A Body of Work

by David Hallberg

  * * *

  TEACHER APPRECIATION WEEK came once a year, and while other students dutifully wrote to teachers they liked, I used the opportunity to write to the school counselor and let him know I was being harassed daily by a group of persistent classmates.

  Though I needed to share what was happening, being forthcoming with that information made me feel even more vulnerable. Next thing I knew, I was in the counselor’s office giving the names of my taunters. Then my parents were called in. They wanted to take me to a child psychiatrist who could teach me how to deal with bullies. I told them I didn’t want to go, but they insisted, saying it would do me good to “just talk about what was bothering me.” I could tell it killed them to know I was being demoralized by other kids.

  A week later, despite my protests, I walked into the psychiatrist’s office in a high-rise building in downtown Minneapolis. I hated the idea of talking about an emotional issue for which I wasn’t even seeking advice. The thought of verbalizing my problems to an adult made me feel even weaker, like I couldn’t do anything myself.

  Despite my reluctance, we finally spoke about what was happening at school. The psychiatrist suggested I develop an alter ego who could help me stick up for myself. We named him “Tough Tom.” The idea was that, when the bullies started to go at me, I would somehow work up the confidence to become my trusty and stronger other self. But Tom turned out to be less than trusty, because when I was being verbally assaulted I couldn’t convince myself that an imaginary character would help me in any way.

  The teasing followed me to Phoenix, Arizona, when my parents relocated there for work. It was an exciting move for a now ten-year-old boy, a fresh start and, potentially at least, a chance to make new friends.

  I picked out my outfit for my first day of fifth grade. I was like every other kid, making a personal statement for the start of the school year. The prospect of new school clothes and the chance to show them off was thrilling. I chose a black T-shirt, black-and-white-checkered flannel shorts, and my favorite, coolest item: red high-top Converse sneakers, paired with white tube socks. As I walked to my classroom, some boys barked, “Nice shoes!” It stung.

  After that the teasing escalated. It confounded me. I was just being myself. I couldn’t act another way or put on another face. And I still couldn’t stand up to them. It wasn’t in my nature. I cowered in front of the bullies. It hurt to be made fun of and all I wanted when it was happening was to get away from it. Yet as much as I wanted to escape, I also wanted to fit in.

  * * *

  IN PHOENIX, THE pinnacle of my entire week was the dance class I began taking at a local jazz studio. With more formal training, I mustered up the courage to audition for my school talent show. A lot of kids would sing, some would dance, others did magic tricks or gymnastics. I was the only boy dancing. I didn’t want to be teased, but when it came to dancing, I took every opportunity to do so, even if the entire student body would be watching and judging me. I decided on a few routines I had been working on at the studio: a tap solo, a jazz routine to an early nineties dance anthem, “The Hitman,” and a top-hat-and-tails tap dance to “Sing Sing Sing.” I was focused and nervous auditioning in front of my music teacher, Mr. Bernstein. I took my dances very seriously, so I was anxious while waiting to hear whether I made it into the show, and full of joy and excitement when I did.

  It took some courage to dance in the talent show. But I didn’t see it as such. Every student set himself up for massacre when he went out on that stage in front of his or her peers.

  As I sat in the music room with the other kids, each one nervously awaiting his or her turn to go on, Mr. Bernstein came over to me and sat down.

  “You must follow your passion to dance, David,” he said. “Ignore the nastiness and the teasing heaped on you by other kids. All you need to do is explore your love of dance.”

  Never before had someone suggested that I had something worth nurturing. At the time I simply listened, nodded, and then went onstage to perform my routine. But that was the first bit of encouragement I received. I’ll always be grateful to him, for he was the first to instill in me the crucial idea that anyone—even a tap-dancing boy in suburban America—has the right to follow his dreams.

  CHAPTER 3

  Increasingly I became everyone’s favorite target at school. I was the class punching bag for the other boys’ entertainment. One day, as I waited quietly outside the classroom for school to commence, four guys approached me and formed a half circle around me. I tried to prepare myself for whatever was coming.

