Challenge Accepted!

by Celeste Barber

  His dad, Harold, was a tough man, old-school, didn’t show any emotion. Nana Rita and Dad were a team. And when Dad met Mum, Nana took her in as the daughter she’d always wanted.

  Dad was super close to his mum. Rita had wanted more kids, but Harold wasn’t into it, so in those days that was that. I reckon my dad would have LOVED a sibling or ten, but he will never tell you that, because that would be complaining, and that’s something Neville William Barber doesn’t do. He’s grateful for his life and more than happy just to go with the flow. He’s a master at keeping busy and not imposing his time on anyone for any reason.

  My dad works as the maintenance guy at a private hospital on the Gold Coast, a job that started as a one-week gig in 1996, and because he’s so excellent to have around and good at what he does, the hospital just keeps creating work for him.

  He’s so loved that when he was in the hospital the second time in his life (the first time was the time he was born), the staff put him up in the presidential suite and there were nurses who weren’t rostered on that day visiting him to make sure everything was OK. (He had tightness in his chest, which freaked everyone out. Turns out it was gas. Classic Neville.) My mum, who has been in and out of the hospital her whole life due to dodgy lungs, is lucky to get a bunch of flowers on her hospital visits these days, whereas Dad gets a full-blown fanfare if he gets even as much as a blood test.

  When I moved out of the house at seventeen, my dad wrote me notes of encouragement on the back of business cards. Every time I would go back home, or he and Mum would visit me, he would have a fresh business card with a fresh note of love and encouragement. The business cards have been replaced with official and professional texts.

  Celeste

  Just looked at e mail from the copy editor Just another one of your talents

  You never stop surprising us all

  Just more acknowledgment for the great person you are

  Love Dad xxxx

  5 Nifty doesn’t drink, never has—except at my wedding in Bali, when two days before the Big Day, we were by the pool and I opened a bottle of vodka that was infused with gold and was a gift to my soon-to-be groom from my sister and bro-in-law. Dad asked for a shot of vodka, and didn’t this get the party started. We all had a shot; Dad requested a second one straightaway, followed directly by a cup of tea and a three-hour sleep. Like I said, Nifty doesn’t drink.

  The One Where I Danced a Lot

  I danced when I was a kid, and when I say danced, I mean danced (tilts head with an over-the-top click of the fingers). I danced at eisteddfods (think Toddlers and Tiaras with a lot less hair pulling and a lot less lipstick), at shopping centers, at school fairs, the Ekka (the Royal Queensland Show), conferences, football grand finals (by football, I mean Rugby League—think NFL with a lot less shoulder pads, a lot less money, but the same amount of male privilege), in my nana’s shower, in my shower, and given the chance I’d dance in your shower too.

  I was a self-proclaimed unique triple threat: I could dance, Dance, and DANCE. And I loved it.

  My mum said that I could dance even before I could walk, but as I have said one billion times, my mum exaggerates a bit. This didn’t stop me from telling anyone who would listen, especially my fellow dance enthusiasts. You know those conversations you have with like-minded twelve-year-olds about how you were born to do this and no one has the experience or dedication that you do?

  “I know all the dance moves to EVERY one of the Spice Girls’ songs, even ‘Viva Forever,’” Julie would say over Macca’s while we sat in the splits (Macca’s is what we call McDonald’s in Australia because we are lazy but cool).

  Elissa would chip in. “Well, my big sister has taught me all the steps to all the senior dances, and she said that if any of the senior girls can’t do the end-of-year concert, then I can totally step in because I’m so good at learning all the steps.”

  I looked at these girls, knowing full well that what I was about to share with them would stop them dead in their flexible tracks. “Well, I could dance before I could even walk.”

  Pause. Silence. Nothing. “Aaand my uncle’s a firefighter.”

  They smiled. BAM! I knew it would floor them.

  I danced at the Johnny Young Talent School (JYTS) on the Gold Coast. When I started there, it was the Colleen Fitzgerald Dance School. Then Ms. Colleen married Mr. Lance from JYTS and they merged the dance schools.

