On Pointe

Ballet gave Alice Robb a way to be a girl a specific template of femininity. What did it mean to be a woman without it?

We are 11 or 12 years old, but most of us look younger; we have been chosen, in part, because we are small for our age. Our smiles are tense, our necks stretched, our backs erect. Perhaps we are pretending, as we’ve been taught, that a puppeteer is pulling up our heads by a string. We have been told that our ballet school is the best in the world; we have been told that we are lucky.

There are 20 of us in the photo, and we all want the same thing: to dance with the New York City Ballet.

My cheek is tilted toward the light, but my eyes are pointed down. This year, my body has begun to defy me: The curve of my hip is peeking out from my torso, disrupting the once smooth line of my leg. I can control my muscles and my weight, but, I am learning, I cannot control my bones.

For picture day, at least, I have managed to subdue my frizzy hair. It lies flat against my head, slicked into a bun so tight I can almost feel it tugging at my scalp. I don’t want to add any volume: our school’s founder, George Balanchine, said that a dancer’s head should be small, and this will always be his institution, even if he has been dead for 20 years.

I am kneeling. My wrists are crossed in front of my heart—a gesture that, in classical ballets like Giselle, signifies love. Of course, I didn’t choose this pose; I was only doing what I was told. Our teacher has arranged us in three rows and instructed us what to do with our hands and arms and legs. They don’t have to tell us to smile.

I had been turned away twice when I was finally admitted to the School of American Ballet. Most afternoons from then on, I would hurry out of school as soon as the bell rang and hightail it across Central Park. The thrill of jogging up the escalator at Lincoln Center, pushing open the glass doors like I belonged, never wore off.