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Why do we feel the need to call dance a sport? To somehow justify it?

If anyone questions our wish to commit to a childhood steeped in dance training, with a dream of becoming professional, here are some thoughts we can bring to the table.

Roughly 90 or 100% of dancers who attend ‘company’ affiliated pre-professional dance schools will likely become professional dancers.

Roughly 10% of dancers at regular dance studios will likely become professional. Roughly 10% of all professional dancers have an Arts Degree.

Now let’s compare these statistics to sport. Which people have no problem investing in.

Youth ice hockey players have roughly less than a 0.11% chance to play in the National Hockey League

Roughly 0.6% high school baseball players will get drafted by a Major League Baseball team.

Roughly 0.04% high school basketball players will get drafted by a National Basketball Association team 

Also, we have a habit of claiming that a dancers career is short, yet the average NHL player plays on average 4.5 years. The average NBA career, also 4.5 years.

The average professional dancer can perform for 25 years. As a career: teaching, coaching, mentoring; directing; choreographing til our chosen retirement age, we can continue for a lifetime.

I truly believe investing in any childhood Sport is worthy.

It is hugely valuable for children, regardless if they will go pro or not.

I just think could we be taking dance just as seriously.

Interesting ..what are your thoughts?

• STATS sourced from-
• hockeyanswered.com
• dunkorthree.com.
• hometeamsonline.co
• stickhandlingpro.com
• danceparent101.com

The dance studio becomes a microcosm of the real world.

Everything that happens in those tiny four walls becomes the most important situation in a child’s mind.

“Daddy, Kalya is always given a solo and I’m not, why Daddy why?” “Ruthie has one too daddy….why did Ruthie get one and I didnt?”

Parents what can we do?

Encourage the child to think about why they want a solo. What’s the point of them anyway? If they are adamant they need one in their life…let them do the talking. If a child asks the teacher directly, “I’d really like some feedback so I can work on myself and be given the opportunity of a solo in the future”.

I recommend that we do not complain to the Director and demand the same for our child without discussing it first.

What do our children learn if we are quick to complain? Someone will rescue them? ….that rushing and fast forwarding the hard work will somehow be satisfying?

This is the truth…Kayla might quit in 2 years, Ruthie may become a firefighter or Doctor and the comparison to them won’t have mattered.

What matters is our own child’s experience. You see, comparison is a joythief.

We all know this really. Keeping up with the Joneses is exhausting and a complete waste of time.

So what really matters?

The child’s own journey and if it suits them. Self advocating and speaking up is important too.

Teachers will happily explain to us why a child isn’t ready for a solo. Why they made the decision they made. There will be a valid reason.

Psst. I’ll tell you a helpful secret now. Solos aren’t ‘all that’ anyway!

Dancing with a group is waaaaay more fulfilling and challenging. Life is rarely made up of situations where we have to face things alone. Life is made up of groups of people, families and colleagues. Learning to work in a group is way more beneficial as a life lesson.

In a professional gig….it is super rare that a dancer will dance alone on a stage. Dancers are part of a chorus, part of a bigger picture. Dancers are beautiful as a group. Life is beautiful in a group.

What a waste of energy to feel hard done by…as if one is missing out, on being alone.

Let kids dance for the sake of dancing. If the studio is a microcosm of the real world then learning to work with others is the most valuable tool we’ll accumulate anyway.

Solos are overrated. Life is richer with others by our side.

“I know what will be a great idea”! They said. “Performing outside on the Lido deck”! They said.

It’s December 1999…This Cruise Ship contract runs right through Christmas and New Year. We simply have to mark the occasion, it’s about to become the year 2000!

So, head office send us VHS tapes of our Christmas Show and new Year Show. It’s a grainy video, featuring all the characters that work at the top. They’ve choreographed a quick, fabulous, cheesy show to be performed in the afternoons over the Christmas Cruise. Plus a New Year ‘spectacular’ to be performed outside 10 mins before midnight running up to the big moment.