  Look, I won’t lie: it was hard at first to accept the merger, but when the job opportunities came rolling in thick and fast to dance at Jupiter’s Casino on the Gold Coast because we were now known as part of THE JOHNNY YOUNG TALENT SCHOOL DANCERS (this must be sung, never just spoken, using jazz hands), we got over our loyalty pretty quickly.

  I was fifteen when I went on my first interstate trip to Darwin for two weeks and performed in shopping centers. There was a group of us that went, some as dancers, some as emcees, and some as suit operators. (You know those larger-than-life characters that walk around shopping centers during school holidays, scaring the piss out of all the kids? Well, there’s an actual person inside them, not just fear and misery.) In Darwin, I was lucky enough to be the suit operator of Sonic the Hedgehog, a rabbit, and one of the Simpsons—I want to say Marge, but I think it was Maggie. Given it was the September school holidays in Darwin, and the average heat at 8:00 a.m. was 37 degrees Celsius (I think that’s 7,865 degrees Fahrenheit, but don’t hold me to it), I managed to halve my body weight in a week while still eating two-minute noodles forty-five times a day. We all stayed in hotel rooms with balconies and would sun ourselves first thing in the morning because “morning sun gives you the most even tan.” This was my first and last interstate tour, as I think my mum was worried that I came back after two weeks of work with protruding neck bones and a dependency on MSG.

  I grew up near a beach that has bred some of the best professional surfers in the world, but it was lost on me. I didn’t do weekend nippers (a bunch of kids on the beach every Sunday during summer wearing weird hats learning how to not drown—an Australian rite of passage) like everyone else because Saturday was dancing day—DANCING DAY—a day to dance: DANCE DAY! Mum would drop me off at class by 9:00 a.m., and I would carpool home with James Corden, singing the Spice Girls’ greatest hits, and since James wasn’t available, our neighbors Esther, Bianca, and Ashleigh were my lift home.

  Jazz for the babies (two to four years old) was first, and Bianca and I, along with other Show Group and senior dancers, were student teachers. I didn’t love teaching, but I just loved being at dancing, and especially on Saturday because it was when everyone from all the different studios across the Gold Coast would come together. We would compare the choreography we had learned that week and share clear nail polish to cover up the holes we made in our shimmers (stockings with a high-shimmer finish, you guys: shimmers). We weren’t one of those dance schools that had to wear a uniform; we could wear whatever we wanted, as long as it was awesome and outshone the other dancers. One of the male dancers, who wasn’t “out” yet, was partial to a fluorescent-yellow unitard—an outfit that he would reserve for a 34-degree day (pretty sure that’s around 5,643 degrees Fahrenheit), knowing he would sweat and would make all the other curious boys jealous.

  Ms. Colleen always wore black, black on black with a side of black and something black. She always had a full face of makeup that my sister would say looked as though she had laid it out on her bed, tied her hands behind her back, and just fallen face-first into it. Ms. Colleen did a few tours of Vietnam entertaining the troops in the ’60s—something that she loved and romanticized about often. She was a born performer and gave us and the studio everything she had, including her bad temper and sass.

  After Babies Jazz came Babies Tap and a whole lot of noise. Intermediate classes came next, and this is where it got exciting, because all the older dancers would start arriving and stretching or trying on costumes for upcoming shows. Then there would be a break where we would run down to the 7-Eleven to get a
medium Slurpee and a Killer Python that we shoved in the straw of the Slurpee so it would freeze. Killer Pythons are life! Think Twizzlers, shape them like a snake, and give them lots of different colors and flavors and treat them like the perfect food pyramid you wish they could be. Ms. Colleen would put in her order of a cheeseburger with no bun, a can of Coke, and a chocolate, which the most responsible dancer (a.k.a. her favorite) would get for her. I was never asked.

  Then it was back to class and our turn, the Show Group and Seniors. This is when we would TURN IT ON. We performed like we were at Madison Square Garden and JLo was our backup dancer. Well, I did anyway—I didn’t really know what the others were doing, as I had my eyes closed most of the time to get the full effect.

