Yes, "actress". These stories come from not-so-long-ago, but far enough back in time that there were still "actresses" and "actors" and not the all encompassing term "actors". But female or male, our dreams, desires and determination were not different. We had one heart, one need: to be be on stage, to perform. And we had no doubt that it would be us, and we would succeed no matter what.

If determination and belief in yourself were enough as many people claim, I'd have Oscars, Emmys, Geminis and Genies (now Canadian Screen Awards) lining my shelves. Maybe an Olivier and a BAFTA or two, and maybe even a Tony. It was all so real to me. I was waiting my turn to walk down that red carpet. However, I was to learn that it is sometimes dumb luck for either success or failure, and as yet I have not to learned how to control "luck".

Acting is not a profession you rationally choose. Nobody would choose a job where you know from the outset that the odds for success are heavily stacked against you, and that you would face unemployment and rejection a good deal of the time (rather like writing!) I don't know of anyone who has "chosen" acting. It choses you. It is in you and it gnaws at you. I suppose that is true for any artist. "Do something practical as back up" people will say to you. To do that is to admit from the outset that you will fail. It is a distraction from your one goal and your driven need. Would you ask someone who is studying law to have a back up in case they aren't called to the bar? No, their whole attention goes into pursuing their dream, just as it does with the artist. Even when circumstances change, that creative desire and yearning never completely vanishes. It's in you and gnaws at you.

A memoir is a funny thing. I have no doubt that time alters memories, to make them fit into our own, convenient universes. Different people will have different memories of the same occurrence or person. What I accept as an absolute truth of an event, may be seen completely differently by other players in the show. However, this is my truth of a heady time in my life, but let's bear in mind the words of friend, actor and author C.N. Preston:

"For fiction, read biography. For really ficticious fiction read autobiography. But if you want truth, read fiction."

"But all I ever wanted to be was an actress!" I sobbed, "Why does it have to be so hard?" I felt my knees buckle and my back hit the wall, and then I dissolved into a crying puddle on to the floor....
I suppose that wasn't entirely true. I didn't always want to be an actress, but I did indeed always want to perform: to be on stage, or in film, all so I could touch an audience and captivate hearts. To make people think and feel. Who knows where that spark of desire comes from? As far back as I can remember it seems to have been there, even through all the years of being painfully shy and afraid of just about everything. I can't remember a time when I didn't want to be in front of an audience.

I suppose my earliest memory of being fascinated with the world of performance was desperately trying to look into the bottom of the radio in the kitchen. My father had built all of the cupboards in the kitchen and he had inserted a radio into space above the broom closet.. If you were a little person you could look wayyyyy up there and see the brackets that held the radio in place. We would listen to various types of music and I would usually envision beautifully dressed couples dancing around in a grand circle. Daddy would sometimes pick me up and carry me around the kitchen to show me things – the robins nesting in the honeysuckle tree just outside the kitchen window, the special dishes in the high cupboards, things on the top of the fridge and of course that special radio. I craned my neck to see underneath and my Daddy asked me what I was doing. I told him I was trying to see the dancers. I was so convinced that there really were tiny people inside that magical box, and if I looked very carefully, I might see a high heel slip through one of the cracks, or perhaps catch sight of a swirling dress.

I loved to stand on the toes of my Daddy's shoes as he held my hands and we danced, maybe like those people in the radio. Sometimes we would just stride around the house being goofy. These are precious moments that I really do remember. I guess it was early theatrics!

I was only about three when I begged my Mummy for one of those "swingy" skirts, having no idea that what I was really asking for was a poodle skirt, like those dancers on TV and the big girls walking to high school. I still remember the pink heavy cotton skirt that Mum made for me, complete with suspenders to hold it up over my baby belly. I would spin and spin in the living room as the full skirt billowed around me, imagining myself a dancer, a star, a princess, I as played for my audience of dolls and teddy bears.

My father was department head for Drafting and Photography at Tec-Voc (Technical-Vocational) High School in Winnipeg. He had more than a little of an artistic bent. He was very involved in the schools theatre club – perhaps it was called a Glee Club in those days. For many years the annual production was a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. It's hard to imagine a school tackling the scope of something like that now, both because of budgets and volunteer hours. Dad worked many extra hours supervising and helping design and building set pieces.
My fate was sealed with one of those operettas. I was so proud of my Daddy as our whole family strutted down the aisle of the theatre in Tec-Voc and got to sit in the front row. Daddy already had taken us to where he worked and showed us all the drafting tables, and various student projects. He showed us all the plants he had growing by the big windows. But then to leave that, and go to the theatre! Wow!! I watched as Iolanthe unfolded in front of me. There was wonderful music and funny things happening and "soldiers" and fairies!! Beautiful, beautiful fairies with real wings and what seemed to be gossamar gowns. There was a small arch-shaped bridge on the left-hand side of the stage, and at one point one of the fairies seemed to disappear into the water behind that rock and mortar structure. How incredibly exciting! I couldn't believe the magic that was happening in front of me.