Have you ever been on a Cruise Ship at Christmas? Do you know who sails then? All the Ba humbugs, the family outcasts, or the people who are trying to ESCAPE Christmas.

So you can imagine. We are all donned in out little santa outfits, bopping around to ‘Jingle bell rock and ‘Rockin around the christmas tree’. To an audience that are miserable. They are not interested. Oh apart from when we throw free toys at the end of the show. The mobs were real. Christmas spirit? I don’t think so….”Mine, mine, mine” they yelled like a bunch of seagulls scavenging for the last crumb of a sandwich.”

We arrive at New Years Eve however, it’s about to turn to the year 2000.

New. Years. Eve.

So here we come, prepped and ready with a few bangers. “We will rock you” …and “1999” etc.

We have been rehearsing for about a month. We are all dressed in new costumes.The show begins…..

…and it’s chaos.

We are outside. Fireworks are prepped and the passengers are, how can I put it, ‘wasted’. Within 2 minutes of our first number, the makeshift stage is SWAMPED with people. Passengers swarm us….joining in, dancing, yelling, picking us up and swinging us round.

Help!

So what is one to do?

We abort.

We let the music play and. we. run.

Who can blame the passengers? Who wants to watch a bunch of dancers in tacky costumes, step clap to Queen?? Ha.

So. We became part of the crowd and watched the chaos ensue.

5,4,3,2,1….Happy New Year!

Remember….things do not always go as planned. Sometimes you just have to say fuck it and give in.

Were the rehearsals a waste of time? Maybe. Was it one of the most memorable nights of my life? Yes. It was magic.

It’s 12th September 2001. The Ship is dark in mood as we have all watched the twin towers destroyed the day before.

This is the day the ship I was on, decided to list (lean) due to most powerful high winds and swirling currents I had ever experienced in my 4 year Cruise Ship Career.

We careened sideways over and over again. Everything sliding off the shelves, TV sets came crashing down to the floor, glasses toppled over and smashed as if it was hailing indoors.

This is where the ludicrous idea of Cruise Staff being used as bomb searchers was put into place. We were all instructed to search the ship for bombs.

The Cruise Director called us all to his office. “After you’re done your bomb search, you have to go out and calm down the passengers. They all think there’s an attack on the Ship! Dress up, look glamorous and buy them all drinks on us. For God’s sake don’t wear your Life Vests it will scare the passengers”

We were terrified and sent to the wolves. Meanwhile Officers ran around confused and stressed (wearing life vests I might add) as furniture slid from one end of the ship to the other. You couldn’t walk without gripping onto anything bolted down. The ship would list so far, full windows were blocked out by deep Ocean.

We teetered about in our our stupid little uniforms. Gritting our teeth and reassuring passengers, fake smiles plastered on our faces.

How conditioned we were to ‘do as we were told’.

One of the American dancers had come running out of her cabin distraught, she was worried for her family and her Cabin was being destroyed by heavy objects crashing to the floor. She came out into the hallway hysterical.

I will never forget the disrespect we received the next day.

The Captain called an entire Staff and crew meeting. He commended the Officers for their swift action on keeping the ship upright and reassured us that the listing was due to weather only, not afterall, an attack on the Ship. He then decided to point out, in a little laughing quip, how the dancers were ‘silly’, distressing those around us because one of us was crying in the hallway. This dancer was 19 years old.

This is when I put my arm around that dancer, stood and said to my Cruise Director. Excuse me, but the Captain can ‘Suck my Dick’. (I know, I know…but it’s such a lovely expletive)!

I left the meeting.

I was known for my little outspoken rants. The misogyny and hierarchy on ships was fucking outrageous. My Mum raised me well. Fuck that. I will NOT have young dancers ridiculed under my watch. (Sweary Alice was in full effect).

I was not particularly popular with the Ship’s authority figures, I did not tow the line. I always stood up myself and other younger dancers.

The moral of this story? Be loud, stand your ground and don’t always do as you are told.

Carmina Burana, composed by Carl Orff, choreographed by Janet Sinclair.

