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I don't want you to think my mother is a monster, because she wasn't. She was always so generous to everyone, inside or outside of the family. She was the kind of woman who offered help before anyone even asked for it, baked double just to hand out leftovers to the neighbours, and made sure that everyone got the perfect gift for Christmas. I loved her, and I feel blessed to have been so close to her. But there was always this look that she got whenever something didn't go her way, just for a second. It passed so fast you could miss it if you blink. Her smile went stiff, her eyes flickered, and then she was back to being sweet, generous Mom.
I know a lot of little girls dream about being ballerinas when they grow up, but I wasn't one of them, not that I remember anyway. I think I wanted to be a director. But I must have said something about ballet at some point, and that was all she needed to sink her talons in. Life changed so fast. I went from having almost no responsibilities at all to four recitals a year, two lessons a week, and an hour of practice every day. I think I adapted fairly well considering how quickly I was thrust into it, and it was fun—for a while anyway. Mostly I loved the jealous looks that my 3rd-grade friends gave me when I told them that I was a ballerina. But after the initial excitement faded, I felt... well, almost nothing about ballet. How could I feel anything, when it took every bit of concentration in my mind and body just to go push myself through the steps. It was never something I did because I wanted or chose, it was just something an adult told me to do. Like cleaning the dishes, or doing my homework.
That changed the night after my spring recital, the last performance before we got to take the summer off. I was sitting in the back of the car. I was sweaty and exhausted, my feet burned, and I held a bouquet of fresh flowers in my lap. Then my mom looked back at me from the passenger seat and asked me "do you want to keep doing ballet?"
I was stunned. It had never even occurred to me that I could choose whether or not to keep doing ballet, and I was at a loss for words. She must have seen my hesitation, because I saw that singular expression cross her face—that barely concealed disappointment. I suddenly blurted out, "Yes," I did want to keep doing ballet. And that was the moment that my fate was sealed.
Ballet became more important than just an extracurricular activity. For the rest of my childhood and teen years, I focused on it to the detriment of everything else. I started doing school online so it would fit my schedule, so my only friends were ballet friends. My mom was my biggest fan, driving me to every practice, buying me new shoes whenever they got wrecked, and showering me with love and care whenever I slipped and twisted an ankle. But as the years went on, it became very clear to me that I did not share her love of my hobby. I didn't even like ballet, and yet here I was, dedicating my entire life to it.
There were a few times that I thought about telling her how I felt. But each time I ran the scenario through my head, planning what I would say, I would imagine this look of distress and horror crossing her face. "But you love ballet!" she would cry out, I would be forced to tell her that she had been making me miserable for my entire life. It's stupid, saying it out loud. As I said, she's not a monster, she loves me; I know she would understand. That's why I can only blame myself, I suppose, no matter how much I might secretly resent her for what happened to me. I was just so spineless that I would rather throw my life away than have one difficult conversation.
By the time I was 14, I had learned just about everything that the instructor at my local program could teach me. I thought then that maybe the spell would break. That she'd see the natural ending of it all, and we’d both finally admit ballet had been a phase, albeit a long one. But instead I found myself agreeing when she talked about transferring me to a boarding school in Victoria, where I would have dance classes every day.
It was grueling. Every student there dreamed of being a professional some day, and the competition was intense. I felt like I was the only one there who couldn't have cared less about dance, and yet I kept floating along with excellent evaluations. There was only one girl there who I felt I had anything in common with. Her name was Jia, and her story was different, but similar to mine: a mother who had failed to achieve her dreams to become a dancer, so she decided to push those dreams upon her daughter. She was the first person I ever admitted to out loud that I hated ballet, and from then on I told her everything. Soon we spent almost all of our time out of classes together, and for the first time I felt like I had someone I could actually talk to. She made what would have been an otherwise terrible experience somewhat bearable. At least, until Miss Cane came along.