When the performance was over, my Daddy took me by the hand, and took me up onto that magical stage! How many girls get that lucky? I had to see the bridge and see if the fairy was still there. Dad caught my excitement and showed me everything – everything real. That stone bridge was made of plywood and painted to look like rock. The place where the fairy disappeared was not a hole, but a flat place where she could scrunch down and then disappear into the wings as our attention was held elsewhere. The buildings weren't really buildings at all, but just flat pieces of board and cloth.
Now you may think that this was akin to telling a child that there is no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny, but that was not the case for me. I was amazed and thrilled and intrigued and excited and had so many positive feelings all at once. It was all magic. And at age three, I knew: I Have To Do This.

Mum unwittingly reinforced those feeling when she took my brother Tommy and me to children's theatre productions at the Dominion Theatre, the precursor to the Royal Manitoba Theatre Centre in Winnipeg. Even though those visits to the theatre happened well after the Iolanthe experience, I have far fewer memories of them. I can see us sitting in the balcony at one point watching the show. Maybe I was already jaded at that point because I knew how some of that magic was done! I know I still loved the outings though, because I was going to be one of them someday. I still have some of the old programs as souvenirs.

Productions at the Dominion, and most shows in any venue in the city, happened through the fall, winter and early spring. It is the same now. In the summer, everyone "heads out to the lake", cottaging and camping and emptying the city. We did the same, heading for our own cabin (see "Tales of Lake of Two Mountains). Winters were crowded with events though. There were many activities outside of theatre and music productions for us lucky kids who got to go to them.

Being outdoors was a given, building snow forts, chasing one another and whatever we could get up to. Skating was huge and in our neighbourhood at least, it was a just a fact that you would do it. Like most Canadian kids during that time period, I was a self-taught skater since there were outdoor skating rinks set up at most schools – there was far less fear of injuries and subsequent litigation in those days. The schools would knock a few boards together out in the field and flood the area, and there were instant community skating rinks. They even threw up a warming hut at the one I frequented. I can still smell the inside of that shack with all the wet socks and smokiness from the wood stove. There was a grumpy old man there as an attendant but he kept the fire stoked and made sure we kids behaved ourselves, so all was good. My friend Rita and I would go there frequently, wobbling away on our skates and resenting it when the boys came out with their hockey sticks and played around us girls. We all had to learn a lot of give and take. It's such a shame that this sort of activity has long vanished. Imagine the worry people would have now about children there, without their parents watching every move, entrusting their children to a grumpy old nameless man, having their kids run around a wood stove, being in a shack with no building or fire regulations, kids skating without helmets and on and on. I'm glad I grew up in a time where we just went out and "did" rather then spending an inordinate amount of time worrying or second guessing about everything we did or were exposed to.
So where is all this leading? Another program that I still have squirrelled away is from the Ice Capades. For all my skating and games of tag and "whip" on the rink, I had never imagined that such wonders could be performed on the ice.The first bit of amazement was that all these beautiful people were skating without parkas and snowpants and gloves and scarves and hats. They were glamorous to my young eyes in their leotards and tights or fancy feathered costumes. As we watched them skate in a giant wheel pattern I turned to my Mum and said "That's what I want to do! I want to be an Ice Capade!" I could see myself travelling and wearing pretty costumes. I think my parents had greater dreams for me, because this one was met with a simple "no", and I never did get figure skating lessons, even though my skates had those danged picks on the front to deal with. All girls wore the white figure skates and boys, hockey skates. I'm sure glad that that has changed!

Mum and Dad introduced my brother and me to the ballet at very young age as well. The ballet captivated me even more than the Ice Capades. The beautiful things that those people could do with their bodies while getting a "feeling" across, was wonderful to a little girl. Again, there was all the magic of a darkened theatre, the lit stage and all the mysteries therein. Much different from an arena and bright lights and people doing tricks and putting on a show. The ballet was a performance and touched my soul, rather than the adrenaline rush of excitement of the Ice Capades.

Or maybe it was simply that the tutus reminded me of the gossamar fairy costumes in Iolanthe some months or years earlier, and my little girl brain just clicked in.

Now instead of saying I was going to be an Ice Capade and asking my parents how one went about doing that, I was begging for ballet lessons. There were the usual stumbling blocks, with my parents telling me that I wouldn't be dancing like a real ballerina for a very long time. It took a lot of practice. (That's OK! That's OK!) You might want to quit (I'll never quit! I want to be a ballerina!!) and so on. A big plus in my favour was that my older cousin Lylla was taking ballet lessons and was rather enjoying it. She had a tutu somehow or other (not standard fare when you are a young student) and it was bequeathed to me as a Hallowe'en costume. I didn't fit the tutu at all but it didn't matter – it fuelled my desire all the more. (Good thing that here in Canada, Hallowe'en costumes are generally designed to go on over snowsuits. That was the only way the poor thing would stay up. We will not discuss the school class party and my attempt to wear it there!)

