There are uptown little towns, and then there are not-so-uptown little towns. Fortunately, Andalusia is in the “uptown” category.
What makes an “uptown,” you ask? Cultural things do. Civic pride. A good golf course. Artists. Writers. A pretty square. Andalusians certainly have more to do than go to a hamburger joint and drive around the parking lot. But in say, Wazoo, Mississippi where they just got a McDonalds, you’d think Mayor McCheese was gonna run for office. Those people love their McDonalds. A night on the town in Wazoo is driving to the WalMart in Jackson and looking through the fishing section (actually, that sounds kinda fun).
One of the most impressive things about Andalusia is the fact that we have a ballet.
I’ll admit that growing up, I never liked the ballet. In fact, I hated it. As a child, I was dragged the ballet all the time. What little boy wants to stick on a bow tie, go with his mother down to the theatre, and sit for a few hours while a bunch of girls jump around? Not me. No way. No how. Send me to a Rambo movie for gosh sakes.
In high school and college I had a number of dancer girlfriends who insisted I go to the ballet with them. In my ignorance, I would sit in the audience and say, “boy that looks easy.” One evening, the girl I was with overheard my grumble and whacked me with her program, “why don’t you try it then Morgan, if you think it’s so easy?”
“Well all they’re doing is jumping around and holding their arms over their dern heads–I can do one of those ‘Pas Doo-Doos’, too,” I said.
I was in a major argument. Of course, since I had no idea what I was talking about, I lost. Let me tell you fellows of Andalusia, women can make a man do strange things.
Before I knew it, I was signed up to take a ballet class at Birmingham-Southern College. My big mouth had gotten me into awkward situations before, but never tights and ballet slippers. You can get seriously injured in that sort of get-up.
So there I was, first day of class. I had my tights on backwards with the crotch at my knees. My slippers are three sizes too small and my feet are curled up like a banana. And I’m having to wear a “dance belt.” Gentlemen–this isn’t a belt a person can talk about in polite company. Needless to say, I was uncomfortable.
Worse, I was the only male in a class of twenty. Wait a minute. One male. Nineteen gorgeous women. 19-to-1. Morgan Murphy and over a dozen scantily-clad dancers. Hmmm. Lemmie think about this a second . . . .
Suddenly, the world of dance was looking up. And since I was the only guy, I had the pick of the joint. So what if I looked like a complete dufus? As far as this class was concerned, I was Mr. Testosterone, and therefore a valuable commodity.
But then we started to learn ballet. There were some moments that were great–like when I got to be partners with the lovely Carlye Shaw: “You want me to put my hands where!” I asked the instructor after she showed me the move.
Then there were some moments that were not so great. Putting one’s leg next to one’s head is painful. I must tell you that I found it disconcerting to put my foot on my forehead.
There isn’t anything sissy about ballet, let me tell you. It is work. Men in ballet bench press hundreds of pounds (thankfully, they don’t have to lift opera divas over their heads). And in ultimate Alabama macho, football players at the University and Auburn are often in ballet classes to learn coordination.
In ballet, the dancer’s body is his instrument. Some dancers are lithe flutes or graceful violins. I was like the bass oboe with a couple of stops missing. I discovered that ballet is all about watching people; watching people do very difficult moves that not come naturally to the human race. It’s amazing.
Once I learned how hard it was to make ballet look easy, I appreciated the art. I think the worst thing you can say to a ballet dancer or any artist for that matter is, “gosh, that looked hard.” Great artists make the hard stuff look easy.
In Andalusia, we have people who do that every day. In fact, my Aunt Meryane Martin Murphy is the Creative Director for the Andalusia Ballet Association. Just next week, a Russian ballet company will be in our city. I’d say that was pretty uptown.
And one last thing, when I wrote a similar column for Birmingham-Southern’s campus newspaper there were 15 men in the next semester’s ballet class.
—Morgan Murphy