I was privileged enough to play a principal role in this incredible production. Our Guest Artist and my partner, was a soloist from The Scottish Ballet Company. I was 16 or 17 yrs old.

I remember this show was a big deal. We had a live Orchestra and performed ‘on the round’ …This means the audience are in front, both sides and behind you. We had a live choir too. It was a spectacular production.

I was surrounded by terrific dancers, I felt the weight of my privilege and worked really hard during rehearsals. There was one particular pas de deux that I loved, I still remember most of the choreography.

We would start on opposite corners and run towards each other. We would run past each other, catching our hands behind our back to come to a beautiful halt. Then Pas de deux lifts and sequence would begin.

Now picture this; Rehearsals were complete….It is opening night.

I had a good friend at the time, who was supportive and kind. She thought it would be a good idea to help calm me down before the show began. My nerves were all over the place!

This is when, I first tried weed.

She offered me a few pulls of this lovely hot, smokey joint. For some bizarre reason, I thought it would be a fantastic idea! “It’ll totally calm you down” she says.

Well fuck.

I was an absolute mess.

I remember my entrance…..my friends and other cast members, after seeing me stumble out of the bathrooms, had decided to gather in the wings to help me through it. (Or laugh at the incredible train wreck that was about to happen).

The world was a blur. Whooooah, Wheeeeee. This was going to be fun.

I began the run toward my partner (the Guest Soloist no less) in what felt like slow motion.

Of course I missed his hand.

My hand flapped around aimlessly and I had the most bizarre sensation that meant I couldn’t move my face.

I wavered around trying to find his hand and remember trying to make an expression. Some sort of movement. Anything! I stared at my friends in the wings.

I could see them mouthing “Smile! Arabesque, arabesque!” They looked panic stricken.

I don’t really remember the rest of the show, just that I had to truly concentrate hard to make one leg move in front of the other. What a disaster!

It was only by the curtain Call, when the full length ballet was coming to the end….that I started to come out of my fog.

What.the.fuck.

Ah, bless me. Bless the young, stupid me.

Oh, and apparently this is on video somewhere. In the archives. Haha, I would love to see it, would I? Or should it stay right there. Young, hilarious, foolish me trapped on a VHS tape.

Hope you enjoyed my tale of humiliation.

Let this be a lesson to you.

Maybe stage fright is best left alone.

As the outdoor, wobbly walk way to the backstage area creaked and groaned beneath our feet, the Bull Frogs would wake up and start to sing like a chorus of Tubas; promb, promb, prommmp.

It was Thailand – Phuket in the 1990s. We were living in a deserted hotel on Karon beach. Being tuk-tuk’d to work everyday, we would arrive at the luxurious Meridian Hotel on the beach. The entranced yawning under it’s statuesque vaulted ceilings.

Buried deep beneath the pristine guest area was the underground passages for the staff. We would find our dressing room.

Did ‘Arm’ (our seamstress) clear the snakes out of the way before we entered? yes.

Did a mice eat our pointe shoes? yes.

Did we pass baby elephants occasionally on there way to the pool side to entertain the guest? Unfortunately, also yes.

Once vocal warm up and make up were complete, we donned our Cast robes. We would then gather our pre-sets in a woven basket and make our way to the stage.

The stage was a grand and austere affair, floating on top of an enormous wrap around swimming pool. Between us and the dinner guests (our audience), was a moat that glittered under the stage lights.

We performed in the extreme, oppressive heat under the moonlit sky. Praying Mantis would land directly by our sides, attracted to the spotlight. Big, lazy millipedes the size of sausages would lethargically ripple over our feet if we stood still too long.

The audience were terrible, too busy eating (and it’s not customary to be loud, so their spasmodic claps were barely audible).

The fireworks at the end of every Friday show were spectacular. The last performance on our run, sweat soaked, we all decided to jump from our bow, straight off the front of stage, into the pool. Donned in our “Chorus Line” costumes…(the hats were ruined) we emerged bedraggled with makeup running down our faces.

