The Karate Kid Part II

The day after my kickboxing debacle, I looked into ballroom dancing classes. Ram and I had watched Mad Hot Ballroom, a documentary about NYC public school kids who compete in ballroom dancing. So I started surfing the net, looking for classes in town. The first and only listing I was able to find is taught my Mr. Avery. As soon as I saw the name a tinkle of urine escaped down my leg.

When I was little I wanted to be a ballerina. Or a professional bowler. The tutu and cute slippers won out over the greasy BLTs at the bowling alley. My mom enrolled me in classes with Mr. Avery. The dance studio was above a store and smelled strongly of cat food. I worried that the smell would cling to my pink leotard and follow me home. While waiting for the first class to begin, I watched a mother spoon feed her 5-year-old daughter a can of tuna. I swallowed my revulsion as Mr. Avery entered the waiting room with ball-bulging tights and what I thought was a cane. He smiled and spoke softly to the mothers who wanted to escort their daughters into class. Oh no, he purred. We don't allow moms inside. We wouldn't want to spoil the surprise for the recital, would we? The mothers, all starved for any male attention, swooned at this charming, bearded man stroking their arms delicately. Like lambs to the slaughter they led us through the door, which slammed shut behind us with finality.

Once inside the studio, the smile and smarmy charm vanished. Mr. Avery lined us up in two rows: taller girls in the back, shorter girls in the front. I was in the back. He then paraded past us, looking us up and down with a steely eye. I heard actual whimpers from the girls around me. He did this for what seemed like hours. He then stood in front of the class with the same look of disgust and demanded that we all take off any jewelry we were wearing. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets. Thankfully, I had no jewelry, but the girls with jewelry looked around in teary confusion. He repeated, Take it off, and deposit it at the front of the class. More hesitation from the girls. Now! he screamed. That elicited actual hysterics from several of the girls, who busied themselves taking their jewelry off as quickly as possible. There was a flurry of activity as the girls raced to drop their goods at the front of the class. I had heard about muggers, but I didn't realize my mother would actually pay for me to be mugged.

Class began. There was pounding of the cane, screaming, forceful manipulation of ankles, feet, arms and wrists. First position, now! What is wrong with you? Are you stupid? Do you speak English? (In fact, two of the girls did not). The torture went on and on. The cane pounded the floor. Mr. Avery smacked our butts if they stuck out too much. Hair was tugged to improve posture. There were threats. Okay, no specific threats. He didn't say, I'll let my german shepherd eat you for dessert if you don't get into third position. Rather, there was the threat of a threat, in the tone, the look, the reddened vein about to explode. If we truly angered him, Mr. Avery would pick up one of the stray pieces of jewelry and throw it at us. Anything not nailed to the floor was flung so hard at us it would actually leave a mark if it made contact.

I will never forget one girl - Heidi. Like the movie Heidi. She was absolutely beautiful with pin straight white blonde hair and a pink and white leotard. She had milky white skin and pink cheeks. I stood behind her just to stare at her hair. Heidi was sweet and painfully shy. It was torture for her to make eye contact. After being berated by Mr. Avery for several minutes, she asked to go to the bathroom. He erupted in a rage and refused, saying we had to take care of that before class. Heidi's little lip quivered and she held her legs closer together. Please, she whispered. He said a perfunctory no and turned away. When we were instructed to perform the next movement, Heidi froze in place. We all stared at her as Mr. Avery screamed, and that's when it happened. Her pink leotard darkened as urine flowed down her legs into her white ballet slippers and puddled around her. Heidi cried noiselessly as Mr. Avery looked as though he were about to have a stroke. Then, it was as if a cloud had passed and his face softened with concern. He picked up a towel and bent over Heidi with it, whispering reassurances. Heidi kept her head down and sucked on her finger as her pink cheeks turned scarlet. He delicately picked Heidi up and carried her out of the class. We never saw her again.

Surprisingly, when my mother asked how the class had gone I lied and said fine. I was terrified to tell the truth. Apparently, I was not alone. The following week the entire class, with the exception of Heidi, were present. The incident with Heidi did not soften Mr. Avery at all; rather, he became even more determined to break us down. The year went by in a blur. There was a recital with an Arabian nights theme. Pictures remain of me stretched out in my little silk outfit, Borderline-era Madonna belly sticking out proudly. I was more relieved when class ended for the summer than when we had a snow day at school.

The next year, however, I could not face the torture again. I sat in the waiting room for the first class, surrounded by the same traumatized girls as the year before. There was the mother, spoon feeding her now 6-year-old daughter a can of tuna. There were the Italian sisters, who now spoke a few words of English. There was the cat food smell sticking to my pretty leotard. And then the door opened. My stomach was full of cement. There was the beard. There was the cane. There was the forceful hand that would push the ball of my foot hard onto the floor. I let out a cry the likes of which my mother had never heard from me. Everyone stared with concern, including Mr. Avery. I sobbed and begged my mother to take my home. I told her I hated ballet, I hated Mr. Avery, and I had to go home and pee before I ruined my new ballet shoes. My mother was so confused that she actually agreed. Mr. Avery bent down to me and asked me to reconsider. I saw a glint in his eye, a glint that promised punishment for my outburst once we got past the mothers with their purses and their concern. I wailed louder and harder, hiding behind my mother. He reached over to the table and plucked a bouqet of flowers out of a vase and handed them to me, wishing me well. Again, the neglected mothers swooned at this compassionate gesture. I refused the wet offering. My mother grabbed the flowers and led me sobbing out of the studio, apologizing to Mr. Avery for my unexplained outburst.

Out on the street, free in the sun, once the hiccuping sobs had subsided, I danced and spun on the sidewalk in my leotard and slippers. I had never felt such joyful freedom in my little life. My mother bought me ice cream and it dripped down my leotard all the way home.

So here I am, almost 30 years later. I still don't know how to dance. And now it looks like I'll never learn.