Ballet of the dolls

To revive good memories and extract some hidden talents, I wanted my children to learn ballet. I even prematurely dressed Liaa and Pin in leotards at two and three years old. When Liaa was eight and Pin seven, I put the look into real training. No more make-believe, no more kunyari-kunyari. They had been dancing modern stuff from kindergarten. It was now my turn to indoctrinate them at the Cultural Center where I had been going for dance lessons. I literally had to drag them out of the house, carry them out of the car and another push and pull to the dance floor. They were so unlike me!

Ballet was a big part of my growing up. My mother made me take lessons as a child. I remember her holding my tiny hand as we walked to ballet classes. I was five. With intent eyes, she watched my every move and I was guaranteed dire consequences if I didn’t do well. She was my moving spirit.

Ricardo Cassell taught me what I know about ballet. He was a strict teacher, training us in a most unusual way. For instance, in perfecting the arabesques, he would put a lighted cigarette under our legs so we wouldn’t put them down — a technique that was threatening even if we knew he wouldn’t really burn us.

Years later, in grade school and high school, conservative Maryknoll sisters frowned at ballet dancing altogether and prohibited us students from taking it up for the same reason that girls were discouraged from wearing bathing suits. But with my love for the dance, I secretly continued the lessons. 

So, back to Cassell. We began with warm-up exercises at the barre. We were taught to focus on a single dot on the wall as we did our pirouettes. On my first ballet recital at Far Eastern University, I was in a red-and-black lace tutu, my hair in a bun. I was a lady from Spain at 12 years old. FEU had the biggest stage. With the energy of a youngster, I memorized each step, looked high up, never on the floor below, attempting each turn and making each little leap, holding my black and red fan. Oftentimes, I danced with Mrs. Herbert Zipper, whose husband was an outstanding conductor. Having accomplished that, it was back to regular dance training. After each ballet lesson, I went home, my mother still clutching my small hands, with either a smile of fulfillment on her lips or fear of punishment on mine.

The rewards of taking ballet were aplenty. Because all motions flow from the dancer’s upright axis, I was trained to stand straight, tummy in, shoulders back yet relaxed for strength and elegance. Ballet gave me great posture. Dancing also requires coordination, so I would think it enhanced grace and fluidity of my movements. 

Every instruction was taken to heart with the fear of another tap from Cassell, indicating a mistake in our posture, stance, feet and hands. Like any other sport, ballet dancing gave me discipline. I learned to focus and concentrate on the sequence of my dance steps. I continued ballet with Yvonne delos Reyes when Ricardo Cassell left the Philippines.

Oftentimes, I thought about how my children would love dancing, too! I dressed Liaa and Pin in those afternoons, so I expected there would be no crying allowed. I didn’t spank them even if I threatened I would. One day, they would love ballet. Oh yeah? No frowning or bad faces were allowed. Smile! And they’d smile with watery eyes.   In reality, the ballet outfits were tedious to put on. Jump-stretch-pull-up. They stood stiff as boards as I dressed them. Then down on the floor to put on their shoes. 

Off we’d go through the traffic from Makati. By the time we got to Roxas Blvd., I’d have to wake them up. Ballet was torture since it was during their siesta time!

One day, Pin’s yaya called me up to tell me they wanted to proceed to Makati Medical because Pin’s nose was bleeding. “Why” I asked, only to be told she had hit her tiny nose on the barre.” How could that ever be? That was the end of classes for Pin. Liaa wouldn’t go without Pin. No more watery eyes and Pin holding on to my hands so tight because she didn’t want to go to ballet class. No more excuses like, “My tights are hot, Mom. They’re hard to put on, itchy. Strict teacher. Can’t turn. Sleepy at 2 p.m.” 

I realized their hearts weren’t where I forced them to be. Perhaps they would like ballet if I brought them to recitals. And I did. I remembered all those instances, especially last Sunday. My son-in-law Noel asked me if I would like to watch the matinee of Nutcracker Suite in San Francisco. Yes, of course, was my answer.

“All right, Mom is coming with Martina and me,” he said.

Pin remarked, “Ballet reminds me of Ate and myself sitting at the Cultural Center in stiff clothes by Auggie Cordero. Hands on my sides, keeping still.”

So, was I going to Nutcracker Suite with tickets at $100 each? Expensive. But it’s a spectacular ballet, we were told.

 “I know what Mom’s going to do,” Pin said. “Buy Martina a dress from Neiman Marcus, a very stiff dress with yards and yards of fabric. It’s going to be worse if Mom goes to Tiffany just across. She’ll keep telling Noel, ‘I’ll follow, I’ll follow.’” 

Martina is my granddaughter of seven whom Liaa put through ballet and quit for tennis like her mom who quit ballet for bowling!

“Noel,” Pin gave him a word of advice, “let Mom take Martina to be sure she’s on time.” It was a roasting I went through. Let your children feast on you — you’ll discover yourself through them.

I lack the time now to go to adult ballet class. When I did, I remembered my mom holding my hand. No lace tutus! No more lighted cigarette under my legs. No fear of castigation if I missed a pirouette. What is still there is the eagerness to stretch a few muscles and test my memory through dancing. Now more than ever, I appreciate ballet as an outlet to heal an aching back and a spirit as I feel my heart throb. I am young.