My parents made enquiries with the Nenad Lhotka Ballet Studio that Lylla attended. I later found out that it was less expensive than the Royal Winnipeg Ballet School, and Mr. Lhotka was a former RWB dancer, so what could be better for my parents?

Imagine my heartbreak that I wouldn't be able to start ballet in the autumn! You had to be seven whole years old. I had to wait. I didn't want to wait! I was going to be seven in November, surely that could count. Nope.

It was a long year but I continued to dream and listened to stories of Lylla's classes. She even showed me a few things which I thought was so thrilling.
I smile when I think of that long wait to start ballet lessons. At that age, a year is an eternity. Starting training at age seven or eight was the rule back then, unlike now when children can start some form of dance at four or even earlier at some places. I wonder why we didn't have "pre-ballet" then? It could have saved a lot of children a lot of angst.
To help ease the pain of the long wait, Mum enrolled me in tap dancing at the local community club. I didn't seem to get anywhere with it and was quickly frustrated. I was already the tallest in the class, and it was really hard to tap without tap shoes! Perhaps my parents knew in advance that they wouldn't be a worthwhile investment. However, I can still hear the teacher saying "Shuffle down! Shuffle down! Toe-heel, toe-heel, toe-heel, Stamp! There was also the good ol' "shuuuffle – hop-down. Shuuuffle – hop-down". I think there was some sort of performance at the end of the session(s), and the end of the session was the end of me there. There was no magic for me.

Finally. The time arrived for ballet lessons to begin. The building itself is now long gone. It was torn down to build the "new" post office, which itself is now obsolete. But that building held so many dreams and so much sweat. The changing rooms and the beginners' studio was on the first floor, but there was also rehearsal space two flights up beyond that. It's funny that I remember the wrought iron railing and the brass bannister, and how smooth it felt under my hands as we went up those stairs. The floor in between was home to J's discotheque and sometimes we would hear some rock'n'rollers rehearsing. As we got older, there was something exciting about those young men. The forbidden rock'n'rollers to the sweet little classical ballerinas. For me, it was still people on stage – that's all that mattered!

The first years of ballet were heaven. Mrs. Lhotka launched off all of us babies, showing us the basic positions and movements. We had regular class time, and then the last ten or fifteen minutes was devoted to "improvisation" (all of which would hold me in good stead when I pursued acting). She would give us an assignment, and the following week we could bring home-made costumes or props and freely dance to whatever the theme was. I loved having feelings tell me what my body should do. I loved the reverse - the way my body could affect my feelings! I was learning a lot at that point, more than I could ever possibly realize at that age. I was learning so much more than dance. I remember feeling such freedom and joy! I belonged there.

That feeling of belonging was so important to me. For reasons unknown, I was already becoming an awkward child. My Mum later told me that at about the age of two or three it was like someone had thrown a switch inside of me. From being a happy and outgoing child, I became fearful of everything and extremely insecure. To this day, I would like to know what happened. Although I have vague suspicions and theories I don't know anything for sure. My mother even took me to the doctor, who said it was just "immaturity" and I would grow out of it. As my mum said "Of course it was immaturity – you were three!!" I remember some good times – being a bit of a class clown in primary school. I could make people laugh and I loved the feeling it created in me. At home though I was fearful of.... anything and everything. I remember being terrified from an "Outer Limits" episode that my mother and brother were watching on TV, and was convinced for several years that these monster crocodile things were going to come out from under my bed, or come up the stairs and tear me apart. My poor mother. She absolutely could not convince me otherwise. I was absolutely terrified of going to bed and falling asleep. I had so many irrational terrors, fears and insecurities that seemed to have come from nowhere. In the meantime, my brother had a good circle of friends and was excelling at school and could do no wrong. Although I knew I was loved and cherished, I started to feel that I didn't "fit" with my family. I didn't belong for some reason.
Adding to that, I changed schools in the latter part of primary school and was bullied unmercifully. I was the tallest and most conservative (my parents were absolutely not going to buy me the trendy clothes or music). I was also the only one from my old school to enter this new class at a new school. I was ripe for the picking. I was ostracized and verbally bullied and belittled, and even had the snot beaten out of me a couple of times. In those days, not much was done about bullying. I ended up with very little sense of belonging at school, as well as all the unreasonable fears and insecurities at home.

But at ballet....

