Exceptional Student Work: 'When Ballet Was My Boyfriend, Partner, and Soulmate'

In which Travel Writing student Lynne Dillman revisits a difficult summer in Seattle

Photo by Thom Milkovic on Unsplash

It’s been a minute since I’ve had a chance to share work from a current student. This is my fault. It’s not like I haven’t gotten truly exceptional essays from folks taking my classes. But something about the incessant drumbeat of a quarter hasn’t given me time or pause to step back and think: Yes! This one.

Until now. It’s not like I’m feeling particularly chill. I am in fact head-spinningly scattered, more strung out than ever before. It’s unlike me. I forgot the exact week my sister was visiting. The other night I didn’t run the dishwasher. Somehow I thought it was a good idea to park the car in a tow zone starting at 11pm the night we attended an Ice Cube, Too Short, and E-40 show.

Still, I can’t not share this essay by Lynne Dillman. It’s rugged, gorgeous, inventive, and super worthy of your time.

Thanks for reading. And thanks for your patience.

Seattle, Washington 

By Lynne Dillman

In the summer of 2015, I booked a one-way flight to Seattle, Washington, armed with nothing other than a Claire’s wallet stuffed with petty cash from my parents and a dream: becoming a professional ballerina. I was 14, plucked from my hometown of Encinitas, California, and placed in a Seattle college dorm to participate in the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s five-week summer intensive program, one of America’s finest and most prestigious military boot camps for aspiring ballerinas. 

Being selected, I assured my adolescent brain, was my ticket to achieving everything I’ve ever wanted: fluffy pink tutus, Yumiko leotards in every imaginable color, golden stage lights, chaînés danced to the melodic magic of a live orchestra, and endless cheers from adoring fans. I would never have to go to college or, even worse, get a “real person” job. The rest of my life would be dedicated to nothing other than my boyfriend, my partner, and my soulmate: ballet. 

I learned quickly by my first day of classes that the path to ballerina stardom was not going to be so easy. Walking into my first class, my first observation was that I was, easily, the shortest person in the room. Even worse, I was the fattest. At 120 pounds, I could never compete with the girl standing at the front of the room whose hip bones were piercing through her skin, or the girl standing near the back corner who had a thigh gap so large her pelvis looked broken. 

Luckily, I made lots of friends in the program who were eager to help me with my problem. They taught me all about calorie counting and what foods to eat and which to avoid in the dining hall. They showed me which snacks in the dorm convenience store would help me stop my appetite and could even replace all my meals in one day. My favorite combination was a Red Bull and trail mix. One friend was eager to show me her room in which she kept neat lines of preserve jars on her desk, each filled with a different type of nut and dried fruit. I never saw her eat anything other than what was in those jars. 

Three weeks passed by and I had cut my weight by ten pounds, but that wasn’t nearly enough. There was still fat hanging off my inner thighs in clumps and cellulite lining the creases and crevices of my glutes. I began skipping classes, opting instead to lay in my dorm bed and stare at my ceiling, pinching different parts of my legs and stomach under the covers. I poked and prodded my skin until it turned black and blue, hoping that in the night it would fall off and disappear, but it never did. 

Rehearsals for the end-of-the-program performance came at the beginning of the fourth week. Rehearsing meant spending long hours standing en pointe, but even though my feet were in excruciating pain, I could feel nothing other than dread which surfaced with every glance at my whaleish body in the mirror. As I danced, my stomach wiggled with every pas de chat and grand jeté, incessantly taunting me. When rehearsals were over and I peeled my broken toenails off into ice buckets, I hoped all the blood I was losing would make me skinnier. 

Seattle is, I’ve been told, a beautiful place. I don’t remember the train I took home to San Diego with my mom after the program ended, but years later, she told me all about the stunning views we saw. Apparently, I liked all the trees the best—she made sure to prop my 100-pound body up against the window so I could watch the muted green colors whizz by. When the sun peaked through the clouds and lit up the inside of our train cabin, she said she could see the outline of the bones in my arms and chest shine under the golden light. I wish I could remember being on that train.