When There's a Will, There's a Way

When There’s a Will, There’s a Way

           “Happy birthday, Aishah!” Mama said, holding out a gift-wrapped package.

           I swallowed a lump in my throat as I looked at the present. I knew what it was. And it didn’t please me the slightest.

           I looked at my older sisters, Hasmah, Sabrinah and Iman, and my younger sister, Damia. Hasmah’s head was covered and she even wore her traditional Malay clothes despite it being the weekend. Sabrinah wore jeans, but her head was covered completely; Iman wore a short skirt over leggings, completely contrasting her sombre headscarf. Only Damia’s hair was exposed to the world, but since she was only ten, it was to be expected, at least in our family. For me, however, at twelve (officially twelve as of two hours previously), well...the headscarf was not a necessity, but an expectation.

           “Aren’t you going to open it, Aishah?” Mama asked, holding out the package expectantly.

           Reluctantly, I took it and slowly tore open the wrapping paper. A pale pink headscarf stared back at me, complete with a brooch to pin it in place.

           “I know your favourite colour is pink,” Mama said, beaming at me. “Do you like it?”

           “I-,” I stammered, unable to complete the sentence.

           Sabrinah came to my rescue. She was my favourite sister after all; she knew me best despite there being a five-year age gap between us.

           “It’ll take some getting used to,” Sabrinah said quickly. “I remember the first time I tried to put mine on. I poked myself in the chin with the brooch!”

           Mama looked from me to Sabrinah and then said. “Well, do you want my help with it, Aishah? It’s your first step towards womanhood!”

           “Mama…” I hesitated and then took the plunge. “Mama, I don’t want to wear it.”

           There was a dead silence. Not one of us had ever refused the tradition of wearing the headscarf. Not even Iman, rebellious as the middle child, had tried. She wore it at home, to the mosque, to weddings, to funerals, everywhere that Mama could see her. At the weekends with her non-Muslim friends and at parties, well, the headscarf went out the window with her conservative manners.

           “Do you not like the colour, Aishah?” Mama asked, a steely tone in her voice. She was giving me an out. A way of explaining that I wasn’t being a brat or trying to renounce our faith.

           “Mama…. It’s not that,” I said, staring at her shoulder, which was less dangerous than meeting her eyes which were trying to set me on fire. “It’s just…. I can’t wear the headscarf when I’m in a tutu doing ballet.”

           When I finished the sentence, there was another dead silence. I looked at all of my sisters; none of them met my eyes. Iman was smirking, enjoying the moment that someone else was in trouble; Hasmah was frowning, but then again, Hasmah enjoyed wearing her headscarf as part of her faith; Damia was playing with the wrapping paper of my birthday present. Even Sabrinah was avoiding my gaze and she knew how much ballet meant to me.

           “She has to wear it, Mama,” Iman said, her dark brown eyes boring holes into my face. “All of us had to when we turned twelve. Happy birthday to us!”

           The sarcasm in Iman’s voice was unmistakable; Sabrinah elbowed her in the ribs as Mama ignored her, focusing on me. I wished that Mama knew how much ballet meant to me. I had started when I was two and now that I was twelve, I took classes every single day for two hours after school. I was on scholarship at the Conservatory; Mama and Papa didn’t have to pay a cent. But even though they had accepted that I loved ballet and I had talent, they hadn’t yet accepted that I could not wear a headscarf whilst performing.

           Mama’s face was inscrutable. “Your ballet? Aishah, I would have thought that you would have wanted to quit by now.”

           I went white. For the last few months, I had figured that that was what was on Mama’s mind; she and Papa did not want a ballerina for a daughter! Even though we were immigrants to the United States, she and Papa had maintained their Malaysian style of thinking: our daughters must marry Muslims, our daughters must wear headscarves, our daughters must be lawyers or engineers or business women. That is the path towards success!

           “Mama, no way!” I exclaimed. “I love ballet! Please don’t make me quit! I have the chance to audition to be Clara this year!”

           Mama’s expression turned from impassive to incredulous. A harsh laugh burst out of her as she stared at me. “Clara? Aishah, don’t kid yourself. They don’t want a Malay Clara anymore than they want a Chinese Sugar Plum Fairy.”

           I ignored that last comment. “Misty Copeland is currently the Sugar Plum Fairy in the American Ballet Theater! She’s African-American, Mama! They might want a diverse cast this year. Please don’t make me wear the headscarf. That will make them reject me for sure.”

           Mama looked at me. I wasn’t sure what she was thinking. Aside from this argument about ballet, I pretty much a model daughter. Not as ideal as Hasmah, of course, who was basically Mini Mama, but pretty close. Better behaved than Damia. Miles better than Sabrinah. It wasn’t even worth it to compare myself to Iman.

           The next phrase that came out of her mouth wasn’t unexpected. It was a furious tirade in Malay. Basically, her daughter would only not wear a headscarf and perform ballet in a leotard and tights in front of perverts over her dead and buried body.

