sobbing. She was straining every muscle in her body not to crumple to the floor, but her fragile confidence had been shattered.

“Stop crying! Why are you crying?” Ms. Lorell bellowed. “Ballet is no place for emotions. Never let your feelings enter this studio. Do you hear me? Pull yourself together, girl, or I will have to ask you to leave!”  I watched in horror and knew that I could never let this happen to me.  This was the day when I abandoned my childlike spirit. I stopped expressing the immediate feelings I felt and became numb to the hateful things she uttered.  I hardened my heart in order to survive. I made an oath: she will never see me cry.  I will never show her my weakness.  From then on, I would leave my emotions at the door.  There they would wait for me until I returned home and could collapse on my bed letting the tears run freely.

            The other girls’ spirits soon broke under the constant pressure of Ms. Lorell. Time and time again she humiliated us, apprehended us, and punished us, until finally, I was alone.

 It’s hard to explain why I stayed at that school and why I subjected myself to such torture for six years of my life. I think I was so blinded by my dream to dance that I was willing to sacrifice anything for it, even if it meant sacrificing my own happiness.

I became accustomed to the ritual ridicule of the day. I learned everything there was to know about the Academy and about Ms. Lorell:  I knew there were 26 tile steps leading up to the second floor, 34 panels to the bathroom ceiling, and that the piano was situated to stimulate the best Qui in the octagonal studio. I noted how Ms. Lorell always wore a black shawl, how she didn’t love her husband, or anyone for that matter.  I noted how her hands always shook, how she had to leave the room three times a class, and how she always came back with a lingering smell of alcohol on her breath. I knew the smell of the golden rosin on the floor, the sound the tape player made when she pressed the keys, and the squeaky noise of the chalk on the blackboard as it spelled “Grand Battement.” Familiarity is often confused with love.

            Alone in class, at last I had her full attention.  The parents of all the other children had one by one plucked their sweethearts from her grasp, tired of the tear-stained leotards and pouting faces. As I was now her sole pupil, Ms. Lorell had no choice but to pour all of her expertise into my dream. It was her dream as well, however. The abrupt ending to her career had left her craving the fame she had almost attained and I was her last remaining hope. She knew that, in time, my dream would become too big to be contained within the walls of the tiny Academy of Classical Ballet and that I would leave her if I ever gained the confidence to do so. For this reason, she took every opportunity to cut my sense of self-worth down to a stump and remind me that I was worthless without her guidance.

            The walls of the studio were covered floor-to-ceiling by vast silver mirrors.

I stood amid a sea of adult dancers. We danced an Adagio as smooth and fluid, as chocolate, to the luscious melodies of Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings”.   The music stopped suddenly.

 “Annie, why are you always looking at yourself in the mirror?” scolded Ms. Lorell Her words were like daggers. I didn’t know what to say, weren’t we told daily to use the mirrors as a teaching device? Weren’t there mirrors on every wall? Where else could I possibly look? “You’re so narcissistic,” she continued. “Do you know what that means? It means that you are obsessed with yourself and your own image.” I was now startlingly aware of the many people around me. These were people whom I respected and who respected me, and now they just stood gawking. My humiliation made itself known in the form of the tiny beads of sweat which began to form on my face and arms. I had every desire to bolt from the room and never return, but she was still speaking to me and I stood frozen beneath her gaze. I met her eyes defiantly but was melting inside. I couldn’t let her win. Any thought of defending myself or any words to refute her accusation vanished as they touched my tongue, leaving me speechless. “You think you’re this little primadonna and that the world revolves around you, don’t you? Well let me tell you something, you’re not! You’re so immature and you think everything should always happen your way. But some day, some day you’re going to grow up and realize that you’re not as special as you think you are.” She was putting words in my mouth and didn’t even understand me. Lips trembling, cheeks  flushed, I danced through the rest of the class with my eyes glued to the floor; it was the only place I could look where I couldn’t see her green eyes glaring at me in the surrounding mirrors.

            She was wrong. She had to be or I wouldn’t have felt so terrible about myself all the time. While I knew this in the back of my mind, it’s hard for a twelve year old to ignore the words of the person whom they revere most. I greeted my waiting mother with a smile and we walked gaily out of the studio door.

 “How was class, dear?”

