Pas De Deux

Odette stands in the spotlight of the “Swan Lake” ballet, a ballerina who is cursed to remain a swan. To be stuck in an animalic form, albeit one of beauty, is not a blessing. Deception and malice lace her tale with tragedy. A pure heart has transformative power, but the true question is whether it can overcome vulnerability and emerge as a force to be reckoned with.

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Act I: danse des petits cygnes

My childhood bedroom is a palette of pink. It would be plastered on the front page of a girly teen magazine as the everyday princess’s dream. A porcelain music box rests upon my bed frame, a pristine ballerina at its center. With some elbow grease, she spins in place, accompanied by an eerie, off-key rendition of “Swan Lake.” I have always entertained the idea of being a ballerina: Nothing makes me feel more like myself than embracing girlhood, and I saw the ballerina as a perfect symbol of femininity. I give all my plushies female names and paint them as independent women. Their quintessential fairytale ending is simply achieving their dream job, becoming rich and living happily with their best friends, reflecting my own conception of paradise. Being a girl is all I have ever known how to be and I never feel the need to entertain an alternative. 

“Con ơi, come help Mom!”

My mother’s voice wrenches the door of my fortress of solitude open. I smooth out my blush pink nightgown and cast one last look at my porcelain ballerina before I shut the door behind me. 

—

As a child, I was obsessed with frilly dresses — the more ruffles and layers, the better. Embedded in each ruffle was my childlike optimism in the frivolity of being a girl. The younger me fell in love with all things traditionally feminine and opted for strictly girly characters to fixate on. It was very much a “no boys allowed” type of existence, albeit unintentionally. I never had a tomboy phase and am a product of the “unconsciously heteronormative ally to realized queer woman exploring gender expression” pipeline. As I got older, I stepped away from viewing archetypically feminine clothing as synonymous with my personal gender identity. My appearance can help me embrace my identity as a woman, but it is a state of mind more than anything. Testing the waters of androgyny has been my safe haven for examining how I want to flourish in my girlhood. Androgyny is not an alternative to femininity, but rather an avenue for exploring gender expression without sacrificing my identification of being a woman. Playing dress-up is not just a childhood pastime, it seems.

—

Pure white feathers adorn my figure. My pointe shoes are spotless and reflect a shine resembling smooth, unmarred glass. I stare fixedly at the mirrored wall surrounding me on all sides. My eyes are calm and bright as I polish off each assemblé and pirouette. Sweat creeps onto my skin and my brows furrow as I coerce my muscles into completing my choreography. I cannot discard the paranoia that clings to me like a shadow. I know I am far from perfection and being cognizant of that flaw is the fuel that I depend on to feel alive.

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Act II: odette’s curse

To be an eldest daughter is to sacrifice your childhood. You’re not really a little kid as much as you are an adult-in-training. You’re actually growing up too slowly. You should have already known everything since you were in the womb; you just needed to inhale your first breath to set the chain of dominos in motion. Sometimes you find yourself haphazardly applying your own bandaids, preparing dishes that barely resemble a meal, bearing the pounce of discipline aimed to hit their target and holding your own hand through every child’s simultaneous greatest fear and shiny playground: the unknown. Nothing to bat an eye about. These are simply tenets of a modified childhood on a fast track to proving that you are useful, that you deserve the life you exhale from your lungs. 

Mom remains the reigning matriarch and I am purely her successor, trying on the invisible crown, sometimes against my will. I live and breathe to be a lady, whatever that means. My tone of voice is light, my speed of speech is controlled, my every movement the epitome of grace. However, to be a lady does not mean to be naive. Never that. I’m a lady, not an idiot. I’m supposed to know how to solve life’s every problem and never succumb to pressure from anyone or anything. This wisdom is unspoken and meant to be inherited instinctually. Live and learn, pursue perfection and always know my purpose. Time is not meant to be wasted and each minute is an opportunity to do something of value. Read those books, learn those skills, make mom proud, be my own guardian. Never let a tear slip, read mom’s mind, avoid the consequences of any innate foolishness, anticipate every mistake so that I simply do not make them. Who has the time to waste on relishing in youthful indiscretion? “Earn your place” is the mantra I cannot get rid of. 