  “Hey, girl,” one taunted.

  I was used to hearing this, but that didn’t keep it from stinging; it was becoming just as familiar as my real name.

  “You know you’re a girl, right?” another said. “And what do girls do? Huh? Do you know? Girls wear perfume!”

  Before I could react they drained an entire bottle of cheap drugstore perfume all over me. Every last drop. In seconds. On my shoulders. My face. My hands. My arms. My clothes. I had done nothing to them. I stood there frozen, in shock and disbelief. Embarrassed and empty and alone.

  They had purchased that bottle of perfume for the very purpose of humiliating me. Most of the boys were not in my class, so they’d have made a special trip around the grounds to find me. Mission accomplished. I reeked of perfume. I officially smelled like a girl.

  From that scarring moment on I built a shell around myself. I was miserable and scared—scared of the bullies who seemed to take such pleasure in hurting me; scared of what they planned to do and say. The more the bullies went after me, the more I withdrew. And the more I withdrew, the deeper I sank into the reality that I honestly didn’t fit in and felt like I never would.

  * * *

  THE RELENTLESS BULLYING I received at school prompted me to find refuge in dance. Dancentre, my jazz studio, was my safe haven, where I had friends with whom I shared the love of movement and who saw me as the person and the dancer I was, not as a freak outcast.

  I thrived on the physical and emotional release that came through the movement of jazz, tap, hip hop. Any form of dance fed my craving. I was never judged negatively. The opposite. I was encouraged to be the dancer I wanted to be. I wasn’t the girl or the faggot. I was free, my true self, and comfortable in my skin.

  In jazz classes, form and technique mattered less than style and attack, and jazz gave me freedom to express myself so long as I knew the combination. I needed this expression. It helped me blot out the horrible teasing that went on during the day.

  * * *

  MY FIRST BALLET class was at Dancentre when I was eleven. Ballet was not popular with the jazz students, who viewed it as boring, a waste of time, and too stiff. I also felt that way. Jazz teachers would tell us about the importance of ballet, saying that it’s the foundation of every other form of movement. But of course we never listened. We would all make excuses to skip ballet class, giving lame reasons for why we couldn’t take class that day.

  “I have too much homework and need to study.”

  “My toes hurt.”

  When I did take a ballet class I would wear baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt. I couldn’t in my wildest dreams imagine wearing tights! The girls would dispiritedly put their hair in a bun and maybe wear pink tights. The ballet studio was, to put it mildly, a very unmotivated atmosphere.

  One day, not long after I started my feeble attempt at ballet, I saw, posted on the front door of the studio, an invitation for kids to try out for Ballet Arizona’s version of The Nutcracker. Instantly, I thought, I want to audition. Thinking back, that spark of sudden interest perplexes me. Why was I so attracted to the idea of auditioning for The Nutcracker when I only halfheartedly studied ballet? I knew a total of three steps in the classical idiom. Yet reading about that audition ignited a curiosity to explore the unknown that would guide me throughout my career and, on more than one occasion, lead me in an unexpected direction.

  * * *

  BECAUSE I WAS scheduled to
compete in an afternoon jazz competition on the weekend of the audition, Ballet Arizona agreed to meet me for a private audition on Saturday morning.

  At their studio I was tentative, quiet, intimidated. There were kids my age sprawled in every part of the reception area, all waiting for their chance to prove they could be part of The Nutcracker. I was met by Katharine Frey, the company’s ballet mistress (a term used in the ballet world for the rehearsal director). She led me past groups of eager kids into an empty studio. My eleven-year-old eyes had never seen a studio that big. It was a vast, run-down empty space, equally intriguing and intimidating.

