Dance Mom (Part 1 of Infinity)
I can’t help but fast-forward to high school competitions where she’ll be, I guess, slathering herself with fake tanner, donning a 5-pound curly wig, and dousing herself so thoroughly in gender norms that the stain will never come out.
Liz Sarb
Here’s something I learned recently. It blew my mind so hard that I’m now telling anyone who will listen: in the higher levels of competitive Irish Dance, dancers’ costumes include—along with a $200-$400 dress, $200 shoes, special socks, “spankies” about which I did not inquire further but which I can only assume are $5,000 glorified underwear, full stage makeup, and A WIG!!! which I will address at a later date—[deep breath]...their costumes include being tan. The state of being tan.
Ok. Let’s huddle up for a moment. Let’s think about all the Irish people who have ever existed. Let’s take, for example, me! My state of being tan is a state of having so many freckles that they merge together. I have never once in my life been tan, even in high school when I was regularly blasting myself with gamma (??) rays in a tanning booth/vampire coffin.
At the risk of jeopardizing my 5-year-old’s promising Irish Dance career, I would like to interrogate this a bit.
I learned about the cursed tanning requirement when we attended a retreat for Paige’s Irish Dance troupe. Dancers and their families came to take classes, learn how to navigate the extremely complicated competition circuit, and build camaraderie with an evening gala. We skipped that last part because I sensed the Kool-Aid would be flowing and if there’s one thing about me, it’s that I will never. Ever. Drink the Kool-Aid. This character flaw (or strength, depending on what’s in the Kool-Aid) makes it difficult for me to participate in a sport/cult in a meaningful way.
My husband and I have always said that we’ll never do a travel sport; we’ve watched friends get swallowed whole by those intense schedules. But now I can see how it happens. Paige is in her second year of dance and still loves it so much that I would, and probably will, travel multiple weekends a month just to see her in her element.
I’m already overthinking the ramifications of this extracurricular choice. Like any parent, I have delusions of grandeur on behalf of my child, but Paige really does have an innate athleticism and an aptitude for dance. When she was obsessed with ballet, I worried that once she became an elite dancer she’d be pressured to starve herself. When she fell in love with American Ninja Warrior, I fretted that she’d make it to the championships only to fall and break her neck. Now that she’s an Irish Dancer, I can’t help but fast-forward to high school competitions where she’ll be, I guess, slathering herself with fake tanner, donning a 5-pound curly wig, and dousing herself so thoroughly in gender norms that the stain will never come out.
On the topic of gender norms, a quick scroll through Instagram confirms what I’m sure you’ve guessed: there’s a huge discrepancy between the girls’ and boys’ costumes. The boys wear sensible pants, shirts, and vests. They look like humans who are about to put on a professional show. The girls can be seen from space. They look like sparkly, tan poodles wearing smaller poodles for hats at a poodle convention.
“I know that the tanning is silly,” said the woman giving a presentation about costumes at the retreat. “Most of us don’t like it. But right now, the uniform requires it.” Guys, I hate to tell you this, but you’re the ones who create the uniform. You’re the ones traveling the country to judge competitions! The call is coming from inside the house!! After some rage-induced googling, I read defensive comments from judges who say they can better see a dancer’s muscles when her legs are tan. I call bullshit. Because if that’s really true, what you’re holding is a bodybuilding competition. Are we in a children’s bodybuilding competition, guys? GUYS??
This has turned into a rant, but that dance retreat really activated my rant zone. I could write so many of them, and someday I will. About children’s extracurriculars and who’s on the hook for managing them. About appearance and who gets to decide what’s acceptable. About the joy of dancing and how to help girls follow that joy without getting subsumed into a culture that requires wealth and subservience and the right look and all your free time.
However, writing this took a lot out of me, so I’ll think about those things later. For now I’d rather rewatch my videos of Paige dancing, makeup-free, skipping across the floor like a top someone set in motion.