 “It was good,” I said barely eking out a smile. I hadn’t made it ten feet from the school door when the tears began to gush. It was at this point that my parents began to suggest that I leave the Academy of Classical Ballet. They tried to tell me that Ms. Lorell’s teaching wasn’t worth all this suffering and that there were other ballet schools out there. I wouldn’t listen to them.  I believed Ms. Lorell when she said that her school was the only place that would ever truly teach me the art of ballet. I believed that it was the only place where I could attain perfection, and I was addicted to the quest for perfection. It was an addiction deeply rooted in my character that manifested itself only in my passion for ballet. I got a rush from doing something correctly, I craved the ache in my muscles after a hard class and I longed for someone to tell me, “That’s wrong. Here, let me show you how you should do it.” I find it strange, my addiction to discipline.  When I was little, I had one of those typical ballerina classes in which we got to fruit around all day pretending we were princesses. But one day, our teacher was sick. The substitute came in, a tall, dark, Hungarian woman.  I remember all the other girls whispering in what they thought were inaudible voices.

 “She’s mean. I hate her.”

“She’s too strict. I don’t like her, either.”

I kept my judgments to myself and, the next day, enrolled in her class full time. While this teacher wasn’t nearly as harsh or as demanding as Ms. Lorell would later prove herself to be, she was my first step toward a teacher who demanded discipline and rigor. Ms. Lorell was the next step. Her teaching method was simply the embodiment of the order which I had sought all my life. And so I stayed.  

It’s easy to steal candy from a baby. It’s easy to persuade a child of their shortcomings and spoon-feed them lies, but this all becomes more difficult as the child grows older. I began to think for myself and, for the first time, began to question the words coming out of Ms. Lorell’s mouth. I now knew myself more intimately than I had when I was younger and more impressionable. And so I stopped letting her speak for me, think for me, and silence me.  Although her words still stung, I began to grow numb to her criticism. I built a mental wall before me every time she attempted to break my will. I tried my hardest to ignore the words she screamed. I listened to my parents as they told me she was crazy, but I could never entirely protect myself from her unstable personality.

“Annie, are you going to see the Nutcracker this December?” asked Ms. Lorell. I could tell it was a trap.

“Yeah. I’m going to see the Berkeley Ballet Theater Nutcracker.”

“Why do you waste your time and money on that garbage?” she said spitefully.

In earlier days I would have become speechless at this moment, but now I was ready to fight back.

 “Because my friends are dancing in that performance and I want to be there to support them.”

“But they don’t come and support you, do they?” Ms. Lorell said in a sugary sweet voice.  She was wrong.

“Actually they’ve come to all my performances here.” I thought I had her. I’d shown her that I wasn’t going to be forced into submission by her piercing glare and harsh words, but then she continued.

“Annie, I don’t know why you associate with those people. Your little friends at the Berkeley Ballet Theater are teaching you bad habits and I can tell by the way you’re dancing. I don’t think you should be friends with them anymore. Not that anything I say matters to you anymore, Annie. You’re going to do whatever you want no matter what I think. You know, loyalty is very important to me, Annie, and by being friends with the people from that other school, you’re betraying me and everything I’ve given you.” My harmless comment about friendship had turned into a brutal battle about my commitment to Ms. Lorell. “You say that honesty is so important to you don’t you? Well, you’re nothing but a liar.”  The words washed over me but their effect was minimal because as I examined them one by one, I could finally see that they were nothing but silly words, the last frail attempt of a tired woman to cling to some sense of strength, in a world where she felt powerless and alone. I did not fight back anymore. I knew I had already won.

Although they were intended to hold me back, lock me up, and confine me within the walls of the Academy of Classical ballet, Ms. Lorell’s words freed me.  The outrageous nature of what she was asking of me -- that I give up my friendships -- allowed me to see past the blindfold she had placed on me the moment I first met her. But, in a way, now she was right.  I did have to make a choice.  I had to choose between everything that would let me grow and develop, everything that made me smile, everyone who was rooting for me, and everything that Ms. Lorell would use to try to stifle me into her dusty ideals of perfection.

I began, finally, to dance for myself.  Not to please anyone else, as I had for so many years, but just for myself.  I found I had to hold back giggles when Ms. Lorell made a futile attempt to criticize my character and I began gradually to become acquainted with the voice inside my head that said, “You should leave her.”