—

Swans protect their babies fiercely. Kill their unhatched eggs and the mother dies from grief. The parents mate with the goal of staying together until death, making swans the perfect nuclear family. Swans are animals of flight, although they are often seen on land, and they teach their young how to stay alive. This warmth is physical and metaphorical. They live for their children unconditionally; simply their existence is enough to create life-sustaining joy. The swan’s beauty and grace is depicted by Tchaikovsky in his renowned “Swan Lake.” Being a swan is a cursed existence in the play, and the black swan is a symbol of evil while the protagonist remains the innocent white swan. 

I like to think that my own mother embodies a swan-like love and protectiveness over me, our beautiful existences sustaining each other. However, flight and warmth were learned from scrounging for clues and adhering to instinct rather than affectionately taught. The nuclear family image is shattered in its fragile frame. My heuristics eliminated the second-nature impulse to seek mom for help. I bend and spin and twirl and leap, and yet the heart of my choreography yearns for my existence to be enough. Who do I live for, and could it be that it’s not for me? 

Despite my everlasting existentialism, I have established my place as the man of the house. Standing at 5 feet 2 inches tall with nonexistent upper body strength and no “masculine” credentials to my name whatsoever, I am a fountain of knowledge, the bodyguard, the conqueror. I played it by ear and did what I could: Documents I somewhat made sense of by setting aside my 5th grade math homework, scrubbing each kitchen floor tile spotless, washing all the dishes, rearranging the furniture when mom felt like it, shoveling the snow, mowing the lawn, translating for mom as she stood behind me. Just me and mom. I mentally collect gold stars for every success in making my mom’s life easier, as it translates to making my life easier. When I pause my Sisyphean task for a moment, I realize that it is sort of strange how I feel a sense of power from this role. It does nothing for me to be the self-ordained “man”. My mom always remarks on the necessity of having a male presence, implying that a family simply cannot function without one. It doesn’t matter how much I help or what I accomplish, as I will never be anything more than a daughter.

When it is time for bed and the house is silent and I can hear my mom’s soft breathing that signals her slumber, the reflection I see in the mirror changes from mighty patriarch to just me. It feels like I am removing a costume that is three sizes too big and hanging it on the hook situated by my bedroom door, going to bed and waking up to the same responsibilities I bestowed upon myself. Past all my gold-star successes, I imagine that when my mom looks at me, she no longer sees a white swan but a black one, sleek black feathers framing eyes of red. 

—

I am scared to love. I am destined to perform. I face my audience and put on a brave face, betraying none of the fear that overpowers my consciousness. It feels like I am splitting at the seams. How can I be sure that I am not cracking at the surface like a porcelain doll, irreparable damage that is not sensed before the point of destruction? My mind must be playing tricks on me as I see blood dot my white feathers and stain the pure white of my gown. I scan the crowd for familiar faces. I begin my dance, and the blood continues to flow, ever so slightly.

—

Act III: odette and siegfried

Holding hands becomes quite scary when the hand you are holding is your girlfriend’s and you are surrounded by people you don’t know. I feel the most like a woman when I am with other women: Womanhood keeps me tethered to sanity. I feel safe and free to own my individuality and express my idiosyncratic version of being a woman. Therefore, I should feel elated and free when I am with my partner, but there is an undetachable anxiety that a tap on the shoulder brings me face-to-face with … with who? God? My mom? A homophobe (are all three the same … )? Paranoia turns me ice cold and I wait for the hidden cameras to appear. Ignorant bliss is a sedative and I cannot say that I am sober. It is hard to fathom why happiness always remains somewhat contingent on all that is not within my control. 

Life is one never-ending performance and my synapses feel singed. The wall of mirrors has managed to lose my reflection in the flurry of facades I have carefully created. Unsurprisingly, being a daughter, sister, partner, student and artist all contain multitudes that intersect but are not identical. Maybe I have let pieces of me escape into the ether in exchange for slipping under the radar and avoiding scrutiny. My security in being a woman feels fictitious when queerness is scorned and equated to debarment from heaven. My wings feel clipped, my hands feel unclean, my performance feels sloppy. Even if I adhere to a perfect act, I never stop feeling like I am fraudulent despite mastering assimilation. Sometimes I slip into feeling less than a woman, and therefore less than a person. My cocktail of guilt, anguish and exhaustion propels me to continue the masquerade without touching upon the territory I have decided to ignore. My fingers are scared to be scorched and I shamelessly admit that I choose to flee rather than fight. 