  Dancing was a place full of super-weird people that I felt safe with. Mr. Fluorescent-Yellow-Unitard was super bendy and loved to tell me inappropriate stories about his sex life. He called everyone the C word before the C word was even a thing. At first, I thought he just called me that as a nickname—a term of endearment, if you will. But then I found out otherwise and was equal parts flattered and confused.

  If I wasn’t meeting my potential in any aspect of my life, he would challenge me and ask why. He would laugh at my jokes and roll his eyes when I complained that the prettier blonde girls had been put in the front row again.

  “Listen, C, you will never be in the front line. Ms. Colleen has her favorites and you’re not one of them. I love you. Get over it.”

  “But I’ve worked really hard.”

  “No one cares. Now, let’s sit in the sun and bitch about absolutely everyone.”

  Dancing was the first place, outside my family, where I felt safe being loud, ambitious, and different.

  Ms. Colleen died recently at the age of seventy-seven, and I will always be grateful to her for teaching me how to count to eight and for playing show tunes so loud that I think it has caused me permanent damage.

  The One about My #metoo Stories (Sad Face Emoji)

  I’m a big supporter of the #metoo and #timesup movements. I’m pretty vocal about standing up for women’s equality and that crazy idea that women shouldn’t feel as though we need to be subjected to sexist bullshit just because we’re women.

  I have a #metoo story—two, in fact—and I’m going to share them in this book because I want to. I’m not going to name people because I don’t want to. These are my stories about my experiences, and even though they have in no way shaped who I am as a person, they are still my stories.

  I’ve noticed that when people are named in #metoo stories, then they become the focus. Taking them down becomes the main objective, and the person who has told her story becomes just another victim and just another woman with a grudge. The perpetrator becomes the focus and is treated as a one-off event, whereas it’s a whole culture that needs to change.

  I’m putting these stories in black-and-white in my book because I want other women and girls to start doing or not doing things because they do or don’t want to—not because they feel that they should or that it’s their responsibility. The only people in these horrible situations who have any responsibility are the men. A responsibility not to sexually harass, assault, bully, or intimidate women at any point, in any field, for the rest of time. In the name of the father, the son, and the holy goat, amen.

  In 1996, my fourteenth year dancing and fourth at the Johnny Young Talent School, I was given a solo in the end-of-year concert. I was the only senior and only one in the Show Group—the fancy dance group—who hadn’t been given a solo before, but this year was my year. You better believe it. I’d pinned that curly headpiece into my head year after year, but this year was different; I didn’t even cry when it drew blood. I was ready—I was fucking born ready for this solo, damn it!

  Ms. Colleen would put together a medley of different musicals each year. And by “put together a medley,” I mean she would pick her favorite songs from her favorite musicals, cram in some tried-and-tested choreo from previous concerts, and not give two shits about the narrative or how she was butchering classics. AND WE LOVED IT!

  Only the Show Group dancers were invited to take part in this section of the concert. One year it was a song from Grease. Julie, the pretty blonde girl, played Sandy; Remi—the only straight guy, whose mum and dad redefined the term “stage parents”—played Danny; and I was a fun Pink Lady double up in the back, miming the wrong lyrics to songs and trying to make my friend Bianca laugh. Another year saw us do a number from West Side Story. Julie, the pretty blonde girl, played Maria; Remi, the only straight guy—whose mum and dad redefined the term “stage parents”—played Tony; and I’m pretty sure that was the year I was lucky and talented enough to play a little bit of all the ethnic characters up in the back.

  Then in 1996, my final year, we did part of the 1966 classic Sweet Charity, and I was cast as—wait for it, you guys—THE LEAD. Yass, queens, I was cast as Charity Hope Valentine in Sweet Charity (hair flick emoji).

  One of the awesome things that went with such a prestigious role as being a fancy Show Group dancer and performing in a bastardized medley was the exciting and nearly impossible quick changes that needed to be performed side stage. They were almost as important as the concert itself. And they involved A LOT of planning and responsibility. The job of organizing other people’s props if they were onstage was given to Show Group performers only because they knew the importance of it all. Most people who had solos didn’t have to organize anyone else’s props, because people who had solos in the concert were looked at as heroes, like doctors or Paula Abdul.

