Ballet Lessons

Beth Banner

My parents and I went out to lunch the other day. “I’m wearing this,” my mother told me, referring to her flannel pants and sweatshirt, “because, you know, it doesn’t matter what you wear underneath.” I smiled. It’s a phrase she got from me. It’s a phrase I got from my ballet teacher.

Thérèse Marie Bullard, one of the greatest dance instructors in the area, trained me, along with about seven others, for eight years. We all love to share stories about her, about how tough she was on us. And we all tell the truth. She was tough. But she was good. She taught us how to dance. She also taught us how to live.

None of my corps can really be certain what motivates Terry. I’m sure her history has something to do with it. She regularly shared stories of her childhood in World War II London. She talked about taking the Tube to ballet class. She told us about getting to school to discover classmates missing because their houses had been bombed the night before. There we always sat, wide-eyed seven year olds. We just wanted to be ballerinas.

Weekend classes and performances were the worst. There was no heat on those days. We danced on the second floor of an old factory. Terry wouldn’t let us wear sweats or legwarmers. She couldn’t see if our alignment was correct if we did. We knew she was right. She, on the other hand, was bundled in a full-length mink coat. (I still have dreams about that coat.) Underneath, she wore a sweatsuit. “It doesn’t matter what you wear underneath,” she would tell us in her British accent, “because no one is going to see it anyway." And then we danced.

Oh, did we dance! We were going to be professionals. We were going to go off to Winnipeg or New York. We loved it. Terry knew that. She knew we loved it and was determined to mold us into professionals. She scolded us. She worked us. She repeated every choreographer’s famous last words: “All right. We’re going to do this one more time.” And we did. We did it as many “one more times” as it took.

And we cried. Exhausted twelve year olds being told we still were missing a beat, we cried. And Terry looked at us. “Do you know why you’re crying?” she asked once. I wanted to scream, “Yes, it’s because of you,” but I stayed silent. So did the rest of my corps. Terry’s voice had gotten soft; she rarely spoke that quietly. “You’re crying because you love this. If you didn’t you wouldn’t care that you’re not getting it right.”

I have often reflected on that moment. I was so frustrated with her; then she shares this absolute wisdom. An absolute truth. If we don’t care about something, why should it upset us? We cry for love.

Today I cry for my country. Those in power may call it unpatriotic for me to feel hurt by their actions. But I believe it is the truest patriotism. I have lived in other countries but choose to remain here. I love my country. I stand by the government created by our Founding Fathers. If I were not patriotic, if I did not love my country, I would not be upset by the actions of those in power.

I realize that Terry taught me a great deal more than ballet. She taught me about life. She taught me about apathy. She taught me about what comes when evil is allowed to rule. And I hope that she is able to continue to pass on these valuable lessons to future generations of wide-eyed seven year olds shivering in their blue leotards and pink tights.