It seemed like a great idea to cause a big splash, but the anticlimax of us all spluttering and very slowly swimming to the backstage area, in silence, was so funny.

Ah Thailand. You were a gift.

Debutants sway in rich blues, pinks and golds. Chaps arrive, dapper in their tuxedos. The coveted VIP passes swing around our necks as we are ushered to a temporary shed-like shack behind the scenes.

It’s the infamous Cambridge May Ball, 1989. We are ready, hours of rehearsals behind us, in our lustrous Can Can costumes. Thick with petticoats and ribbed tight with boned corsets, the bond just as tight among us. We warm up by drinking stolen bottles of Champagne (they DID leave them lying around for the taking, what can one do?)

We wait for hours stretching (drinking) and peeking through the makeshift curtains, forbidden from being seen. We see the rolling hills filled with tipsy University students. Was it King’s College, Clare’s or Trinity?… I don’t remember, they are all the same…rich in history, pomp and circumstance.

As we finally hear the first onstage call, we are met with raucous cheers….”Ta daa tatatata daaa da tatatata….” The Can- Can music roars as we run in whooping and yelling.

It’s show one of four that night. It’s a riot. We push through the arduous choreography, again and again, leaping from cartwheels to splits, making the Can Can leg cathedral to whoops and awe. The relationship between audience and us is magical. Caught in time.

The shows continue, more champagne is drunk and each performance becomes more and more frenzied, us and the audience alike. Until the last one, where we are finally allowed to don our fancy dress and join the frey. Rubbing shoulders with the hoity toity.

The night is long and full. We weave through the archways and old stone buildings stepping over inebriated bodies scattered around campus. We dance to D.J’s playing 89’s best tunes by Lil Louis, Ce Ce Rogers, 808 state and more classics hand picked by Danny Rampling and the like. Memories are made until the birds start to sing and the sky turns pink.

Time to make our way home. The lanyards are taken and the night is done. Our bodies are sore and the sweat dries, we chug Red Bull and walk home arm in arm, through the beautiful City of Cambridge. Passed the River Cam, the Market Square, Mill Road and home.

The night has passed, a moment in time, yet memory lives forever. Thank you May Ball, you were a special one.

Being off work while coming off one medicine and going on to a bunch of others, dosing up down, up, down is not fun, it’s wild.

For anyone out there who has had mental struggles, been on a forced leave of absence with no purpose, no routine, no connection. I see you. What a challenge it is, to be with oneself whilst ill.

Yet, this blog has been so cathartic and a positive part of my recovery. I’m so stupidly grateful for all of you that take the time to read it. It has been a lifeline.

To feel connected to my students and their families. To stay connected to my theatre family and family overseas has been lovely.

So the good news is, I’m beginning to feel WAY better. Small steps but gorgeous, happy skippy ones!

I still have so much to offer the world, I think. I still have so much stuff in my crowded brain that I want to share with kids to help them move forward in their careers and lives…and this bloggy thing gives me an outlet.

You see, I’ve experienced alot and truly want to impart whatever wisdom (and cynicism) that has been gifted to me through my hardships and successes.

I really don’t think I know more than everyone else, I just feel what I do know might be helpful to youngsters. So I write.

Anyway, this is just a little blurb to thank you all. You’ve been a real source of comfort.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and enjoy however you celebrate.

Enjoy time with family and know that I’m really bloody grateful. You’re all terrific. Here’s to 2023 being a truly new beginning, can’t wait!

P.s. Here’s a pic of me and my Mum, is it any wonder that I’m a nutter. (She is also the reason I am resilient).

The ray of light, the empath, the joker, the carer.
We hear so often…”But they were so happy?! How shocking…not them surely?”
Yet everyone I know who has battled with suicidal thoughts…has been the most generous, warm, smiley, gregarious human.
I find….in general, people who are riddled with mental illness are often, also, full of life and humour.
“I mustn’t complain, I mustn’t bring people down, everyone else has problems too, no-one wants to listen to my moaning. I need to make sure everyone is ok….life is difficult enough, make em’ laugh, make em’ laaaaugh”.