Decades later I was sitting in a theatre in London's West End, watching A Chorus Line for the first time. As the song "At The Ballet" was played I literally cried. There was so much of it that was close to my own experience:

But
Everything was beautiful at the ballet.
Graceful men lift lovely girls in white.
Yes,
Everything was beautiful at ballet.
Hey!
I was happy... at the ballet.

Sadly, when I was a little older, Mum revealed more than I needed to know about her courting days. Dad told her she was getting older and she wasn't going to have too many more chances to get married after him. Although they seemed to have a lovely dating time (with photos to prove it, looking happy and in love) that was a cruel thing for him to say (and me to know). I do hope that I am remembering Mum's story incorrectly. But he did say (and demonstrate) that he didn't have much confidence in her. He didn't trust her with nice "things" because she would break them or ruin them. Her opinions didn't matter (that one I saw as I was growing up). In some regards he didn't respect her intellect (and in other instances, he totally relied on it). None of this needs to be explored deeper here, or explored ever again. It did however, make another verse of At the Ballet hit home:

Daddy always thought that he married beneath him.
That's what he said, that's what he said.
When he proposed he informed my mother
He was probably her very last chance.

Dad would never have said that outloud to us, unlike the character in the song, nor would he ever have a had an affair like the character in the song. Although Dad had Victorian views of women, he did love his family very, very much. Of that, I have no doubts. I have many tender early memories with my dad, but there is still that lingering story that haunts me.

Going to the studio really was

Up a steep and very narrow stairway
To the voice like a metronome.

as either Mr. or Mrs. Lhotka counted out the beats.

Then of course there was the whole issue of appearance. I never thought I was a pretty girl. When I look back at my PR photos from Webber Douglas day, I think "wow... what was I worried about??" I see a very pretty young woman there. But all through my childhood and early womanhood there was only one person that I remember ever telling me I was attractive or pretty. I was reminded by family that I had a big nose, and a relative told me I had "shit-coloured" eyes (not the greys/blues of the Kuceras). My birthstone, topaz, was just a broken beer bottle. It was so hard to have any confidence or positive self-esteem in the real world. But At the ballet...

...(they) always said I'd be very attractive
When I grew up, when I grew up.
"Diff'rent," she said, "With a special something
And a very, very personal flair."
And though I was eight or nine,
Though I was eight or nine,
Though I was eight or nine,
I hated (them)
Now,

"Diff'rent" is nice, but it sure isn't pretty.
"Pretty" is what it's about.
I never met anyone who was "diff'rent"
Who couldn't figure that out.
So beautiful I'd never lived to see.
But it was clear,
If not to (them)
Well, then... to me...
That ...

Everyone is beautiful at the ballet.
Every prince has got to have his swan.
Yes,
Everyone is beautiful at the ballet.

It wasn't all fun and games though.We were also taught something else very important for any performer. Discipline.

Up a steep and very narrow stairway
To the voice like a metronome.
Up a steep and very narrow stairway
It wasn't paradise...
It wasn't paradise...
It wasn't paradise...
But it was home.

We had important work to do and it wasn't all prance around and be pretty. The Lhotkas were very sure that we knew our stuff. We were all given a sheet of terms at the beginning of each grade and we had to learn what all the steps were (in French of course) and know the description or definition. And yes – there was a test! Early in the new year we had our written tests. June was our practical exam, with numbers pinned to our chests and guest examiners, as well as Mr. And Mrs. Lhotka. Scary stuff. It wasn't a matter of just passing. Every one of us wanted to pass with honours or first class honours as well. "First Class Honours and Perfect Attendance" were the special words we wanted to hear. Nobody wanted to hear "credit" or worse yet "pass". At least Perfect Attendance was attainable for us all – you could always make up missed classes with a different group. I certainly remember that one, because one year I had many to make up due to a bout of rubella, and my brute of a mother (I'm kidding) made me go to one Saturday class, when I really wanted to go to the latest James Bond movie with my brother! Usually making up ballet classes wasn't an issue, but missing an opportunity to see a spy movie was something else. Besides – movies were another type of perfomance right? (didn't work then either, and I made up the class)

Except for an open class where we showed our parents what we could do, there really wasn't an opportunity for performance. We didn't have an all-encompassing recital as most studios seem to do nowadays. In fact, I think some are now too focussed on performance to please the paying parents, and not so much on technique and the health and growth of the child. That's neither here nor there though. Our year end was at the Pantages-Playhouse Theatre, with certificates handed out for all who passed, and a performance by the senior students. Our names had been typewritten onto labels and stuck to the front of the seats, to be sure we all went up in order. So sadly, my only stage appearances for ballet was to file up stairs on one side of the stage, wait for my name to be called, walk to centre stage, take my diploma and shake a hand and curtsey, and walk across the other side of the stage and go back to my seat. Not exactly fairy-like or tutu-beautiful. One year I tripped as I started off across the stage. We had been warned that the cables were there. Somehow, this future ballerina, the epitome of elegance and grace, tripped on her way to pick up a piece of paper, so it didn't bode well for the future.