I look back at the wall of mirrors and take a moment to gaze at every fraction of my being. My outline is finally etched in solid black as opposed to a wavering gray. Feeling whole is a rare sensation but I let myself bask in it without destroying it prematurely. I swear I see droplets of blood on my scapula. I touch and pull away, and my hand is clean and bloodless. I heave a sigh of relief. I thank my every vertebrae. At least I still have my body and my heart and they will carry me to the end. What that end looks like is completely lost on me, but I stubbornly hang onto my resolve. Perhaps I am not heeding the cautionary tale of Icarus, but I have only ever gotten small, safe gulps of sunshine. Perfection — or perhaps its twin, blind ambition — feels obtainable and I starve for it. 

—

The porcelain ballerina, though scuffed and far from pristine, spins on her axis as “Swan Lake” sets the tune for her eternal choreography. She appears in my mind like a vision as I lace up my pointe shoes and accept the reflection of raven feathers that greets me in the mirror. I may be a different person, defying even my own imagination, but perhaps that is the way things are supposed to be. Performance must uplift me and so if it restrains my happiness, then it is not worth devoting my life to. I have traded in a loss of innocence for a chance at freedom and I refuse to meet my demise or disillusionment.     

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Act IV: pas de deux

At center stage, the spotlight sears into my skin. Fear, once internalized and woven into every sinew of muscle, is impossible to chase down and destroy. And love —  love feels like the easiest act in the world, but becomes inexplicably more difficult when the recipient is myself. I have stepped onto this stage countless times that my footprints are etched invisibly into the floor, but my wishful thinking says that this time feels different. It feels fresh, simmering with an energy that I cannot pinpoint, perhaps an opportunity for me to earn my own approval. Tchaikovsky’s “Pas de Deux” lays the foundation for my performance today, a rather unusual choice, as a pas de deux is a dance for two. I seek remedy for my separation of the self and place my hopes in this duet, performed solely by me. 

In the ballet sphere, Tchaikovsky’s compositions are a ballerina’s dream, or maybe more of an unavoidable destiny. They tell stories without words, often in vignettes teeming with emotion and swelling in a crashing wave of orchestral cacophony. Immersion into his work is second nature and every note carries me where I need to go, the directions taking the form of lullaby-soft measures or massive crescendos. Perhaps I see his trajectory of success as an inspiration: “Swan Lake” started off as a failure, and yet in due time, it became a paramount success. That satisfaction of carving out a place in the world all one’s own must be gratifying. Success is not linear and maintains an elusive air. I have worked tirelessly to allow myself to welcome my own success. It is first necessary to discard the remnants of obligation and obedience, of inadequacy and failure. Owning every aspect of my being to my heart’s content is the respect I deserve, but something I am hesitant to deal out. 

Every face fades away into black and the orchestra remains my tether to reality. Every move I make is deliberate as I open myself up to the world, vulnerability contained by my costume. I think of the ballerina seated atop my bed frame and how she is a distant memory laced with nostalgia. I do not wish to be immortalized in my most perfect, ivory form; I wish to welcome the weight of the world without fear. My innocence and my authority are mine to keep. I dissect power from performance and render it a mode of expression that extends who I am rather than replacing me. I allow my fear to prance as it pleases, its effects somewhat dulled by an unexplainable elation. I feel as if I have taken the largest exhale, depleting me of the weight that has perpetually trampled me. My body flits between white and black feathers as I perform my transcendent choreography, as if there are two of me enraptured in a simultaneous synchronicity and sparring match. My movements contain multitudes, tranquility set against tumult. 

Iridescent ribbons of black enrobe me as I settle into my final pose, my feathers a bold obsidian and my tiara unfettered. The applause of the crowd is deafening, and I realize this is the first time I have felt as close to perfection as can be. My final foe is who I see in the mirror, not who I discern in the audience. It would be easy to say that this performance was the catharsis I needed, the culmination of all my sweat and tears — but life is seldom that simple. My reflection feels more like a familiar friend than a formidable enemy but a sense of apprehension remains. I accept that time is a necessary antidote for all the poison I have internalized, which is a difficult pill to swallow. At the least, there is security in knowing that neither the tragedy of Odette nor the fall of Icarus has to be the finale I conceive for myself. 

MiC Senior Editor Nghi Nguyen can be reached at nghi@umich.edu.

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