Dreams in the 5 Positions

Childhood dreams are complicated.

1st position

Sometimes dreams are shattered.

Like the lie,
“you can be ANYTHING YOU WANT when you grow up!”

I wanted to be a “Hi-Yah”
dancing in brightly beaded
ribbon fringed
and metal bangled leathers
to the steady beat of the gathering drum
and the clear pleading voices singing ‘Hi-Yah’ or ‘Yah-hey’ or anything my untrained ears could not translate.

I saw beautifully colored skin that could withstand the sun
unlike my freckled paleness which the sun baked into a genetic horror hybrid of tomato red and onion paper peels.

I was gifted pieces of this fantasy.
A leather fringe dress I would wear for days on end.
Summers living in a tee-pee.
A father who would trade with our Navajo friends
yet carve his own Kachina dolls.
A family-wide deep appreciation for a culture that wasn’t our own.

Despite whatever fantasies were available I could never BE a “Hi-Yah.”

I can grow in my appreciation, and grow to understand appropriation — feel sorrow for what my people stole and continue to unapologetically take.
I can attend a pow-wow,
but I cannot support my fellow fair-skinned wearing a headdress for the sake of fashion.
I can feel guilt over my wording — wanting to be a “Hi-Yah….”
And anger over others’ continued use of Re***in, or Sq***…

Shattered. Dream.

2nd position

Sometimes dreams are put on hold.

Like the day we lemonaded the fact that Daddy did the laundry.

You know what happens sometimes when DAD does the laundry?
Sure sheets and blankets needed washing, and who can blame him for his efficiency in doing them together?

He began so apologetic when our son’s gender appropriate sheets of airplanes and trucks and the things little boys are SUPPOSED to love
(just ask any pre-school toy or clothing designer)
had some side effects from the deep red comforter. Such sheets were not meant to be pink.

But they were pink!
And pink, claimed the preschooler, was his favorite color.

And now we had special unique sheets that could never be found on a store shelf.
Lemons into lemonade.
Daddy winning another moment of heroism.
Well done!

But then preschool taught him that pink was a girl color.
Girls were supposed to like pink.
Boys were supposed to like … well, not pink.
Or purple much, but certainly not pink.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter what Mom and Dad say.
(You can like whatever colors you want to like. There are no boy or girl colors.)
Peer pressure wins.
And it’s not like we ever purchased him pink toys or pink clothes.

We live by peer pressure too.

And so we let pink fizzle into orange. We lived in Corvallis, Oregon anyway.
Go Beaves!

Then came the day in second grade. It was right at the beginning of the year. That precious time when your reputation for the whole school year is set. And they did “get to know you” worksheets with FIFTH GRADE buddies. Yup the older, cooler kids.
No big deal, just browsing over the work brought home like any other day.
Favorite color?
PINK.
Not just pink,
but pink — told-to-the-fifth-grade-interviewing-boy-and-written-like-it-was-no-big-deal.

“And then Ahenoam said HIS favorite color was pink and I said MY favorite color was pink and can I have the pink lunch box for my lunch tomorrow?”

And purple is good too.
It will do when pink is not available.

I give him my pink lunch box, but I still don’t buy him pink shirts.
Since when did pink become so powerful?
(I don’t need you to answer that. I actually read the whole book that does.)

3rd position

Sometimes dreams are adjusted.

We wanted a girl.

So much so that I agreed to one. more. pregnancy.
I would put my body through that just one more time.
Had we been financially elite, yes, we probably would have gone to lengths to ensure a girl.
Wait.
Maybe not.
It doesn’t matter. That’s not what happened.

And dear Hazel, who’s name was chosen before we even married, never graced my womb.

But you know what?
Boys are awesome!
And they can like pink, too.
And dance if they want to.

If they want to.

5th position
Sometimes dreams are squashed because five-year-old boys who just want to make friends hear “EW!” from friends when they ask if they, too, signed up for free ballet classes.

Five-year-olds may or may not find comfort in the adults who defend, “boys can dance if they want to! Some of the greatest dancers are male. In fact, they’re the smart ones. Who doesn’t want to be around all those girls?”

chuckle. chuckle.

He doesn’t care about “being around all those girls.” He’s FIVE for goodness sake. But also, I saw him thriving in preschool and watched the young girls lovingly crush on him.
He would roll his eyes.

He’s smart.

And he’s not in it for the girls.

And he’s smart enough to see the difference between grown ups — who can be whatever they want ‘cause they’ve grown up— and the boys his age.
And boys say, “ew.”

And he knows his mom isn’t the type who will let him quit because one of his closest friends not only said EW but shouted to the full room of partiers, “HE does BALLET”
and when nobody laughed he prodded

“Isn’t that FUNNY?”

And I watched from the kitchen in heart-sunken terror,
gripping the pizza cutter and observing my son’s brilliant poker face.

So confused.
What is he thinking?
Is he okay?
I know he’s strong.
He’ll be okay.

And the adults did defend him. And the boys sat around the table with amused looks on their faces, but said nothing.

And the friend who thought it was funny simply changed the subject when the adults got over it.

And never apologized.

And I thought things were okay.

Until I noticed…

I didn’t notice until this morning.
He hasn’t been skipping anymore.
He hasn’t been practicing leaps and moves with names in French.
And he told me.

“Mom, I don’t want to go to ballet anymore.”

And he’s a smart kid.
He KNOWS I won’t let him quit just because he’s getting teased.
He’s heard my defense that boys can do ballet.
He has heard it from So. Many. Grown-ups.

“I get teased” won’t work on big people.
So my “why?” is met with “it’s too hard.”

“What’s hard?”

“5th position.”

I go off on not quitting when things are hard, and I can SEE him thinking DARN! Wrong strategy.

He’s right.
The position we put kids in.
In their fifth year of life. And before. And after.

Do you do what makes you happy and not CARE what your fellow five-year-olds say? Do you continue to be the boy in fifth grade who loves pink? Or are you cool enough to make it a competitive joke with a buddy?
Are you the BOY who takes BALLET?

5th position is hard.
Harder than we think.
The 5th position universe and the 5th position body is smaller, already expected to
sit.
still.
and LISTEN.
and read.
and navigate what is cool.
and TRY to stop sucking their thumb.
And stand up for themselves when an old friend and a new kid TEASE them for sucking their thumb.
And they don’t stop when you tell them to.
But you, my sweet five year old, are strong. You say “Look. It’s really hard. I’m trying to stop, but I just can’t.”
(And mom prays to god that you never pick up smoking.)

And I don’t KNOW if BALLET is a dream.

But I do see pieces of the dream
that kids should just be themselves and be happy
. . . being crushed.

And I do know that he’s right.

5th position is
REALLY
REALLY
hard.

This story has a happy ending. My five year old continued as the only boy in his school’s ballet class, and found joy again through to the final day. We are looking into local dance schools to give him the opportunity to do this thing that brings him joy. Because he can dance. If he wants to.