The Sin of Effeminacy
Lads do football or boxing or wrestling. Not friggin’ ballet!
It’s my favorite line from one of my favorite stories, Billy Elliot. When the film came out, I and my little dance troupe savored the social justification for boys doing ballet. We were Billy. Small town, macho things expected of macho men, gender-specific social codes, and a tiny rural town with no artistic prospects. Billy was our beacon of hope.
When you are planted and sprouted inside a tiny pot, you must find ways to grow and breathe and experience life without busting the pot. Your roots start to dangle out of the holes at the bottom, your stems and leaves make every effort to reach high and grow tall. Expansion is nearly impossible, but you do your best inside that pot to stretch out past the limits. Because you have to. Or you will wither and die. It’s dramatic but true.
We were a close-knit team; my principal dancers were two-to-three girls and two boys. The boys were the advantage that made us a cool troupe. With boys, you could do so much more than twirl and leap by yourself. You could fly above someone’s head, be tossed, lifted, spun, and supported to do things you couldn’t do on your own. You could shine as the glorious dancer that you were. Boys were excellent props and did a lot of grunt work. Their gestures were angular, strong, grounded, and they were there to support the ladies. If the boys wanted to shine too, they could do so during hip-hop numbers.
Our collective of churches each had its own performing arts department. We weren’t the conservative church that said dancing was of the devil. We were the conservative church with military mobilization to reclaim for God all the things. The arts were at the top of the list. The arts influence culture and through the arts people’s hearts are reached. Sunday church services were more rock concert and less docile organ hymns sung by the elderly. We spent hours training in dance, theatre, and music and those mechanisms drove evangelism and kept our hearts, minds, and souls supple to the great purpose of our collective God-ordained mission. As ministering artists, we were at the center in the most visible and glorified function of the church. As a dancer, I had permission to perform an interpretive dance during worship services. I was always stationed toward the front of the church and space was made for dancers to dance. Anyone was allowed to dance as the Spirit moved them. To be seated during worship meant you had twisted your ankle or were seriously aged. We were on our feet, swaying, jumping, clapping, raising and waving our hands, and dancing. One could dance at their seat, in the aisles, or up front. But if you went up front, you were visible and making a statement that the Spirit moved you to do so. I was usually up front. I needed the space, and I loved an audience. I was also doing a public service. Those with mobility limitations would tell me after the service that it brought them joy to see me dance because it’s what they were doing in their heart, but couldn’t do with their body.
Camron was an exceptionally gifted dancer. We called him “spin boy” because he could perform several revolutions with his body. He had springs in his legs and was light on his feet. The dance troupe and I traveled a couple of times for a mega performing arts workshop, and the ballet instructor, a former professional dancer, lost no time to zone in on Camron. She pulled him aside after class and told him he was talented and had a future as a ballet dancer if he could get himself into serious training. She wanted him to come train with her. At that point, Camron wanted nothing more, and as much as I didn’t want to lose him from our team, I wanted nothing more for him too. To be singled out and told you had what it took to be a dancer was the first confirmation that you could actually live your dream. I certainly had no professional future. My time had passed. But Cameron held Aces in his hand because he was young, and he was male. His kind on stage was in high demand.
We took the encouragement seriously and Camron proudly carried this calling in his heart. We danced and trained in earnest, put on enthusiastic smiles and pretended as if we were all going somewhere with our talents, knowing that we were performing the dance of great deception. None of us would dance anywhere but on our own church stage or venue of approved ministry outreach. We belonged to the church. God gave us our talents to be exploited by Him and not by our own selection. Even if Camron were to go train with another Christian organization, God had potted Camron where he was. Plants didn’t uproot and repot themselves. Only the caretakers were allowed to move plants, and the caretakers ensured plants remained rigorously pruned inside their original pots. I knew this before Camron did. I too was singled out and asked to join a prestigious mime company and go on tour with them. An honor I carried in my heart but wasn’t given permission to uproot for.
Pruning hurt, of course. And one Sunday morning it proved devastating. Camron’s leaves, stems, and roots were stretching too far and became unsightly to the caregivers. He was shy by nature and not prone to solo dancing, but the Spirit had moved him to dance up front. The encouragement he received about his capacity boosted him to assume his gift and release it. I was so proud of him as he moved beautifully and transcended into that glorious lost moment where self-consciousness falls to the wayside, giving way to pure unhindered expression. I was there in the flow with him and beaming with joy when sudden tapping on my shoulder and urgent whispering broke my trance.
Rachel, you must stop Camron now. We don’t want him dancing like that, it’s too effeminate. He’s got to stop.
It took me a minute to understand what was going on. I couldn’t put together the meaning of his words or sort out the line of authority that funneled down to me performing a disciplinary act. The senior pastor had sent the associate pastor to deliver a message for which I was to take action. I froze. I couldn’t do it. I watched Camron swept up in courage and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t humiliate him like that. Why was I handed the pruning shears - no - the ax, to hack away at his limbs and break his spirit. The pastor stood next to me waiting for my obedience. Perhaps it was better this way, it might not hurt Camron as much coming from me. Like double-dutch jump rope, the intrusion must be timed, so I waited for Camron to dance back toward me, hopefully looking my direction so I could discreetly signal him over. Not a chance, I had to go in and blindside him, bring him back down to earth, mitigate his disorientation and escort him to the sidelines.
He was finished. No more friggin’ ballet for him. Oh, he continued to dance because it was who he was. But not in the same capacity or with the same abandon. He wasn’t allowed to beautifully arc his form through his torso in an unbroken crescent through his long arm up to his gorgeous hand and graceful fingers, elevating his body toward the heavens. He’d been lassoed and pinned down to keep grounded, grunted, angular, choppy, and heavy. In ballet class, I was required to re-train the boys, especially those who erred on the side of effeminate. If feminine movements didn’t come from a female, they weren’t fit for ministry. The church couldn’t use Camron’s kind, so he picked up instruments. He was lucky to be multi-gifted. Piano and guitar became his second nature and he wowed us again with his virtuosity, he played well for the Lord.
We all kept dancing and finding ways to evolve inside our tiny pot. Constantly censoring each other’s movements, exploring other dance styles that weren’t so girly. Swing dancing suited us well because it was fun and the gender roles were clear. The boys had a lot of opportunities to do tricks with the girls and their male strength shined. Lads were macho, and only occasionally did they do ballet.
If you have sinned, slide forward.
Camron was heavily retrained and the effeminate ballet dancer no longer manifests through his body. He has taken to the stage, however. His long graceful fingers dance out complicated and intricate movements across ivory keyboards to the great ballet composers on a daily basis. He made it to the Big Apple after all and passes his gift on to others. He teaches, he composes, and he even accompanies dancers in the ballet studio. Some day he will write his own ballet, and along his journey back into the studio, the dancers perform a private service. They dance for him what he is doing in his heart, but wasn’t allowed to do with his body.
