It's no secret that I was once a "baby bunhead". For those unfamiliar with the term, that is a slightly pejorative expression used to refer to students of the School of American Ballet, or SAB, in New York City. We all had the same look...hair sleeked back into a bun, or worn long and straight when outside of class. Giant canvas or leather dance bag hanging off one shoulder. And the dancer gait - a slight glide and bounce, with the toes pointed outward. We infiltrated the Lincoln Center area like a strange alien race - similar to humans, yet with qualities more befitting thoroughbred horses or exotic birds. Trained to be the elite, we wore the bunhead badge proudly.
Every student at SAB had the same dream - to be invited to join New York City Ballet. George Balanchine was a genius choreographer, and we felt the calling, almost from birth, to dance his ballets. When "Mr. B." elected to choreograph a ballet for a special performance at Juilliard, using my class, it was a thrill and an honor. Working with the man for a few short weeks, I knew I wanted to do nothing but dance in his ballets. He would look you up and down, take your hand, and come up with steps that fit your body and ability, and the music, perfectly and exquisitely. Oh, I was in heaven.
That winter, I was one of about 25 SAB students invited to dance onstage with the company itself - in Balanchine's signature piece, Don Quixote. Me, onstage at the New York State Theater. The dream was beginning. In quintessential Mr. B. style, a sense of humor was involved. His initiation for the junior people was to cast us as "pigs" and "penitents". I was cast as both. The costume was essentially the same for both - a massive black robe. However, for the pig scene, we each donned a giant plastic pig head, with eyeholes. The entire part consisted of a huge mass of pigs, male and female, prancing across from stage left to stage right, sideways, while facing forward into the audience.
Night after night, the scene got huge chuckles from the usually staid audience. However, on the fifth night of performances, something altogether different transpired.We pigs huddled in the wings, awaiting our musical cue. 4-3-2-1 and we're off. Prance, prance, prance, prance...wow, I'm center stage! My right foot hits something next to me, and suddenly, I am FLYING through the air sideways. And, THUD. I land on my right hip. Fortunately, the pig head stayed on. The audience was screaming with hysteria. I managed to gingerly finish prancing to the other side of the stage and finally, I was in the wings again.
Whispers were everywhere. "Which pig fell?" "I think it was TWO pigs". "Oh, my, who were they?" "Did Mr. B see?" "Mr. B sees EVERYTHING!".
I removed my pig head and skulked quietly to the dressing room, whispering with everyone else. Nobody knew...my secret was safe!
A couple of days later, the contusion on my hip was rather black and blue, but people seemed to forget. If someone asked, I just said that I slipped on the ice, of which there was plenty that winter.
I held onto that secret for almost ten years before I told anybody! Yes, Virginia, I was THE PIG THAT FELL.
I never did join New York City Ballet. I left the school that spring to join Pacific Northwest Ballet (which had a Balanchine repertoire), and later the Eliot Feld Ballet, until an injury cut my career short at 19. But I will never forget my City Ballet debut.
And now, perhaps, you won't either.
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