When I think of it, the only time I performed any ballet in front of an audience was in grade three at Principal Sparling School. Yes, one of those "thrilling" moments seared into my memory. The school was having a talent day, and wanted volunteers. There were kids playing the piano or doing magic tricks or whatever. I told my teacher I was taking ballet lessons and volunteered to show some steps. I was so thrilled to be learning ballet and thought the whole world would be too. I very proudly took my leotard and tights to school, and I remember waiting nervously in the wings for my turn. This was going to be so exciting! I could share my joy and love of dance with people. I was going to be on stage!! I suppose the kids in the audience were expecting a dance or a mini-ballerina. I went out there and told them about the basic steps we were learning in primary ballet. How the legs had to be straight and the legs and feet turned out from the hips. How your knees should be over your toes when you bend. I showed first through fifth positions, with the arms. I did a ronde de jambe par terre remembering to rotate from the hip, and point my toe. The audience was getting restless. I did some petit jetes and was bit wobbly with some landings. Then there was the very important plie and grand plie which you need to do to strengthen your legs and core, so that you eventually can launch into great jumps and maintain a regal pose. Those last two finished the audience completely, and they started to laugh. Afterwards one of the girls in my class said "You looked like you were going potty!" So much for my dancing debut. Of course I was terribly upset, and if I recall correctly there were a fair number of tears when I went home for lunch (hardly anyone stayed at school for lunch in those days), but with comforting and encouraging words from my Mum, and my own determination and love for dance, this wasn't going to have a lasting effect. I'm sure no one but me remembers that day. It was a hard lesson learning that you can be humiliated while doing something you love, if other people don't chose to learn or understand. But, as they say, that which doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger. I still wanted to be a ballerina. I still wanted to be on stage, and I felt more determined than ever.

Once I had completed the primary classes, it was time to move on to the actual graded work. I was very nervous leaving Mrs. Lhotka behind and having Mr. Lhotka for a teacher. It seemed scary to have a male teacher, but the extra discipline and sense of responsibility that he required of us was no more than what I wanted. I'm sure he saw my passion. After one particularly inspiring, soul-raising class, I just had to speak to him. The desire to dance, to perform, was so consuming that I stopped him on the way out and said, "Mr. Lhotka, I have to be a ballerina! Will I?" I think I was asking, in my little girl way, if he saw the potential in me. He told me that I was very young yet and it was hard to say. Just keep working as hard as you are. And then he kissed me on the top of the head. I've never forgotten that kiss. The scary, strict Mr. Lhotka had given me some sort of approval.

The thing was, Mr. Lhotka wasn't a scary, strict teacher at all. He was bit of teddy bear in retrospect, just sharing his love of dance. He took all of us girls into his heart, and showed us great respect that we happily returned. This was my first experience of the total acceptance in the performing world. We were there for a common love, and that's pretty much all that mattered. It was such a wonderful feeling. It didn't matter how tall, short, skinny or fat you were. It didn't matter if you were Jewish, Christian, Hindu or religion-free. It didn't matter if you were black or white or any shade in between. There was no teasing, no ridicule like you could get on the playground or yes, even in your family.

Perhaps I should take that back. There were a few gentle teasing moments when we had the "crinkly ballerinas". We were all changing from our baby bodies to the pre-pubescent pudginess, and were well aware of the figures we felt we should have. Some of the girls had this notion that you could reduce parts of your body by wrapping the offending bit with thin plastic, like dry cleaners' bags. They would wrap plastic around their thighs and waists, underneath their tights and leotards before a class. As we went through the barre work and patterns in "the centre" you could hear the plastic crinkling up against their skin. ("The centre" is merely the centre of the room. It seems all ballet teachers that I have encountered myself, or decades later with my daughter, would say "come to the centre" when it was time to move on from the barre work).
More and more girls started the plastic thing. I was the tallest in the class, but it seemed that I would never have a waist. I eventually tried it myself, but the trend didn't last. Mr. Lhotka banned the behaviour because of the rustling students and I'm sure he knew it couldn't be healthy for us. The skin has to breathe, and for those who wrapped themselves from ankle to neck, they must have been risking fainting spells. The darnedest thing is is that it worked, at least for a short period of time. When I was a young adult I resorted to that trick a number of times, to get into that skirt that was just a little bit too tight, or for wanting to feel firm before a big night out. I could drop one or two inches off my waist for a few hours. This also came in handy for too-snug costumes, or wanting to have a certain effect on stage. It really is a dumb thing to do though.
I'm not sure what our pianist thought of it all. She was the only one on stage. There was nook in the corner of the big studio, all of one riser high, where the piano was esconced. For some reason, the name Miss Clara comes to mind, but I am really not certain. We had several accompanists over the years. Maybe the crinkly ballerinas disturbed their concentration and they had to move on to quieter studios!

