Ballet Helped Me Reclaim My Identity as a Queer Iranian

Imagination could only take me so far. I was ready to dance—and this time my mom couldn’t say no.

Other boys waited with their mothers while their sisters danced; there were even play tables set up to keep us occupied. But I declined to participate in children’s games. Instead, I’d peek through the window at the advanced ballet class, a group of high schoolers—girls and boys in tights and leg warmers. I vividly remember being awestruck by the way they leaped into the air and came down like feathers settling to the ground. They were defying physics, whereas I could barely touch my toes. My fellow elementary schoolers didn’t walk or move with grace, and I’d never seen anyone contort like this before. They looked different, like their bodies were made of silk and elastic. I wanted to be one of them.

My mom didn’t mind me watching; she thought it was cute that I was mesmerized by the older students. I eventually asked her to sign me up for my own ballet classes, and was surprised that she refused. My mom may have been charmed by my infatuation, but that didn’t mean I could participate. Her reasoning was that boys shouldn’t do ballet because it makes them “girly,” and I should play “a real sport” instead.

I was six years old, and this was the first time I felt shame.

Like most queer people, I knew early on that I was different from my peers. I was effeminate by societal standards, and also one of the only Middle Eastern kids in my class. I often felt like the crusts of Wonder bread: brown at the periphery of white, usually discarded. I was never explicitly targeted for being gay and brown by classmates, but I was always picked last for sports teams in PE classes, and I was never anyone’s valentine. I was once asked if I was related to one of the terrorists affiliated with 9/11. This was a genuine question.

It wasn’t much better at home. As my artistic interests blossomed, my parents were quick to deadhead anything they thought was too frilly for a proper Iranian boy. When I turned thirteen years old, I used my birthday money to buy a pair of bright canvas sneakers from the mall. The colors reminded me of a print Leigh Bowery wore in a TV segment at Harrods: a floral pattern of reds, purples, and blues. I was so excited to wear them to school. I was prepared for the ridicule from classmates, but it was my mom’s reaction that hurt me most. She gasped when she saw the shoes and said that everyone would think I was kooni—a Farsi slur for gay men. She made me exchange my new sneakers for a pair of white canvas high-tops. Understated, like she wanted me to be. At school the next day, I drew on the shoes with permanent markers, recreating the print of the originals. I kept them in my locker and wore them every day until I grew out of them.

I began resisting more fiercely as I got older. My only goal in high school was to spend as much time out of the house as possible. I immersed myself in the subjects my parents hated, like painting and choir. When I got home, I’d go to my room and lock the door. After I turned the lights out, I’d sneak out through my bedroom window to get high in my car on residential streets. As smoke billowed out the windows, I’d listen to CDs that I bought or burned specifically for this suburban ritual. One of my favorites was a compilation of Great Ballet Music from Barnes & Noble. I didn’t have any concept of dance pedagogy or choreography, but my mind transcended to the stage while the car stereo boomed Tchaikovsky or Stravinsky or Copland. I’d dissolve into a world where not only could I dance, but no one would shame me for it either.

Dancing represented so much more for me than just moving my body. It was a way to express oneself freely without repercussions or judgement. I was stuck in Ventura County, California, a community that didn’t understand what it meant to be brown. And those that could—my family—isolated me further for my queerness. If I could dance in real life, maybe I’d have a stronger grasp of my identity. I’d be known as the dancer by my peers, and not the faggot camel jockey. But the person I craved to be was only possible in my head, so I did my best to compensate as a shell of myself.

When I finally came out to my parents at sixteen, new rules were laid out without explanation. I was now prohibited from hanging out with certain friends that my parents felt exacerbated my queerness. For the first time ever, they enforced a strict curfew of 10 p.m. They obviously didn’t know I had perfected the art of sneaking out. I covered my tracks well, except for the few times I forgot to lock my door. I was with friends a few streets over the first time I was caught. This was before text messages, and my mom bombarded me with calls until I answered. Someone had shown my mom what I was posting on social media, particularly a shirtless photo of Roberto Bolle in tights displayed at the top of my profile—kooni stuff, as she put it. I was told to come home and take the posts down. I refused. So she told me not to come home that night. I was too embarrassed to tell my friends, so I slept in my car.

They looked different, like their bodies were made of silk and elastic. I wanted to be one of them.

These evictions were infrequent and my mom would regret them the following day, but the apologies ended there. The abuse manifested in ways unnoticeable to my parents. My schoolwork suffered, so much so that I almost didn’t graduate high school. I pulled it together and eventually moved away to college, which allowed me to be myself without further repercussions. I saturated myself in creative arts as a distraction, like I’d done in high school. But I rarely went to class; and when I did, I was too high to comprehend the material. My objective was to get so fucked up that I couldn’t feel, that I could ignore the missing puzzle piece where a parent’s unquestioning support should be. I reminded myself repeatedly that one doesn’t need that to lead a satisfying life, but it felt like a lie. It was apparent that love was conditional for some parents—my parents. I had difficulty coming to terms with that. Eventually, that hole became so big that I succumbed to the numbness I desired. I continued this way throughout my late teens and into my twenties, and when I was twenty-two years old, I tried to kill myself.