***

           Two days later, after that not-so-happy birthday, Papa visited me in my room. It was Sunday night, the night before the day that I would either continue exposing my hair to the world or would wear the headscarf prison over my head for the rest of my life.

           I was curled up on my bed, holding a blanket over my head. Papa sat down on the opposite end of the bed as me and patted my foot under the blankets.

           “Mama told me what’s been going on,” he said. “You don’t want to wear the headscarf? Why?”

           I shrugged uncomfortably. Papa was less traditional than Mama, but I doubted he would understand his daughter wanting to become a professional ballerina.

           “Aishah, talk to me,” Papa said. “I want to understand. What do you have to lose from telling me the truth?”

           I weighed the odds in my head. Finally, chewing on my bottom lip, I blurted out, “I want to be a professional ballet dancer, Papa. But ballet dancers don’t wear headscarves. And if I wear it out during the day, I can’t take it off to perform ballet at night. It would be worse than never wearing it at all.”

           Papa looked at me for a long moment. Eventually, he said, “Aishah, your Mama wants you to wear it. All the women in her family have worn headscarves; it is a symbol of our faith. It will hurt her if you don’t.”

           “Papa, please,” I said. “I want to be a ballet dancer. And ballet dancers can’t wear headscarves and long sleeves and not show their hair to men. I can’t do both. There was that Muslim gymnast who doesn’t wear one. Let me try to be one of those diversely accepted dancers. Please!”

           Once again there was a long silence. Finally, Papa said, “Aishah, how about this? A compromise. If you get the part of Clara this Christmas, you don’t have to wear your headscarf. Not until you’re eighteen. But if you don’t, you must wear the headscarf. Yes, or no?”

           It was my turn to weigh the odds in my head. Even the compromise sucked; I didn’t want to wear a headscarf when I was eighteen. However, when I was eighteen, I could move away from home and wouldn’t have to wear the headscarf if I didn’t want to. But that would mean that I would have to get the part of Clara. No exceptions. I doubted Mama would give me a second chance if I failed to get the principal role.

           Sighing, I shook Papa’s outstretched hand. “Deal.”

***

           Four days later, I stood at the entrance to the main dance studio of the Conservatory, alongside fifteen other Conservatory girls. My heart was beating fast and loud in my chest; everyone looked as nervous and scared as I felt. All of our hair was gelled back in tight buns, our black leotards were identical and our pink tights immaculate. Each of us wore soft pink shoes and carried a pair of broken-in pointe shoes.

           “Come in,” the artistic director called, making all of us jump. With a nervous look at each other, we walked quickly into the room and curtsied to her and her panel of judges: the principal of the Conservatory and one of the main pointe instructors.

           “Please put your pointe shoes at the side and come to the barre,” the artistic director, Ms Wright, said. “Today, Mr Otto will be giving you the combinations. Mr Robertson, Ms Delaney and I will be observing and judging. If we like your technique and dancing enough, we’ll ask you to stay back and perform the Clara variation. Is that clear?”

           All of us murmured assent. My palms were sweaty and my mouth was dry; if I couldn’t get the part of Clara in my own studio, what hope did I have in the professional ballet world? All of us ran to the side of the studio and put our pointe shoes down, then headed to the barre, lining up in order of our numbers. Taking a deep breath, I positioned myself between two other dancers near the front of the barre.

           “Ready?” Mr Otto said. “We’ll start with a plié combination. In first position, demi and stretch…”

***

           Three hours later, I stood at the side of the studio with two other girls, waiting to hear the judges’ verdict. All of us were on tenterhooks, more so even than when we’d been performing the variation.

           “Are you nervous?” Jacquie asked me, squeezing my hand. Jacquie was one of my closest friends at the studio, despite being the complete opposite of me, what with her blonde hair, white skin and taller frame.

           “Are you kidding?” I asked, squeezing back. “I’m terrified!”

           Before Jacquie could respond, however, Dana snickered. “As if they’re going to cast a Malay Clara! You’ve got about as much chance as that fly on the wall, Aishah.”

           My stomach turned inside out at her words. Dana was voicing exactly what my parents were saying and what I feared the directors would say.

           Jacquie opened her mouth to retaliate, but the artistic director, Ms Wright, interrupted. “Sorry for keeping you waiting so long, girls. All of you are amazing dancers and we are extremely excited to be working with you for the next few months before we put on The Nutcracker. Now, without further ado, the person who will be playing Clara is…”

***

           Two days later, I stood behind Jacquie, marking her steps, trying to retain each movement to my muscle memory. The previous couple of days had been a whirlwind of arguments, disappointment and frustration; Mama and Papa were either arguing with me or with each other. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but Papa seemed to be on my side. Mama maintained that being an understudy wasn’t as good as getting the role and therefore, I shouldn’t even consider ballet as my future career. I didn’t know what Papa was saying, but all I knew was that I was now wearing the headscarf at school, before dance classes, between rehearsals and after dance. It was incredibly frustrating, but at least I was allowed to continue with my ballet. The alternative would be quitting altogether.