We learned. Then we learned some more. It was so much more than steps, as the tap dancing had been. As well as technique and the emotional side of dance, we learned communication – hearing Mr. Lhotka say to the pianist "I want something that is ba-da, ba-da, ba-da-di-da" (or whatever rhythm be chose) and these magical women at the instrument would pull the perfect classical piece seemingly out of thin air. They rarely went wrong, but the few times they did, we got to see the ire and impatience of a perfectionist artist-teacher as well. (He was a teddy bear most times.) We learned concentration and interpretation. As our teacher figured out what combination of steps he wanted us to do, he would sometime block it out absently with his feet or more often with his hands. Knowing that we were going to be challenged, we wanted to get a leg up so to speak, and be one jump ahead of him (sorry, again). We would be able to figure out what he was going to assign by watching his hands. This particularly fascinated my parents after one open class."How can you know what the steps are from a few little hand movements?" I don't know, but generations of dancers have done it. Again, this ability to piece little bits together and see a "whole" was a handy tool in acting theory later on. Perhaps not from a purely practical point of view, but certainly when doing analysis on a character or a play. It is important to put the rough pieces together to see the "Gestalt" – the whole. Maybe I would have fared a better as a director.

We also learned about different people and abilities, and not just limited to dance. There was one girl who was with us for awhile who was deaf. Her attempts at speech were almost scary to us at first, but we quickly came to learn that there was just another regular little girl behind the grunting attempts and the huge hearing aids they used in those days (she wore a large square microphone on her chest under her leotard, with wires coming up to the big plugs in her ears). There was another girl in our class temporarily, who was rather disruptive and unruly, always telling huge stories in the changing room before class. We knew not to believe things about giants or wild chases or whatever the tale du jour was, but when she told us she had a penis, that took the cake. Sure, a girl with penis? Right. No such thing existed of course, to this innocent ten year old. I was glad I was in a different changing room, because this was just enough of her stories. A couple of girls came running in and said, "She DOES have a penis! She showed us! She has both!" She seemed to want to clear the air with everyone as in "Look, this is me. Get over it. Stop asking about the little bulge in my leotard." She made the rounds to all the changing rooms, but not in a flaunting way. I didn't know what I was really looking at but I knew she didn't look like me. This was my first (and as far as I know, only) encounter with an intersex person. I had so many questions for my poor flustered mother when I came home, and I have to give her credit for explaining things as well as she did, and from what little was known in the day.

We also learned more and more about ourselves. We learned about perseverance, determination, defeat, embarrassment, joy, frustration, camaraderie, and belonging. The studio was our special world. We also were learning about independence and responsibility away from our parents. By the time I was eight I was riding the city busses on my own. Back then, it really wasn't thought that a parent would drive you to class. Once you knew how to ride a bus – out the door with you! I would be coming home after class in the dark. It rather boggles my mind now. Does anyone allow their eight-year olds to do that in 2014? As I advanced through the higher grades, I was happy that the classes were later. I would saunter through Eaton's and go up to the cafeteria and have an early supper. I felt rather proud of myself as I climbed up on to the chair by the lunch counter and ordered a hamburger, chips and a drink (60 cents for it all – why I remember that I don't know. Maybe I was amused me with .30 .20 and .10). Yup, if food is involved, I seem to remember it. The chairs were fixed to the floor but swung to either side so you could get in or out. There was a rack underneath the counter for small flat packages, and a hook for your purse. After that "snack" I'd scamper off to class a block away and try not to burp onions at my neighbour.

I was already the tallest in the class when I began classes, but then the inevitable growth spurt happened to add to the height dilemma. Suddenly I couldn't fill my own body and I couldn't get my extremities to listen to me. As the steps and patterns got more complicated, I seemed to do a lot more flailing about. Ballet was becoming a struggle. I became a bit of a goof-ball in the changing room, relying on a sense of humour rather than talent to get through the classes. I decided to show my classmates how tall I was by easily grabbing on the railing over the shower door and swinging from it. Most of the girls couldn't even touch it, and I could just reach up and grab. Swinging from it was one of my less than stellar ideas. I had no idea that the bar wasn't finished at the top. It had raw metal edges facing upwaards which did a nice job of slicing the skin on the inside of my fingers. Think very wide papercuts. Of course my hands were bleeding and I tried to staunch the flow with cold water. It wasn't doing much good and clutching onto toilet paper just made paper bits stick to my hands. I was mortified. Someone said I should see Mr. or Mrs. Lhotka and get some band-aids. I couldn't face them, because I was one of the prim and proper, and respectful and reliable girls, who didn't do dumb things like swing from shower stalls. I continued to daub away, and was not thrilled when we were called to class. I held on to the toilet paper until the last possible moment. I didn't care that my hands were cut. My biggest concern was leaving blood on the barre, and having my reputation ruined. A good reputation was about all I had, as my ability for these more advanced classes diminished.