It was only a few months into our first year when she suddenly showed up instead of our regular teacher. I vividly remember the moment she walked into the room for the first time. All chatter stopped simultaneously, and all heads turned to her, mine included. It was only afterwards that I realized she hadn't even made a sound to announce her presence. She was young. Not exactly in her prime, but young enough that it seemed odd for her to be teaching instead of dancing. She wore loose, vintage-looking clothing, and an odd, lopsided woolen hat. Everyone remained perfectly still and quiet as she announced that Mrs. Cuenco was not going to be our teacher anymore, and that she was going to be her replacement. I think she had a British accent, but to be honest I'm not certain—I was so entranced whenever she was in a room that I can't remember many exact details.
It's strange to say, but I don't think Miss Cane knew anything about ballet. I can't remember a single time she gave us instructions or demonstrations, but I do remember the routines we would practice with her. They were much more advanced and complicated than what we were doing before, and I always felt like I was on the brink of slipping and falling. I think it was fear that forced me to continue to the point of exhaustion. Somehow the way she looked at us made me think that if I made a mistake, there would be... consequences. I'm not sure what, and I suppose it couldn't have been worse than the things she made us do, but the mere idea of it made me feel sick.
It seemed there was no amount of abuse that we wouldn't accept from Miss Cane. She would make us dance even after getting injured, and no one would utter a word of complaint. I would leave every class feeling bruised and broken, but whenever an adult asked how I was doing, I would force myself to smile and push down the pain. None of us talked about what happened in her class, not even to each other. Jia and I stopped talking about our home lives and talked instead about upcoming recitals and trivial gossip, even though we could plainly recognize the terror in each other's eyes.
Even when Miss Cane's lessons went from merely cruel to bizarre and horrific, nobody said a thing. One day, she made us dance barefoot, which would have been inhumane enough, but then she showed us a small trunk and placed it on the ground. She told us calmly that she had noticed we had been sloppy lately, and had devised a plan to motivate us to improve our technique. It feels like a nightmare, and I know it must sound insane, but I remember so clearly as she lifted the lid, and dozens... no, hundreds of hairy, black tarantulas began to crawl out and spread all over the dance floor. A few girls whimpered, but we knew somehow that it would be futile to scream or protest. And so we went through our routine, forcing ourselves not to misstep for fear of accidentally brushing against their hairy bodies. Another time, she arrived with a needle and a spool of white thread. She said that in order to improve our coordination, she was going to sew us together, so that if we didn't keep our distance the same at all times, we would feel a tug—or worse, a tear. And so we approached her in single file, and held in our cries of pain as she pulled the needle through the skin of our arms. I still have the scars to prove it.
There was at least two dozen teenagers in that class. Any one of us could have called home and told our parents about what was going on, but we all decided that wasn't an option. Skipping class? What a ridiculous notion. And despite everything, I have to admit that I improved as a dancer in Miss Cane's class more than I did with any other instructor I've ever had. Very soon I was mastering techniques that only months ago I had watched on TV and decided I could never accomplish. But instead of pride at my achievements, I only felt dread at the deepening realization that dance was the only thing I was, and would ever be good at. And if dancing on spiders and embroidering my own skin was what it took to be good at that one thing, then maybe resisting really was pointless.
That nightmare continued for the rest of the year, and I think it would have gone on longer if I hadn't received a phone call from my father, telling me that my mother had died in a car accident. I suppose the grief shocked me out of whatever trance I was in, because after I packed my things that night and left the academy, I finally made a resolution to myself that I would never do ballet again. It was like taking the first full breath of air after years of suffocating. I'm ashamed to admit it, but at my mom's funeral I cried tears of joy.
Ten years later, and now I'm doing the things I actually want to do. I got my Bachelor's Degree in Computer Science, and I have a pretty decent job as a software engineer. But if the story ended there, then I wouldn't have come here to give my statement.
Last weekend I got a letter in the mail. It was from Jia. We never exchanged contact information when we were going to school, so it was quite a shock, especially since the return address was the Victoria Ballet Academy. It was only then that I realized how lucky I was to have escaped that place when I did. Because I don't think the other girls ever left.
So that's why I'm here, I guess. I know that I need to go back, but I really don't want to do it alone. And you might be the only ones who will believe me.