           “And piqué, double piqué and double chaîné - keep those ankles crossed, Jacquie!” Ms Delaney called out from the front where she was watching Jacquie perform the variation. “Good! And a 5 and a 6…”

           Dana shot me a nasty glare from where she was standing with the other Party Children at the opposite wall. She hadn’t yet come to terms that she had lost the role of Clara to Jacquie and the role of understudy to me. Me! The black-haired, short Malay girl.

           “You shouldn’t be the understudy,” Dana sneered as I marked steps towards her corner. “The only reason they gave it to you is because Wright wants to give the impression that they made the right choice in giving you the scholarship. If you didn’t even get second consideration for the role, they would have to say that they should have given the scholarship to Jacquie instead. You’re just an afterthought.”

           I ignored her. I was becoming quite good at that; I ignored my mother’s angry attitude towards my father accepting that I could remove the headscarf for ballet, I ignored Iman arguing that she should be allowed to not wear hers if I didn’t have to wear mine, I ignored the snickers of the girls in my high school at my new uniform of a headscarf and traditional Malay clothes, I ignored Dana’s snotty behaviour and malicious remarks. It was worth it, getting to perform in the ballet at Christmas time even though I wasn’t Clara.

           “And they only picked Jacquie because she’s blonde,” Dana continued, her spiteful voice ringing in my ears, almost drowning out Ms Delaney as she continued to give corrections and praise to Jacquie. “If I were blonde, the part would be mine. Everyone likes blondes…”

           It was harder to listen to her jibes against Jacquie. Jacquie was my best friend and always supportive of me; I was as happy for her success as I was disappointed at myself for not getting the role. But Jacquie was a beautiful dancer and I was glad that she had her chance to shine. Dana on the other hand….

           “Take five for water, Jacquie,” Ms Delaney said, interrupting my dark thoughts. “Aishah, can I have a word?”

           Heart sinking in my chest, I approached her, nervously straightening my leotard and smoothing my hair back as I went. It was hardly ever good to be called aside by a ballet master or mistress. Had she noticed Dana and me talking?

           Apparently, that wasn’t the case at all, for Ms Delaney was looking down at a sheaf of papers when I got to her. She smiled at me, making my heart skip a beat.

           “Aishah, I’ve been meaning to speak to you since the auditions,” she said. “I presume you’ve been wondering why we didn’t cast you as Clara?”

           “Yes,” I said, making a spur-of-the-moment decision to be as honest as possible without sounding arrogant. “I think Jacquie is a wonderful dancer though. And that you made a good choice.”

           “A good choice,” Ms Delaney mused, laying the papers down on her desk. “A good choice. Aishah, your parents came in to see us before the auditions. And they told us some...questionable things about your future ballet career. Do you want to tell me about it?”

           My heart started beating again, but this time louder and faster with anger. I didn’t know how to tell her about the problems I was having with my family. Were they the reason that I hadn’t gotten the part?

           “Did my parents ask you not to give me the role?” I asked bitterly.

           “No, actually,” Ms Delaney said, surprising me. “They asked me - and Ms Wright and Mr Robertson too - to tell them how good we think you are. They wanted to know if your future career as a ballet dancer is a possible goal.”

           I shuffled my feet together, looking down at them, before remembering that that wasn’t good ballet dancer behaviour. I turned them out quickly into first position, looked up and said, “And what did you say?”

           Ms Delaney pulled out a piece of paper from her folder. “I told them that I want you to audition for the Summer Program at the School of American Ballet. The auditions are in January. We cast Jacquie as Clara because we want you to focus on your technique, your training, everything that you need to get into the school. If you get in, we want you to audition for the upcoming Winter Term. We think you’re good enough. Your mother wasn’t pleased, to say the least, but your father was very enthusiastic about your prospects. Do you want to give it a try?”

           My head was spinning. After those two awful days of thinking that I wasn’t good enough, here was proof that Ms Delaney and Ms Wright and Mr Robertson thought that I could do it.

           Mama and Papa weren’t arguing about the headscarf! They were arguing about me moving to New York City. To Manhattan! No wonder Mama was upset. She didn’t want her daughter to leave, certainly not when she was twelve. And the previous few days wearing the headscarf.... Mama and Papa were probably trying to judge and see how responsible I was going to be whilst in New York, if I got in. Seeing as I had worn it, without much complaint aside from arguing constantly that I wanted to continue with ballet, I had a very hopeful feeling that they were going to let me go, or at least audition.

           My voice cracked as I tried to speak.

           “Oh, most definitely, yes, please!” I gasped.