Men in Pointe Shoes

Men in Pointe Shoes

Written by Lila Lutterschmidt

“My name is Ruby Dixon, I'm auditioning for a solo in this year’s ballet.”

“The name of your choreographer, miss?”

“Ruby Dixon.”

1 Week Earlier

My pointe shoes were tied too tight, my toes were contorted and my knees were bruised from the constant practice. I had a week before auditioning for my self-choreographed solo to be in this year's show. Ballet companies all over the world came to see it, right in the heart of Sydney, Australia. My issue was the big names of choreographers. I didn’t have one. I did it all myself, day after day for a year straight with no breaks. I dreaded repeating my own name on the stage.

My phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Ruby, it's your mother. It’s not safe to be out this late, even at the studio. Come home.”

“I can’t come home right now.”

I worked endlessly for weeks. Every part of my body ached, you could almost hear my conscience begging me to lay down. But I didn’t have it as easy as everyone else. Everyone else had a famous choreographer on their side. Growing up poor, I was completely self-made. I learned most of my skills from my Aunt Karina when I would go to her house in the summers. I would practice what she taught me all winter, until the weather was warm. I was also fairly young—I had just turned 18. In the ballet world, this was a late start. If I had the money, I could’ve gone to an academy like my Aunt Karina did. A company would’ve noticed me in classes and offered to help me with an audition to be in the Sydney show.

The day of the audition arrived way too quickly. Even with the restless hours of practice, I never felt content.

I woke up around 5 in the morning and went for a run. I didn’t eat anything. I chugged a water bottle with lemon and began practicing. When the clock struck 2 in the afternoon, I was ready to go to my audition—it started at 3. I picked out a light blue leotard, tied my dark brown hair into a bun, and paired everything with white stockings, white pointe shoes, and a white bow.

My choreography was based on Alice In Wonderland. My song was a mashup my friend had made on his computer, of classical music and quotes from Alice In Wonderland. It wasn’t something the others could do—it was only mine. I wasn’t doing Swan Lake or The Red Shoes like almost every other girl auditioning. But the choreography itself wasn’t the only thing setting me apart. I didn’t have a choreographer—no one telling me what to do, no one guiding me. I’d made this piece alone, and that fact weighed heavier with every passing minute.

The biggest issue wasn’t the lack of a choreographer, though. It was that I was a woman, alone. Every other female dancer at the audition would be accompanied by a male choreographer, as though that were the only socially acceptable way to show up. The looks I got as I walked through the door made it clear—this wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. But I didn’t believe men were the only ones who could create good choreography. I wasn’t a huge fan of having a man tell me what to do anyway.

But there I was, the stage lights beating against my skin like a heat lamp, showing every ounce of panic across my pale, malnourished face and body.

“Contest 19, please exit the wing for your audition.”

I walked to the front and stared down at the judges. A woman with blonde hair and thick-framed black glasses stared at me with worry. The three men, all about the same age—mid-50s. Gray slicked-back hair and different colored scarves.

“Should I send you my condolences, number 19?”

I stood with my hands folded behind my back.

“Why would you do that?” I said with a nervous smile.

“Your choreographer, your male representative? You know a woman can’t represent herself,” the woman said, with a concerned look on her face.

I stood silent for a moment.

“My name is Ruby Dixon, I'm auditioning for a solo in this year’s ballet.”

“The name of your choreographer, miss?” Asked the man in the yellow scarf.

“Ruby Dixon.”

The three men chuckled. The woman just looked up at me. The three men looked over to the woman to see if she was laughing too, but she wasn’t.

“You know I don’t think it's funny. I know I just said a woman can't represent herself and choreograph herself, but why not?”

The men looked shocked, adjusting their scarves as if they were choking them.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” said the woman, wiping a tear from her eye.

The music began. I started to dance. All I could notice was the three men writing things down as I danced. I imagined I was with Aunt Karina, those summers in Charleston. Every day we would dance. She wanted to be a ballerina. After she got pregnant, she said her body would never return to the way it once was.

Her daughter was taken from her six months after birth, when her husband left her for a younger woman. The daughter was brought to live with the father and his new wife. In this day and age, women were allowed nothing. We could vote and own land, of course. But career-wise, even family-wise, without a man we were too weak.

Suddenly, I wasn’t dancing for me, not for the company, or to prove to the three men in scarves that I was worthy of a spot in the show. I was dancing for Aunt Karina, so I could do what she could never teach her daughter. If I got a spot in the Sydney show, I could show Aunt Karina that as a woman she can still accomplish what she once wanted—even if it’s not her doing it. That as a woman, she can make a change in the world, even if it's small.

Then suddenly, the music ended.

“It’s a shame, Miss Dixon. That's the best routine we’ve seen all day. But it was choreographed by a woman, so we cannot accept it.”

The men collected their papers and tore them in half. I stared down at them from the stage, reached down to my pointe shoe, untied the ribbons so carefully tied that morning. Carried the shoe down to the judges.

“The men don’t wear the pointe shoes,” I said, holding the shoe up to the men.

I continued, "they may choreograph better than a woman, but they do not wear the pointe shoes.”