I once new a particularly beautiful soul. He was the ‘life of the party’. In Fact he was planning a huge party the last time I saw him. “Please come.” he said, “It’s next Thursday, everyone I love will be there”.

He was found that night having died by suicide.

He had been planning his own funeral.

————————–

Language matters.

We do not say ‘commit suicide’.
We say “Death by suicide.”

Suicide is the result of being extremely ill. No-one in their rational mind would be able to go through with it. It takes a very poorly brain. Like a friend who truly believes they are doing the best thing for everyone else. It takes over. “Let me release the burden you are on others” it says.

Suicide is a result of desperate pain and anguish and illness.

It IS the ‘happy people’, unable to express sadness for fear of upsetting others. It is the funny people, wanting to make everyone in the room full of joy.

It is a human act, by humans who are desperately ill.

How complex we are.

Let’s continue to learn, talk and share. Let’s continue to change the language around suicide and mental illness. Let’s continue to reassure the ‘happy’ people, they’re not a burden when they’re sad.

Let’s grieve and learn together.

Boys who dance grow up respecting women. Boys who dance can lift women above their heads. Boys who dance are resilient and so, so tough. The amount of ridicule and bullying they endure…but they do it anyway. They brush off so much bullshit to stand strong and turn up at a dance studio.

It doesn’t help them, the way some dance studios present dance to little ones. Names like ‘Tiny tots ballet’ and ‘Little ballerinas’ is off putting for those parents that are trepidatious about putting their boys in dance. How about adding photos of boys in the promotion material? Adding names like ‘ tots movement class’ and ‘dance for kids’.

It’s the perception of male identifying youth in dance that can be warped. It’s up to parents to offer dance to their sons as well as daughters. It’s up to parents to be braver.

We are all born dancing.

Dance is non-binary

Why do we stop boys from enjoying it?

It is all in how the family unit perceives it.

Some cultures insist on bringing out a guitar after dinner…the whole family dance. Some cultures celebrate dance as a family.

Unfortunately, here in Western culture , men are so often restricted to being drunk at a wedding before they get up and let loose. (….and oh man, do they let loose).

We still have work to do in North America re-male identifying youth in dance. let’s do better.

What’s it like where you live?

….and that is the question. Do we need the world to go around faster? Or should slow down and take the time to reflect on certain aspects of teaching children?

I’m talking in particular today, about ‘consent to adjust’. Not just in dance, but in all physical activities for children.

I personally think adjusting students manually and spotting them during pas de deux, is vital to their development and safety. I was physically adjusted, poked, prodded, aided and it helped me understand my own movement hugely. I can honestly say 99% of the adjustments I received were methodical, kind and felt safe and entirely necessary.

Then there is that 1%. I had one teacher as a young teen, who felt unsafe. This teacher was ‘creepy’ I cannot put my finger on it. I knew it felt wrong when they touched me.

However, I had never even considered that I had a right to ask not to be touched by them in particular. I never even considered that I had any rights atall, this was an adult and I was under their supervision. I went along with it. It still brings a sense of discomfort to this day, whenever I think of this teacher.

So what is the answer? How do we navigate this in youth activities that rely on physical touch?

I just know, that around the time of the ‘me too’ movement, I began asking youth, before I adjusted them. I realised I was now the trusted adult. I began to describe the corrections verbally instead, in much more detail.

It hit me like a tonne of bricks. I need to ask each and every child before I manually adjust them. I needed to tell them exactly what I was doing and why. I needed to discuss adjustments and let them know when I approached them that I was going to ‘hold their head and neck in place’, or ‘lift their foot out of their pointe shoe’.

It’s been drilled into us, that touch is the only form of teaching a child how to ‘feel’ the safe physical way of doing an action.

In fact, Spotting is vital in acro and pas de deux. Therefore it needs to happen. Yet, we need to constantly remind the children in our care that they have right to say ‘no’.

Teachers, what are your thoughts on physical adjustments? Have you started to shift the way you teach?