During this growth spurt though, the most wonderful thing happened. It was time for pointe shoes. The pink satin toe slippers that every young ballerina dreams about. Everthing so far had been done on demi-pointe but now our ankles, quadriceps and abdominal muscles were deemed strong enough to be able to deal with the stresses of pointe work. We were paired with senior students who took us under their wings to show us how to stitch the toes (not done in most schools now it seems) and how to properly place and sew on the ribbons. Real satin ribbons to match the satin shoes. I loved the feel of everything. We were taught how to massage the shoe and break down the toe box so that it had some flexibility. It still defies logic to me that they make these expensive slippers with a wooden toe box (from the tip to past just past the joints on your toes) and then you turn around and take a hammer to them. I suppose the box still gives some sort of support.

We had the shoes in September at the start of that year of classes, but Mr. Lhotka wanted to be sure that we were strenghtened up again after our summer break, before we "went up". It was almost as agonizing as waiting to start ballet classes in the first place. I swear he would tease us, by letting us put on the shoes for the last fifteen minutes of class (the same fifteen minutes that had been "improvisation" when we were little). He would check our shoes and our lacing and talk theory. We would go to the barre or centre and go through the basic five position or some plies or grandes battements.
We were at the point of rebelling when the magic day finally arrived, unbeknownst to us. At the barre. Posture checked, fingers lightly on the bar, and then the magic words "en pointe!"

We were suddenly into it and the work was hard, especially with the multiple classes per week that were required. Blisters were formed and broken in spite of the tightness of the shoes which would seem to preclude any possibility of rubbing. We kept on. No cotton wool for us, though I did resort to bandaids as my water blisters progressed to blood blisters. I vividly remember counting five on one foot and four on the other, as I very gingerly pulled on my pink tights and even more gingerly put on my slippers. Even the my fur-lined winter boots hurt my feet, and I was starting to have more and more doubts. I wanted to be very, very good, and instead I was injured and barely holding my own.

And I continued to grow. By the time I reached my thirteenth birthday I was 5'7" with no indication that the growth spurt was going to stop. My nickname at the studio became "Moose" which is really not a good nickname for a ballerina. I played along with it in my new goofball persona while in the changing rooms, but my frustration became more and more apparent in class. "Moose" was also starting to learn that as the stakes got higher in the more competitive performing world, that there were nasty people within that wonderful family feeling.

I was further demoralized when I was one of the last two people at the barre, while everyone else had progressed to the centre to work on en pointe pirouettes. My attempts at those were rather dismal with a definite list to one side, and not being able to plant the finish. Others were moving from corner to corner of the studio on their toes, and I alternated between full-pointe and demi-pointe if I got off the barre at all. I just wanted to be strong enough for all this sudden length of body, arms and legs. I wanted to dance. I wanted to be on stage. That inner voice was still calling to me, but I knew I was falling further and further behind despite my efforts. Violin lessons had long since been abandoned in favour of ballet, but I was still taking piano lessons and getting frustrated with both.
Fortunately teachers nowadays seem to acknowledge this truly awkward stage that some girls go through, and offer the girls an explanation about their growth as well as give encouragement. I don't know if that growth phase was really understood back then.

About the same time, I realized that there weren't very many tall ballerinas – at least there weren't at that time. Professional dancers all fit certain parameters in regards to size and shape, and I realized I was getting further and further away from that. The dreams of professional ballerina were fading, but I couldn't believe that I would ever let go; that I would be the one to quit. I had wanted it so badly, and literally dreamed of it, but my physical growth though was a circumstance beyond my control.

That physical "problem" became even more apparent, when Mr. Lhotka wanted us to start practicing leaps and lifts. We didn't regularly have boys in our particular class, but sometimes we would have one or two appear, making up classes. There was also the occasional visitor from other studios. We were unable to work in pairs though, so Mr. Lhotka took it upon himself to "lift" us. My first time up shocked me. It didn't look high when you saw the dancers on the stage do it, but when you are being flung up into the air it is suddenly very, very high. I distinctly remember a very non-ballet "EEP!" escaping my lips and my nice tight pose flailing outwards in an innate attempt to brace myself for a fall. Caught and lowered with finesse, I knew I had to learn trust and conquer fear.