Scores of students before me had left the school and I’d always considered them quitters -- the ones who didn’t make it. Some had thanked Ms. Lorell for her service, some had left messages on her answering machine, and others had just disappeared. She had kicked Bebe out, called the cops on Terry, believed Eric when he told her his house had burnt down and err… he had to take time off to rebuild. Monica had “moved” Sally just didn’t have the time anymore to continue, “What with the new baby and all.” Everyone who had left had had to lie through their teeth to avoid her probing questions and piercing eyes. And everyone who left her would live in infamy on Ms. Lorell’s hate list.

“Lyndene? Oh gosh, I haven’t heard from her in a while. I’m sure she’s living unhappily somewhere working in a McDonalds. She never had the heart for ballet.”

“Amy? Yes, well, she was a darling girl if it weren’t for her terrible parents.  They really corrupted her and I just couldn’t have that negative atmosphere in my studio.”

“Terry? She was insane! I was actually afraid for my safety at one point. I can’t believe everything I gave that lunatic for so many years --my sweat, my blood. She didn’t deserve it.” The list went on and on.  I didn’t want to be one of those people.

Sometimes she’d catch me off guard. She’d tell me just what I’d been longing for someone to tell me and I’d feel safe, and good, and sick, all at the same time.

 “You know, you’re the only one who’s really stayed through it all.  The others, pff, they didn’t have the passion, the drive, the soul that I see in you.  You’ve really had it all along and that’s  going to take you far, you know. Stay with me and you could really make it.” I wanted so badly to believe Ms. Lorell when she said this and yet everything about it was a contradiction. I could feel her twisted fingers bending me and breaking me; I knew the motives behind her slithery words.

And so, I decided it was time to listen to that voice inside my head, the voice that had started as a whisper and now was a chorus of the voices of everyone who actually loved me. It was time to leave. I rehearsed the scenario hundreds, if not thousands of times. I would march into ballet one day and tell that woman everything I hated about her. Tell her how she thought she knew me, but she didn’t.  That she had never seen it, but I had cried almost everyday for years. And most important, tell her that I had won. Tell her that one day she would miss me and look up and my name would be written in lights in the night sky. Ms. Lorell would crumple to the floor.  She would melt like wax and leave nothing behind but her pointed, black, ballet slippers and a sea of people who despised her. That’s how it would happen.

But it didn’t happen that way. Deep in my heart I still loved and respected Ms. Lorell and I still secretly wanted her to feel the same way about me.  I wanted to be that one student who changed her life. The one she would reminisce about tenderly some day and realize what a cold and heartless person she had become. I wanted her to finally see me for me. I needed to set the record straight and let her know all the complexities of my feelings towards her. I put it all into a letter. It began with “Dear Ms. Lorell” and ended with, “Sincerely, Annie.” The rest is all a blur to me, clouded by a fog of inner defenses.

 I danced my last ballet class at the Academy one innocuous Wednesday evening and approached the ballet mistress for the last time.  I wanted so badly to hug her but I simply curtsied and walked away, leaving the note I had written sealed on her desk. I wish I could say that I never looked back, but as I left the building that evening, I couldn’t help but look over my shoulder.

That’s the way it continues to be. I will never entirely move on from my experiences with Ms. Lorell.  They are too many, and too painful, and yet, at the same time, too close to my heart to abandon. Every once in a while I will pass by the grungy studio as I drive through on the freeway, and I will crane my neck over the headrest of my seat to see the dingy sign one more time which reads, “The Academy of Classical Ballet, Home of the Vaganova Syllabus.” Every once in a while I’ll have a dream in which Ms. Lorell will make a cameo appearance or something will pop up in a conversation that forces me to remember what Ms. Lorell taught me. One night, a man approached me after a performance, and with tears in his eyes, he said, “Your dancing made me cry, that’s how much it moved me. When you entered the stage, it took my breath away. I could feel the way you changed the atmosphere of the theater.  It’s like the entire audience was breathing with you. Where on earth did you learn to dance like that? You know, they don’t teach people to dance that way in this country.” And I knew where I had learned to dance “that way” and I silently thanked Ms. Lorell without even a hint of bitterness.

Just last week I was startled by a familiar tune as I danced my ronde de jambes in ballet at the Berkeley Ballet Theater.  I looked up in the direction of the piano to see my old pianist from the Academy. After class, we chatted. I learned that Ms. Lorell had closed down the school, retired, and moved to Arizona just the week before. I didn’t know how to react then, and I’m still unsure how I feel now. Part of me wants Ms. Lorell to be as far away as possible and yet part of me knows that she will never leave my side. Every time I dance flawlessly, every time I fail clumsily, every time I look over my shoulder, she will be there.