My Personal Queen

Heat. Hard to stand, overbearing sultriness accompanied by anxiogenic strands of hair sticking to the scalp. All you can imagine doing is starfishing with a pile of ice cubes nearby tantalizing with soothing cold. I, however, was at the Waldorff Schule, performing our jazz choreography in front of actual human audience. People that consciously decided to pay money and leave the house risking fatal dehydration, sit and watch dancers-to-be (not) failing at the series of wobbly grand pliés and screaming for a face whip, crooked arabesques. We got to be there the entire day, as everything had to be absolutely perfect. The school quickly filled up with frantically moving ballerinas in flashy green tutus, swarms of joyfully blabbering little girls in tiaras and tacky (but hey) pink hairpins and people looking like they really regret having said yes to the whole thing. Here I was, I thought, the sole representation of the ballet school’s male fraction, soon to be proven wrong and inspired to write this entry in my hipster online oh-my-god-so-cool-so-fucking-cool blog.

Three cutest boys, 6 years of age, as I quickly became aware of from their interrogation-like Q&A session, also happened to be performing. Because we were all trapped backstage, waiting for never-ending warm-ups or other rehearsals (arms higher and higher, legs in a split and stretch that bo-o-ody, breathe in and out, now FALL TO THE GROUND LIKE A BAG OF STONES, FEEL IT, FEEL THE GROUND UNDERNEATH YOU), I got to chat and make friends with all the ballerinas, especially with the remaining male representation (girls decided to fight over crayons and make squeaky sounds over a bag of unidentified snacks – ‘no, you already had one, Sarah, I’ll tell mommy’). So I – unwillingly – got to know pretty much everything about the habits of Francis’ guinea pig, his favourite TV show, favourite shoes, that I am really old, that next year I’ll inevitably turn twenty-nine and the type of drawings he is really good at right now at school. Suddenly I notice, that the queen-to-be is wearing a pink nail polish, pretty explicitly and is being absolutely shameless and fierce about it. So (as a grown up queen) I get to ask Francis: ‘Hey so why are you wearing nail polish?’.

He looks me in the eyes, clearly taken aback (what-are-you-stupid-or-something) and answers ‘Duh, because I want to?’.

This is a shout out to all the queens out there. Wear your nail polish like this kiddo. DO grown up and yeah, it gets better. And if it doesn’t – make it better. But it all has to start in you. Can now can I get an amen up in here?

(PS: After the bows at the end of fantastic show, the choreographers were giving out roses to people that helped with organization of the event. Naturally, Francis was very explicit about getting one too).