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At ballet, no one asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up; it went without saying. Of course I wanted to be a dancer. The dress code was strict and hadn’t changed in decades. Making an effort on my appearance was mandatory, and hiding this effort unnecessary. I took lessons in stage makeup, learned to layer powder and bronzer and blush, to paint on a face that was, by the UCLA Bruins go bruns 2023 pac 12 men’s basketball tournament champions shirt Besides,I will do this end, only loosely based on my own. Focusing on my looks wasn’t vain; it was part of my art. Photo: Debra Goldsmith RobbIn October, a handwritten casting sheet for The Nutcracker was posted outside the dressing room. We crowded around, scanning for our names, and I jumped when I saw mine; I didn’t care that I had been given one of the smallest parts. As a toy soldier in the ballet’s battle scene, I spent about three minutes onstage each night, but I took my responsibilities—sashaying in a line, aiming a fake rifle at men in mouse costumes—very seriously. After our army was trounced and a mouse hauled me into the wings, I would join my friends backstage to watch the second act on a monitor or—if I spotted a free seat in the theater—sneak into the audience. I envied my classmates who got to wear frilly dresses and curl their hair for the party scene, but I was thrilled to be a part of it—entering through the stage door, lounging around the dressing room, and watching the company dancers warm up. I even loved picking dirty scraps of paper “snow,” which fell from the ceiling in a magical act-one blizzard, out of my clothes or my hair, like grains of sand after a day at the beach. It was proof that I had been onstage.

Outside the UCLA Bruins go bruns 2023 pac 12 men’s basketball tournament champions shirt Besides,I will do this studio, I latched onto ballet as my identity. I wore my hair to school in a tight bun, and when I started needing a bra, I wore a leotard under my clothes instead. Some nights, I went to bed without washing off my stage makeup, and wore it proudly to school the next morning: I wanted everyone to know I was special. Anyone who entered my bedroom at home would be confronted by a veritable shrine to ballet. I collected pairs of pointe shoes autographed by New York City Ballet dancers and nailed them to the wall above my bed. (We would leave notes at the stage door, complimenting our favorite dancers and asking for their worn-out shoes.) Inside the dresser were drawers of oversized T-shirts emblazoned with the logos of various summer programs I’d passed through. The wall above it was dominated by a giant poster of Degas’s La Classe de Danse, and I would fall asleep studying it: the girl posing in an eternal arabesque, the girl pouting on the sidelines, the girl primping in the back.Puberty hit, and I looked on in horror as my reflection in the mirror changed. I had spent years learning the precise contour of my calves, the quirks of my toes, but all of a sudden, my body was foreign to me. The mirrors lining every studio became instruments of torture. One year, I was in the running; the next, I was mostly ignored. For the third year in a row, I was cast in the same small role in The Nutcracker. Then I was kicked out of SAB.

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