Every short dancer’s worst nightmare was here, May 15th 2026, the claustrophobic casting day for Swan Lake. The unfair decisions of who gets the superior roles of the iconic ballet known by the whole population of the world. Piercing pins stab lycra leotards with nerve-wracking numbers. Ninety-seven aspiring ballerinas formed perfect lines as a dreary director inspects us all like objects. Magical music echos throughout the ancient hall as pointe shoes scrape the slippery surface upon the floor, rosin encased in the cracks.
Miss Lewis calls five numbers, “number twenty-seven”. I had made it through to the next round to determine my fate! An advanced exercise of adage was set (definitely not my strong suit). As the steady tempo flows, I had reached my leg at almost a hundred-and-eighty degrees high with immaculate turnout. The panel whispered, pointed and stared as the auditionees patiently waited. Next up was pirouettes (my favourite)! Some hit singles, some hit doubles, I got lucky and hit quadruples on both sides! The panel ended up with their jaws on the floor.
That was it, we were about to find out which four got the superior roles.
As we stood like soldiers, Miss Lewis stood up and walked over to me, “number twenty-seven, you are one of the strongest ballet-dancers here but you are just too short!” she exclaimed to me. “Are you for real?!” I angrily expressed after I had left the hall, “Why should height determine who you are as a dancer?”. The next day, the cast list was up on the wall. “Swans: Alexa Garrett” (and then another twenty-nine dancer’s names) read the creased paper. Disappointing but far from surprising, the way it repeatedly seems to be. I began to challenge myself to the limits in every class, every rehearsal, everyday. When we all warmed up at the barre, I would do all the exercises on relevé without holding on. I formed the mindset of pushing myself past my capabilities to give Mrs. Lewis and all directors in the industry a reason to regret picking less determined performers due to height.
The last day of rehearsals had arrived. The frantic theatre was crowded with crazy chaperones and nothing was organised. “Are you for real?!” my brain echoed. The stage lights gazed over the chaotic crash of ballerinas running to the prestigious scene for the coda of Odette. If things hadn’t changed by the morning, journalists would stab the company with a dagger of shame.
The morning had ran by and it was all drastically improving. Leaps were high, feet were pointed and the allegro was closer to touching the sky. However, it still felt disappointing knowing that the role someone else was dancing could’ve been you yet you couldn’t reach the opportunity because of something you physically can’t control. This was the disheartening reality of being a dancer who is short. Not all stories end happily and fair but sometimes hard work and determination just isn’t enough. Sometimes your ability just isn’t enough.