...to Offer a Corollary to '...the Power of Name Calling'

You may want to address someone by name; etiquette may call for you to address someone by name; and you may sense that someone could use the endorphin rush that results from hearing his name; but you don't know the name and the moment does not allow for you to ask.  I experience just such an occasion at the beginning of every new semester.  I walk into class determined to establish rapport and community in my small classroom, but I don't know any of these twenty four students' names.  The Italian Mama is old enough to address individuals as "Sir"  or "Ma'am" and not feel like a newly discharged Marine.  In fact, I know that the community-building effect on both the speaker and each sir and ma'am at least equals the relationship formed when addressing someone by their name. Modelling this act of courtesy to young college students gives them an opportunity to feel the respect you hope they will pay forward to others, especially their elders. 

The Italian Mama is old enough to know that "Sir" and "Ma'am" work at least as well as names.

...to Find Beauty in a Fall from Grace

Thirty seven years later,  I can still hear the thud punctuate the 3/4 waltz; still see the swirl of bodies around me; still smell the rosined pointe shoes moving rhythmically near my face, and feel the air explode from my lungs as a tingle of adrenaline-laced humiliation surges through my flattened body.  It happens every year around this time, when the strains of The Nutcracker Suite bring the Italian Mama back to that performance I thought would disgrace me and haunt my dancing career forever.  

I had trained with Marica Dale Weary at the Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet for four years and had finally landed a part in the Waltz of the Snowflakes in our annual performance of The Nutcracker. By then I was training in the advanced class and reveled in my place among Marcia’s best dancers.  I loved performing this holiday classic knowing that we helped to spread Christmas cheer throughout the community.  As kids, we felt the same excitement any child does as Christmas approaches; as dancers we positively vibrated with the anticipation of performing.  Although the wind blew bitterly outside, the stage lights spread inviting warmth behind the curtains, like the hot molasses Marcia encouraged us to image dancing through.

The party scene in Act I of The Nutcracker requires little technical work for most of the dancers.  This night I played the role of an adult party-goer dressed in a claret-colored gown with shiny patent leather shoes.  The theatrics of Act I provide a perfect opportunity to get accustomed to the stage and prepare for the rigors of Act II. I felt relaxed, ready and eager to dance.  Once the Waltz of the Snowflakes began, I danced in the zone, the music compelling me through the complex Balanchine choreography.  Counting “one… piqué, fouetté, tombé…, and two…, piqué, fouetté, tombé…” The rest of the universe faded away and the corps de ballet moved as one giant swirl of snowflakes blown by a gust of wintry wind.  “One, two, three, four; and one”— BOOM!  Suddenly, the swirl was moving without me; I was no longer on my feet and gasping for breath.  I lay front, center, and flat on the stage. 

Image from SnowCrystals.com

Thanks to trained agility and a healthy dose of fear, I managed to resume my fouettés missing a mere half beat of music.  Luckily, the choreography soon called for a complete halt to the action by the entire corps of snowflakes while the demi-soloists took their turn to twirl and swirl.  As if the wind had ceased blowing for us, we stood frozen, counting the music until it was our turn to dance again.  This pause gave me a chance to catch my breath and figure out what had just happened.  Apparently, a piece of confetti  “snow,” sprinkled from above for atmospherics, got caught under my pointe shoe just as I stepped onto it, sending me to the stage floor more like a meteorite than a snowflake.  Surprisingly, no one else on stage appeared shaken by the disruption, and I began to wonder if it had really occurred, this mere nanosecond of gracelessness. 


Now in my mind, the fear of falling had less to do with public humiliation and much more to do with disappointing Marcia, or worse, incurring her wrath.  When provoked, she could morph into a terrier, all four feet, nine inches and ninety pounds of her.  As it turned out, the collective response to my egregious display of non-ballerina-ness bemuses me to this day:  no one from the company ever mentioned it, not once.  Surely, Marcia would have some comment for me or some lesson for the young dancers on how to respond to a fall during a performance.  But, no.  Nary a word out of her.  I began to think that she hadn’t really watched the performance or had missed seeing my nosedive while she snuck a dip into her box of Hot Tamales candies (preferred because of their low fat content).  Once the performance was over and all the backstage chatter died down, still no comment surfaced about the fallen snowflake.  Through my mortification, I almost believed that maybe no one noticed the snowflake right in front fall flat on her face.  Hmmm, not likely.  Well, maybe they thought it was part of the performance; after all, the Waltz of the Snowflakes recreates a snowstorm in Candyland.  What do snowflakes do in a storm?  Yes, they swirl, and twirl, and flutter, and blow in the wind, but in the end, they fall.  

Just when I thought I could forget this moment of shame, a woman from the audience stopped me in the auditorium as I made my way home after the final curtain call.  She congratulated me on the beautiful performance and told me how much she had enjoyed the show.  “So professional!” she effused.  

“Thank you.  I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I murmured meekly, but smiled broadly hoping to steer the conversation to the bright parts of the performance and away from the meteoric snowflake.

“And when that snowflake fell …”   

Oooops!  Too late. Here it comes: my public humiliation when I compulsively confess to causing the one flaw in her experience of The Nutcracker.  But she finished her sentence before I could apologize for my lack of professionalism. 

“And when that snowflake fell and got right up, no one missed a beat!  They kept their composure and went right on dancing.  Amazing!”  

Amazing, indeed!  This wise and generous woman had made me feel almost proud of my fall. Instead of ruining an otherwise flawless performance, the cameo appearance of my carefully restrained inner klutz highlighted the maturity and professionalism of my fellow dancers. I walked away smiling and thinking that instead of apologizing to my friends, I should be thanked for shining such a favorable light on them.  Maybe Marcia should promote me to principal dancer.  

Neither of these happened, but I did come away from the experience thinking that our stumbles may be less important than the ways in which we stumblers and those with more grace react to them.  For fallen men and women (and maybe young snowflakes), true grace resides not so much in the flawless performance but in a performance that embraces the occasional fall as an opportunity to demonstrate the strength and skill necessary to get back up and dance on without looking back.