  Ms. Colleen: I need a dancer to run the umbrella from one side of the stage to the other during the final chorus of “Singin’ in the Rain.” Celeste, can you do it?

  Me: Oh, I can’t, Ms. Colleen. I have a quick change side stage and only just enough time to get back on for . . .

  Looks around, clears throat, and waits for everyone’s attention.

  Me cont.: MY SOLO!

  *echo* solo solo solo.

  If you had to do a quick change side stage, you needed to get your shit together weeks before the concert was even in your visiting aunt’s and uncle’s diaries. You had to assess if the best time to “set” your QCC (quick-change costume—keep up, you guys) was before the concert even started or if it was better to leave it until you had a break between routines while the three-year- olds were doing their tap number to Swan Lake (my dad’s worst nightmare). Another vital step was to let people know where you were putting your things so no stage mum with an agenda would come along and sabotage your preparation.

  My mum had made the costume for my solo this year. It was a simple black leotard that she had got a local swimwear designer to make, but it had a bit of a twist. Mum had designed the costume with a sheer diamond cutout in the center of my chest/belly, and she had alternated black and silver sequins around the perimeter of the diamond. For my solo, I would wear this fancy little number, paired with some tan chorus shoes and a red feather boa, naturally.

  It was after I’d performed my solo, “If My Friends Could See Me Now” (HELLO! Art imitating life!), that my super-fast, super-important quick change would take place. Ms. Colleen had put the Show Group’s big number, “Big Spender,” right after my fancy dance solo, so I had to get moving. I mean, I couldn’t stay on stage for my solo AND a group number, because a fifteen-year-old performing “Big Spender” alongside other thirteen- to seventeen-year-olds in front of dads, uncles, and begrudging family friends in THE SAME high-cut costume as for her solo, well, that would just be weird and make everyone uncomfortable.

  So, in stepped Kath Barber once again, with her handy sequinning skills. The device normally used for a QCC was a tearaway (a piece of clothing that is held together with a piece of Velcro—think the Chippendales but with more body hair). There was usually a skirt that was added or taken from a costume for a quick change. Only, you guys, mine wasn’t a tearaway. My mum thought of it all! It was a Lycra skirt that I could just step into
during the ever-important and overemphasized quick change. The skirt had a tiny slit on the front right side, which she had also sequined in alternating black and silver, in keeping with the whole theme of the night: my night.

  I was SO focused on my solo, and just as focused on the placement of the black Lycra-bedazzled skirt and split-sole jazz shoes I would wear in “Big Spender.” I had decided that I would place my skirt and jazz shoes on the ground just offstage.

  Two years earlier, our end-of-year concert had been upgraded from the local services club down the road to Jupiter’s Casino on the sunny Gold Coast, and it was next level: a full-blown casino that tourists and rich old men looking for foreign wives would flock to. I’m not sure if it was because we were now the official Johnny Young Talent School that we were treated to end-of-year concerts at the casino, but I think the dance school’s namesake and the casino were as dodgy as each other, so it just makes sense.

  Each year we would have a different emcee for our concerts. One year it was Humphrey B. Bear (think Dumbo or any other mute children’s character that is a stupid choice to host a concert), another year it was Ms. Colleen’s son Brad, and another year it was our singing teacher. I always dreamed of being that emcee; I thought of this position as being much like when a Saturday Night Live cast member comes back to host, something I really wanted and aspired to do.

  This year we had some random old local entertainer. I’m sure he was a great pimp back in the ’20s, and what seemed like the natural progression of his career was to then host nightly trivia on cruise ships and emcee at kids’ dance concerts.

  So, my costumes were set, I had just finished—sorry, SLAYED—my solo, and I ran offstage, dodging my fellow not-so-professional teenage dancers as they made their way on with chairs and random feather boas, and looked for my carefully placed gear.