“I think she’s right. Can we do something different? Every other girl comes in here with a variation of Swan Lake or The Nutcracker or some bullshit their choreographer created, and we say it's amazing because a man did it. It’s bullshit and it makes no sense. As a woman, if you don't accept her for who she is as a dancer, I will release the information of how you rigged the last show."

The three men looked confused.

“Alright, she’s in. But if we get any backlash, you snuck in.”

We agreed. I would say my choreographer had passed and I did not wish to declare his information.

The woman judge looked at me, and said, "a woman's worth is no greater than her ambitions, I can tell your worth by your ambition."

The Day of the Show

Three long months of practice later, the day of the show arrived. By then, I was sick of the music, the outfit, the choreography—everything. But I got in, and I still don’t know how. I worried about the crowd’s reaction.

Waiting backstage was dreadful. Everyone stressing over the criticism from their choreographers—I had nobody to critique me. It was just me.

I entered the stage wing as the choreography before mine ended her performance. Her choreographer came out and thanked everyone for watching their work. The choreographer made a speech.

“My name is Drew Sterling. I am here today with my ballerina, Tina Florence. Tina has been practicing my choreography for a year and I think it turned out great. Round of applause for my work, everyone.”

The crowd applauded.

“Great job, Mr. Sterling.”'

They walked off. I wondered why it was all about him. The men don’t wear the pointe shoes.

It was finally time. My music began, and my performance started.

Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of my Aunt Karina in the left wing. She mouthed to me,

“I will represent you.”

My last leap, followed by a roll to the floor, ended my performance. The crowd applauded.

The judges clapped. The crowd was happy—so they were too.

It got silent when my Aunt Karina walked out. The crowd began to discuss what was going on.

“Who is that woman behind the ballerina?”

“I’ve never seen her.”

“Of course you haven’t seen her—it’s a woman!”

The crowd grew angry. I wondered why other women in this society didn’t question why we are expected to always have a man at our side.

The woman judge quieted the crowd.

The man in the yellow scarf turned his microphone to his mouth.

“Ruby, you said this was self-choreographed.”

“It was, sir. I didn’t expect my Aunt to show up today, but she taught me everything, and I’ve chosen her as my representative.”

“You’re supposed to have a male representative, Ruby. You told me your choreographer passed away,” said the man in the yellow scarf.

Something snapped in me as Karina’s grip tightened on my shoulder.

“No. That’s what you wanted me to say.”

The crowd gasped and began murmuring again.

The woman judge stood up.

“Everyone! Hello!? EVERYONE SHUT UP!”

Karina stepped forward, taking the microphone from the side stage. She spoke clearly, her voice echoing into the stunned silence.

“Ruby spends every summer with me. After my daughter was taken away because I didn’t have a man in my life, Ruby became like a daughter to me. She chose to call me her representative. Just because we are women does not mean our work should be treated any differently.”

The crowd erupted—some in support, others with anger and disbelief.

The man in the red scarf stood up, yelling across the stage.

“We had a deal! Get out! Now! Get out! Women accomplishing anything without a man is a disgrace to our society!”

The woman judge stood up, pulled a small pistol from her pocket, and fired.

The shot rang out.

The man in the red scarf staggered, clutching his chest. He collapsed behind the judges' table. The crowd fell silent. I instinctively hid behind Karina.

The man in the yellow scarf shoved the woman judge aside and ripped the pistol from her hand. He pointed it directly at me and Karina.

“For the crowd, and the people watching internationally… say you were wrong,” he growled, grinning coldly, as the man in the red scarf bled out behind him.

My shaky hands took the microphone from Karina. Tears streamed down my face.

“I wanted to be a ballerina. I grew up poor.”

My voice trembled, but I continued.

“My family wasn’t present in the summers, so I learned to dance with my aunt—who stands behind me now. I couldn’t afford any other training. I couldn’t afford a man to choreograph for me. But I was born with talent.”

The man tensed. He raised the gun.

“The men don’t wear the pointe shoes,” I cried, hysterical and breaking down.

“Ruby, get backstage. Now,” Karina said, pushing me toward the wing.

Then came the shot.

Karina was hit—right in the shoulder blade—just as she shielded me with her body. She collapsed. The crowd screamed. People fled the building. The cameras cut to black. The lights shut off. Panic swept the auditorium.

But something else stirred too. Rage. Especially among the women.

It was like a switch had flipped that day.

I just wanted to be a ballerina.

Women from the crowd—those who hadn’t run—rushed to help. Together, we carried Karina out to my car parked just outside the performance hall.

We got her to the hospital. But it was too late.

She was pronounced dead at 5:14 p.m.

The Next Day

News stations picked up the story.

Protests began outside the buildings that ran international dance shows and competitions.

Women gathered, holding up signs quoting me:

“You don’t see men in pointe shoes.”

It became a movement.

Three Months Later

The laws changed.

Women were allowed to choreograph.

They could keep custody of their children without needing a man’s presence.

They could have a steady, respected career.

We were equal.

Studios opened across the country named Karina’s Dance. Her legacy lived on through me—through every girl who refused to stay silent, and every boy who learned to stand beside her instead of in front of her.

Our shows featured choreography by both women and men. Our audiences grew by the millions.

And to this day, it’s still true:

The men don’t wear the pointe shoes.

However, we can all be flatfoot.