My suicide attempt finally forced my parents, especially my mom, to re-evaluate the way their actions had been slowly deteriorating their son. We spent the next few years in family therapy, where my parents learned that being gay is not an affliction; that their son could lead a happy, successful life regardless of who he loved or went to bed with. I’m grateful for their progress, but even after extensive therapy, the trauma of my childhood remained. My twenties were rolling along, and I still felt like that angsty teenager who refused to concede to societal norms. I thought psychotherapy would be enough to cure this wound, but the treatment felt superficial. Infection was still festering below the surface. I wasn’t happy or fulfilled like I thought I should be. And it wasn’t until I moved to New York last year—five years after my suicide attempt—that the healing finally began.

I spent my first Friday night as a New York City resident at the ballet, and I cried the entire time. Not just at the performance—I also cried when I arrived at the David Koch Theatre in Lincoln Center. I was overwhelmed by the grandeur of the Promenade and its Elie Nadelman sculptures, and also with the feeling that I had finally arrived. This was the epicenter of American ballet. The masters of contemporary ballet, like Alvin Ailey and George Balanchine and Martha Graham, all stood here at one point. I felt a profuse sense of security knowing they were with me. I had just moved across the country, but it was here at 66th and Broadway that I felt at home for the first time in years. When the curtain rose and Balanchine’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream began, it was as if I, too, was in a dream—like those times I got high in my car and imagined myself up on stage, moving freely, as my true self.

That evening at Lincoln Center changed me. I tapped and skipped my way home, reveling in the pleasure I’d just experienced, like an orgasm. I wanted to hold on to this feeling, and over the next few months, I immersed myself in ballet. I started with short ballet clips on YouTube, like Mikhail Baryshnikov dancing Balanchine’s Theme and Variations with American Ballet Theatre in the late ’70s, or David Hallberg as Onegin at Bolshoi. From there I found full performances from Paris, St. Petersburg, and London, all streaming for free. My weekends were spent at Lincoln Center or in front of the TV watching various productions, studying the patterns of different styles of ballet. Whether it was French technique, famous for the quickness and precision of footwork, or the Vaganova method, which places more emphasis on port de bras coordination, I always saw myself as these dancers. But imagination could only take me so far. I was ready to dance—and this time my mom couldn’t say no.

I enrolled in a beginning ballet class at Steps on Broadway for adults with little to no training, like myself. What I lacked physically, I made up for in knowledge. I had the terminology down and felt confident in my abilities. I came overly prepared for my first class in black Capezio tights, blush split-sole shoes, and a white cotton t-shirt. Not to mention the dance belt, which is essentially a thong with a padded crotch. That was my favorite accessory.

The instructor walked in with a boombox. There was no accompanist for the beginner’s class—only a CD with pre-recorded piano music. She clapped her hands the way all teachers do to get students’ attention, and instinctively we all filed like soldiers to the barre. I wondered what had brought the other adults to take an introductory ballet class. What made them decide to pick dancing? Why not pottery, or acting, or voice lessons? Perhaps we all had repressed dreams of dancing that we couldn’t fulfill until now. And there were other men in the class—maybe my story wasn’t unique; maybe their moms didn’t let them dance, either.

It was as if I, too, was in a dream—like those times I got high in my car and imagined myself up on stage, moving freely, as my true self. 

It was clear in the first ten minutes of class that my body was not meant for these types of movements. My flat foot wasn’t strong enough to support my body on its toes, and a pinched nerve in my back made it hard to arabesque. I thought I was in good shape, but I could barely keep up with the most basic steps. The instructor was moving too fast and I was consistently one to two beats behind. I was wheezing by the time we got to combinations and had to tap out to catch my breath. But I didn’t feel inadequate or self-conscious. The comradery among us beginners was strong—we were all new, and we all looked awkward. I joined back in within a few minutes, revitalized and ready to master the combinations. I didn’t do any of them correctly.

I knew it would get easier with time, but only if I practiced consistently. Dancers put their bodies through this kind of rigor to improve their technique and craft. I was determined to put in the same work.

I went to class every week without fail. I cross-trained at the gym, stuck to a strict diet, and was more aware of my movements outside of class. My flat foot still gave me trouble, and my hip flexors ached whenever I plied, but like any pro I was able to work around it. I continued my education earnestly, watching or reading or listening to anything related to ballet and its history. When I wasn’t in the studio, I attended more performances at Lincoln Center, while also broadening my scope with contemporary ballet at Mark Morris, the Joyce, BAM, and beyond. I even made a makeshift barre in my bedroom, so I could wake up and stretch my body the way a dancer does.

With every week I spent in class, the scars of my childhood faded. I felt lighter, even freer. It may have just been partly due to the endorphins from my new fitness and diet regimen, but it’s deeper than that. I had more purpose now. Though I still haven’t completely healed, and probably never will, the burden of “what if” no longer weighs me down. I finally did what I wanted to do for so long. I couldn’t have those experiences as a kid, so I made them for myself as an adult. I don’t necessarily feel like a brand-new person since I started ballet; I’m still figuring out who I am. I do, however, have a more specific perception of my identity as a queer person. I’m not in my head as much. I am more whole, and dare I say, happier. Plus, my legs have never looked better.

It is a large investment of time for someone who has no dance talent. That’s not really the point, though. I’m doing something I love every single day. And I don’t really care that I can’t dance. What matters is that I’m dancing.