Here I am up at SPAC working for the New York Summer School of the Arts, ballet classes taught by the New York City Ballet. Darci Kistler no less! And so, daily I see faces of children aged 10 to 17, all shapes and sizes and colors. Divided into two levels and sometimes a boys' class. Actually, eight boys classes weekly.
You will note these young males are called BOYS! No one is saying they're grown, and they are not classified as men. They are students, working five to six hours a day. Hard physical labor. As hard as any basketball or football camp. These boys wear tights (yes, tights), dance belts (similar to a jock strap), ballet slippers and a white t-shirt. I saw a young man admonished and told to tuck in his shirt, which he did not necessarily want to do, but he did. Sasha was the little guy's name and he hails from (I'm not really sure). I guess what I'm saying is; no one here is color or religion coded. No one's status in the world has any bearing on success in this program. What matters is how you handle yourself in class. How you take criticism, how hard you apply yourself.
Classes are between 20 to 25 students -- one teacher and one musician. And I may add no one is wearing a sign around their neck that says "respect." A very famous balletomane, Lincoln Kistein, a founder of the New York City Ballet, said, "Ballet is about learning how to behave." And that phrase still holds true. Respect is given to the teacher and musician, each class participant individually thanks the aforesaid after class and each class always ends with the students applauding these same people.
What an interesting concept, children hungry for knowledge and being appreciative for it being offered to them.
One of my favorite children is a black male called "Eric." He comes from Harlem and he is at the lower level of class. He is not, however, the same age, being a little older than his classmates. He came late to ballet, but he has a natural talent that is pretty cool.
He stands before me in his "wife beater" (named after Marlon Brando in an early film) shirt (with a hole in it), his black tights and slippers. He has a diamond stud in one ear and wears a small ring on a chain around his neck. No one knows where it came from or why he wears it.
He works his class 'til the sweat comes off his body like heavy rain. He does more pushups than anyone and initiates the laps of indoor running, which the boys (and girls) do every day. He has elegance in his bearing and muscles in his arms and amazing, large, dark eyes.
Today, Igor, a Russian Jew, spent a long time in class working alone with Eric while everyone watched. You see, these children want to be singled out, they need to be criticized in order to improve. Getting critical attention from the teacher is like a glimpse into your future. No one hides in the back of class, they push and shove to stand in front, to be noticed, to be seen.
Igor has a heavy accent and Eric is a hip-hop boy from the City, but they came together in class today, and Eric's face was rapt and his eyes were black stars glowing in that dismal, dark classroom. Even if he never becomes a dancer, he will take this knowledge, this etiquette, this personal responsibility with him everywhere he goes.
No one here says, "Oh, he's poor. He's black. He's ignorant. He'll never make it next to all these white, middle class guys." What they say is, "He's poor, he's black, but boy, he's got talent. What a chance to teach him how smart, how good, how beautiful he really is." And I watch him blossom every day. Growing into a real man in front of my eyes.
Because, back on the Hill, real boys don't take ballet. Real boys play basketball and get in fights and even carry guns. And if Eric grows up and gets a job with a dance company with a starting salary at $50,000 or $60,000 a year and travels all over the world and meets influential and interesting people, all the others left behind in the ghetto will snicker and say, "Oh you know, he's just a little, gay, boy."
"Come a little closer guys, look at this cool stuff I got. What can I sell you? It's top grade and tonight, I got special prices, just for you."
We talk about prejudice a lot, but this too is a kind of racist, sexist life choice remark and ignorance is not bliss, it's just plain dumb. Just what is a man?
A man, after all, is only a person with male sexual equipment and a little more muscle, hopefully not between the ears, who starts as a baby, grows up, does some foolish things and turns into an adult just like everyone else. Color or religion doesn't have much to do with how he turns out. He carries his own deck of cards, he shuffles and deals the outcomes to himself. He plays his own hand.
If he is really hungry for life, he may get somewhere. Along the way, he'll need a few shoves in the right direction, a little taste of failure, a dash of success. But most importantly, he needs an Igor, someone who looks him straight in the face and treats him like a three-dimensional person. Someone who sees his talent, whatever it is, and works at teaching him how to work.
Someone who doesn't care about race, or that hole in his shirt, who just sees a young man struggling with himself, with his life. Someone who is there simply to help and say "Good Job" and "Do it Again" and "This Time, do it This Way" and "Please, do it Again."
Because we don't do our youth any favors, by treating them differently or thinking they need an easy solution. These street children, my children of The Hill, listen. I yell because I care and you CAN do it, you are NOT stupid. I am here to help, I'll be here as long as I can. I love you.
Call me Igor.