  * * *

  THE AUDITION LASTED less than fifteen minutes. I was trying out for the coveted role of the Nutcracker Prince, who saves Clara from the evil Rat King and leads her to the Kingdom of the Sweets. This was the best role a boy could get in the production. The ballet mistress started to teach me the intricate mime scene at the beginning of Act II, in which the Prince recounts his battle with the Rat King. I had never even seen mime, much less performed it. She would show me a mime passage and then sit down quietly in her chair and watch me demonstrate it. But I couldn’t get past more than the first few gestures. I was in completely over my head. This was my first attempt at portraying the Prince, and deservedly, I got the far lesser role of the Nutcracker in the battle scene, during which my entire face was obscured by an enormous foam head.

  * * *

  DESPITE THE DOWNGRADE, it was during the eight performances of The Nutcracker that I became irretrievably enthralled by ballet. I was mesmerized. Once I took my foam head off after the battle scene each night, I would phone my mother and beg, “Can I stay and watch?”

  Nurturing my newfound obsession, she usually obliged. I would stand quietly in the wings, transfixed by everything I saw and sensed. The dancers seemed suffused with a purpose bigger than themselves. They were like worshipers devoted to a religion. It was as if the stage itself were holy ground. I could feel the energy, the nerves, the reverence. The lead man dancing the Cavalier, in his tunic and white tights, took such care to support his beautiful ballerina onstage.

  I was so taken by these professional dancers, by the focus it took to perform. The attention to preparing their shoes by dipping them in the rosin box just before they went onstage. That final practice of a difficult step just before the curtain went up. The call of the stage manager to “Places” right before the orchestra sounded. The muffled applause of the audience through the closed curtain as the conductor came out to the podium. And the dancers’ swift intake of breath as they moved onto the stage and their struggle for breath when they came off it.

  Ballet seemed important. It had purpose. It was serious, weighty, a force stronger than any individual dancing it. I couldn’t help but inch as close as I could to witness this new world. I felt equally comfortable and enthralled. It was a brilliant new feeling. Ballet had captured me, never to let go.

  CHAPTER 4

  The division between my two worlds became more defined. As my dancing life after school flourished and became more and more of a haven, my life at school sank into a hell as the bullying escalated.

  The extreme highs of expressing my calling as a dancer were consistently offset by the extreme lows of being everyone’s targeted “faggot.”

  In my suburban school district in Phoenix, 1,500 kids came together for seventh and eighth grades at Desert Shadows Middle School. A completely new experience: new classes, new friends, and a new sense of freedom.

  At Desert Shadows, I didn’t disappear into the mass of teenagers as I’d hoped I would. I was immediately singled out. The new faces from other elementary schools saw me as fresh prey: an effeminate blond boy who took dancing classes with girls after school and didn’t hide it.

  Puberty was still far on the horizon for me, so I had a high-pitched voice and a very slight, skinny wire of a frame. The inevitable physical changes that other boys were experiencing were a big deal, and they would brag about who was shaving already, who had hair in their armpits. I didn’t even see peach fuzz on the top of my lip, let alone the need to shave anything off. I also still had a slew of girl friends. Because I found it so easy to connect with girls, talking to them wasn’t an awkward event like it seemed to be for the other boys. As it had when I was younger, this made other boys jealous and added fuel to an already blazing fire. Once again, the two words I became very accustomed to hearing were “girl” and “faggot.”

  But I had trouble with some girls too. One day, on the bus ride home, I could sense, across the aisle, two girls whispering about me. I was sitting there, waiting for my stop, when one of them turned to me.

  “Say ‘hello’!” she demanded as the other looked on.

  I knew exactly why she said it. I looked her dead in the eyes. Cold. Enraged. Hurt.

  I said, “Why? So you can hear how much I sound like a girl?”

  They both looked back at me in shock. I had totally caught them off guard. A thick, tense silence ensued. The only answer they could muster up was a feeble “No.”

  I looked away. I didn’t make a scene; instead I stared out the window, my face hidden from theirs, and cried quietly. I couldn’t help myself. I had never felt so bereft. If I couldn’t fit in, then all I wanted was to be left alone.

