Legwarmers

When I was 5, my parents signed me up for ballet classes at the local dance studio. I came from an extended family of professional ballet dancers so you’d think I’d be the most kitted out kid in the class, but my parents were Californian non-conformists and this was the 1980s. I was sent off to the barre wearing multicolored, oversized, velour sweats so baggy you couldn’t even pull legwarmers over them.

My friend Todd from kindergarten was also signed up for the same class. His parents were Californian – and, by virtue of the fact they sent their son to ballet class, they too must have been nonconformists when it came to gender roles – but not for clothes. While I stumbled about in my bed sheet sized costume, Todd performed graceful ballet pliés and brisés, wearing nice 1980s tennis shorts and a slim-fitting tee, looking more like a ballet dancer than I could ever hope to in my clownish get-up.

My career as a ballet dancer never really took off – grinding to a halt at the end of my 5th year. I never returned.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if only I had been given a leotard, pointe shoes, tights, or at least a pair of legwarmers. Would I have become a dancer? Sometimes we just feel like a cowboy when we don the holster and Stetson, or like a princess when we crown ourselves with tiaras and weight ourselves down with enough long beaded necklaces to put Madame Arcati to shame. Our identity, or at least our perception of it, is at least partly shaped by the externals.

But it’s not all down to the costumes – the accessories – the props. After that wonderful velour get-up, I never did become a professional clown.