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Al-Ahram Weekly 21 - 27 October 1999 Issue No. 452 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 21 - 27 October 1999 Issue No. 452
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Profile Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters The Blue Danube
By Fayza Hassan
I don't believe that young children have a clear perception of the way they look, even if they have ample opportunity to see themselves in the mirror. The image is slowly created as they grow up, through the opinions of others and by comparison. Although I vaguely suspected that I was a big child, the reality of my chubbiness did not hit me fully -- until Ophelia danced into my life.
I had not been at school during the first term, since my family always returned quite late in the autumn from our extended holidays in Europe. Nor had I noticed any new girls in the orderly lines that proceeded quietly into their classrooms at 8.00am sharp; but an hour later, as a change of teachers was taking place, the classroom door was flung open and an apparition literally danced towards the first row of desks, which were reserved for the tinier and/or brighter members of our grade. Being neither one nor the other at the time, I had been relegated to the back of the room with the older girls.
The new girl -- whom I immediately, secretly, named Ophelia -- had long, blond, perfectly straight hair flowing down her back, and was actually wearing pink dancing slippers with her uniform. She walked in on points and did a perfect pirouette before settling down at her desk, where she proceeded to change her shoes and plait her mane. Later, I discovered that the class had been taking ballet lessons once a week, in view of a performance of the Blue Danube, which was to grace our end-of-year prize-giving ceremony.
Oddly, at that point, it never occurred to me that I would not fit in the ballet. Somehow, I figured that once raised on point shoes, I would not look very different from the gracious little girl who had captured my imagination. I cannot explain how this idea took root in my mind, but it is with much trepidation that I waited for the following Thursday, when I would be introduced to our Russian ballet teacher, Madame Raskaya. Wearing a worn-out skirt, a black turban poised on her unruly reddish hair, Madame Raskaya took one look at me and ordered me to the back, where the "big" girls stood against the wall. Although I shared a desk with them in the classroom, I had not, to this time, fully identified with them. I could see that they were bulky and awkward -- I was not, I told myself quickly. Or was I? Madame Raskaya seemed to think so. She was handing ballet shoes to two petite girls and, looking at my group, shouted, "you there, the big ones, you can keep your school shoes on." I had no time to mull over these disturbing occurrences, because she ordered us into the middle of the room, where she showed us the routine we would be called upon to execute. When we began to move, I was immediately reminded of a stampede of elephants. There was no way, I told myself, I would be part of this farce. Even though I could not see myself in a mirror, I felt deeply ridiculous, not so much because I did not know the steps and practically tripped over my own feet, but because, for the first time in my life, I became fully conscious of the action of gravity on my body. The blond little girl had been made of the stuff of angels. Had she simply flown into the classroom on that first day, I would not have been particularly surprised. I, on the other hand, was made of vulgar, heavy mud. "Come on, lift that leg," roared Madame Raskaya, prodding me with her ruler. That was really too much. I ran away sobbing, bumping into "Ophelia", who was waltzing in at the same moment, and almost knocking her over.
My mother did her best to repair my shattered self-image. Madame Raskaya came to our home to give me private lessons. She made sure to compliment me profusely on whatever little progress I was able to make. I still refused to be part of the school ballet, forcing my mother to provide me with a medical certificate which would exempt me from attending ballet classes.
I don't remember clearly what happened next. Maybe the ballet lessons were discontinued; maybe the apparition changed schools. I never forgot the moment of truth where I was confronted with my true self, however.
Years later, as I was watching my baby daughter play at the club playground, a rather fat, not very attractive woman approached me. "I think that we were at the Lycée together, don't you remember me?" she said with a smile. I stared at her blankly for a couple of seconds, then it suddenly came back to me. She was my Ophelia, the star of the Blue Danube. "You cut you hair," I stammered stupidly.