  * * *

  TO MY DISAPPOINTMENT, things were no better at Sunday school. Once, on a forced weekend retreat with my Lutheran church, the other boys honed in on me. None of them went to my school, so this was yet another crop of taunters. They didn’t want me sleeping in the same room with them because I was a faggot. I might “try something in the middle of the night.” Their unwarranted fear was matched by my own anxiety.

  There was no other cabin to stay in, so while the other boys chummily piled into bunk beds and giggled themselves to sleep, I slept in a bed by myself in the corner.

  Church was supposed to be the most accepting, inclusive environment. It was where people worshiped something greater than themselves and where kids could learn about the beauty, forgiveness, and acceptance of God. I imagined religion to be a refuge from the judgments and confusions of everyday life. A sort of utopia. At least that’s what they told me it should be at my suburban church, La Casa de Cristo.

  Later, I would be disappointed, to say the least, when I learned that my own church regarded homosexuals as sinners.

  * * *

  AS SEVENTH GRADE moved on, I became more and more depressed. I started to write in the back of my school notebook about how much I hated school and wanted to escape. I dreaded leaving home to head to the bus stop. The teasing started and ended there every single day. Once I joined the kids in line for the bus, my guard was up, like a shield in battle. When the day was over and I was dropped off at the same bus stop, I could finally transform back into my true self.

  I realize now how incredibly lucky I was to find both escape and a form of salvation in dance. I always make a point of that very thing to boys who reach out to me to tell me about the teasing they endure in school. I tell them to be grateful that they have an outlet that is as unique as being a dancer. The kids taunting you should only be so lucky to have a passion equal to yours. And by no means should teasing and verbal abuse be an excuse to give up what you love. I make the point that I never considered quitting dance because the teasing was so relentless. When I hear of other young people considering that option, I give my most impassioned reasons why that is a mistake. You cannot give in to the bullies and detractors. You cannot let them win the fight. They will say whatever they like, but you always have something stronger than they do: The courage to do something different. And the passion to equal that courage.

  * * *

  DURING MY JAZZ years I auditioned for a small TV pilot called Kid Tech. It told the story of a group of kids who lived in a world of war and conflict and had magic powers that could bring world peace. Six young dancers were chosen to be in it. We came to the project with equal commitment and enthusiasm. As we rehearsed, we experience
d that collective euphoria found in the simple bliss of movement. Dancing hours on end in a small studio, I felt at home with them.

  Among the six kids was Jack. A year younger than me, he danced at a different jazz studio. I had never seen him at competitions, where you normally encountered the same group of dancers. He came from a poor family and lived in a rough part of Phoenix known for its crime and violence. His mother worked night shifts as a nurse, so he took care of himself most days, getting from school to the dance studio by city bus. You could see instantly that he wasn’t spoiled like some of us kids. Whereas we came in with new clothes and the latest gadgets, he dressed simply, appreciating what he did own.

  He was also the most arresting dancer in the group. Sharp, confident, edgy. He had a spark that no one else possessed. Your eye was just drawn to him and his mesmerizing raw energy. He upstaged everyone.

  Jack and I got along instantly. We bonded over our mutual love of dance and had enough different interests to be immediately fascinated by each other. Physically, we were complete contrasts. I was blond; he was dark. I was lanky; he was compact. He was a huge Paula Abdul fan and schooled me in which pop stars were worth listening to. I took in every word he said, transfixed by his confidence and cool, brash demeanor. He was true to himself in front of others, unapologetic and proud. While I was getting made fun of on all fronts and cowering under the pressure, Jack would never take abuse from other kids. He would fight back. I was in complete awe of him.

  As our friendship developed, we started to talk on the phone every day. At school, I constantly looked at the clock, anticipating the moment when I could call Jack. We would both rush home for our daily phone call, which took place just before we went off to our separate dance studios. I savored anything he had to say.

  “I’ve been counting the hours till we could talk again,” I’d tell him.