I've got to emphasize that. For any performer: learn trust and conquer fear. Trust your partners (company, cast, crew) and trust yourself. Trust that you can do that which is required of you as a performer. Conquer fear. Know that your stage-mates have your back. Never be afraid to try something new. Don't fear the unknown. Just try. After that you will know if you should be afraid!
Such great foundation was being laid for me in ballet, both as an actor and a person.

Sadly, the work with lifts didn't end too well. One time we were practicing our leaps from one corner to another, with a lift in middle with Mr. Lhotka as our danseur. Up went Nadine, up went Shelley (who went on to dance with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, and eventually form her own dance studio), up went Miriam, up went Margaret, and Mr Lhotka twitched a little (Margaret was about my size) Up went Ka – nope! Out went Mr. Lhotka's back! I wasn't dropped, but it wasn't a pretty landing either. OK, so now I was named Moose, couldn't get up on pointe reliably, and I broke our teacher. I still persisted though.

Occasionally we had guest or substitute teachers. They didn't know us personally as Mr. Lhotka did and only saw what was in front of them. They also had no sense of humour. Sometimes we had Daphne Korol show up and we were told how much we should respect her, for all she had done for the arts community. Of course, we thought she was old then. Imagine my surprise when she walked into my daughter's ballet class decades later as a guest instructor. She looked pretty much the same to me, which was a little scary. She still could dance though. I could not.
Rachel Browne also taught us from time to time. She would show us all sorts of different things with her specialty being this new-to-Winnipeg, "contemporary" thing. Dancing in bare feet? Weird! It was breaking edge stuff in the day, but she went on shortly thereafter (or perhaps concurrently) to form Winnipeg's Contemporary Dancers and gain international reknown for herself and her company. The Royal Winnipeg Ballet had certainly demonstrated modern dance in mixed programmes at performances, but Ms. Browne was one to take it to new levels with her devotion and development of new techniques.

Neither of these ladies could see much of a ballerina in me although those exact words were never actually spoken. I was forever being told to "pull up" and suck in my stomach. Now I know it was primarily because of a lot of my previous strength had been temporarily lost due to the growth spurt, but at the time it began to drag me down, mentally as well as physically.

The instructor who had the most negative effect on this future ballerina (and a few others in the class as well) was really no one famous at all, from what I know. She was Russian I think, and the name Mara comes to mind, but I don't know who she really was. Her command of English wasn't great, but that didn't matter too much, since much of the class could be done in French or with signing movements. However, she was just plain mean. I learned there's a big difference between being strict, disciplined and focussed, and power-tripping and borderline cruel. Both those categories can look the same on the surface, but their intent and effects are polar opposites. "Mara" would justifiably harp on posture, but instead of putting hands on our shoulders to slide them back, or under our ribcages to lift them, she would grab a shoulder with one hand and make a fist with her middle knuckle sticking out with the other. She'd pull the shoulder back and grind that fist in between our shoulder blades. Sometimes there would be a multilingual tirade to go along with it. She always wore a heavy knee-length rehearsal skirt, and we joked that that was where she kept the whip. One of these days it would come out and there would be no doubt that she would use it.

Ballet was becoming less and less fun, but I still wanted it. I still wanted .... something. I wanted the magic of the stage. But... but... ?

There was also peer pressure. Kids at school were involved in many after hours activities – drama club, sports, dances, and I was never available as I was always running off to ballet or piano lessons or to get my dental braces tightened (once a week in those days!). I was leaving school one day to head to the studio and grabbed my toe shoes from the top shelf of the locker. I was still pretty proud of those pink toes shoes. "You still take ballet??" scoffed one nearby PopularGirl. "That's for little kids!" Of course now I realize she was probably envious, but what did I know at fourteen?That, and some of the tantalizing activities after school pushed me closer to a very difficult decision.

The final nail in the coffin of this one set of early dreams, was hearing the dreaded word "Credit" read out as I walked across the stage to get my annual diploma.

At 5'7" and still growing, I realized I would never dance professionally. With typical teenaged petulance and angst, I decided, "If I can't dance professionally, I won't dance at all." Big mistake. I wish I had continued for fitness and to be in touch with my own body. I so very much wish I hadn't given in to peer pressure. I wish there had been more encouragement in those days, from the ballet studio, from the school, from the family. It all held in good stead though, and there was no doubt that I still wanted to perform. Even though I was no longer an active participant in ballet, muscle memory has lingered for decades. As I watch dancers, I know which muscles are straining, and sometimes my body physically responds with a muscle twitch or flex as I sit in my theatre seat. I know that some of the splashy things that get applause aren't really all that difficult (particularly when you get a momentum going) but some of the more minute movements are excruciatingly difficult. And to this day, for some reason I still stand in fifth position when I'm at the sink to brush my teeth...

If I couldn't dance, well then, I would be an actress. So, my declaration of "All I ever wanted to be was an actress" in my moments of exhaustion and grief years later was not entirely true.