jellybean josepé

i was raised in the ballet; specifically the boston ballet. dancers are usually "jumpers" or "turners", i was solidly a jumper and a "good corps dancer". while i had some skill, i am "curvy", which genuinely is frowned upon in ballet. but i was short and technically-accurate enough to just keep-being-casted. I think I've been pretty much every character in the Nutcracker, minus the leads. I did sometimes land titled roles when dancing with smaller companies - including Sleeping Beauty, where i was the Evil Queen.

i got it over one of their permanent soloists. she was nice to me, even though she was a better dancer than i was (and a much better turner). i had shown up on audition day and taken the role from her. the choreographer had told her to her face: you have the dance skills, but she has the stage presence. that kind of conversation just happens in ballet. she cried about it later, i caught her coming out of the bathroom. i had apologized on his behalf. i said it's not fair. i asked her if she wanted to get dinner, my treat.

she was often knitting or listening to music, so we didn't talk a lot, but she had been nice. she just seemed introverted, and i am unfortunately an extrovert. i often tried to include her, but she would rarely participate. we were in one of those circles, discussing exes. i am always very careful in these conversations; and never out myself. i am often, after all, in a room of somewhat-naked women. i do not not want any of them to think i'm like that. i do not want the fuss. (it's happened to me before. it was ugly.)

we were putting on our pointe shoes, and I was laughing. "no i swear. we got into an argument about it. my ex was like - what do you mean you actually dance on your actual toes. i guess my ex thought it was like, a euphemism? mind you, i wasn't even the first dancer they dated." i flexed my foot, shimmied the shank a little lower, tested the box placement. it only hurts for the first year and a half, kind of. also every time you have to jump en pointe. after that, the worst pain is just the 100 dollars every time you need a new pair (which is often).

around us, the green room was a flurry of tutus and hair spray and people in very-thick slippers. most dancers are very friendly, actually. it takes a very specific kind of person to physically destroy yourself for hours on end; and then to do that in front of a live audience, half-naked. in sequins. with your leg over your head.

most of us have some kind of mental illness. i should tell you that. many of us have adhd. the thing about being a girlchild and being restless is that they have a solution for that: just slam you into endless dance classes. the constant body-awareness is incredibly soothing for me; but it's a lot for other people. we aren't kidding when we tell you we need to be aware of literally every tendon, angle, and muscle of our bodies. i have spent a lifetime focusing on lifting the sole of my foot. my pinky finger is a villain, and i am always trying to tame her back into shape.

her brown hair was perfectly back, her eyes perfectly rimmed, lipstick perfectly applied. she was knitting. the other girls chatting about how boys don't get it and how kristen's boytoy hadn't come to a single show and she was breaking up with him because of it. the conversation turned, we were just ragging on our terrible exes. somebody's ex once totaled her car. someone else's tried to use honest-to-god monopoly money at a starbucks.

and i fucked up, because we were laughing, and i was distracted by getting ready. and i said "yeah, she -" and then i snapped my mouth shut. thank god someone else was already talking. i felt myself blush. my body went cold. i thought to myself - there was crosstalk. everyone was speaking at once. maybe nobody heard. nobody even seemed to look at me twice. everyone was talking about their stupid exes. i smiled and nodded and gave it a few minutes. i was frozen, laughing mechanically. and then i made some excuse and half-ran into the hall, my stupid toeshoes clacking.

i felt like i was dying. fuck. fuck. i slammed my toes into rosin and pretended to warm up in some cramped corner between costumes. i pressed my forehead flush with the cold cinderblocks of the hallway, trying to force my breathing into check. i had to be onstage in a few hours. they're going to hate me now, and put me into some fucking side-room bullshit to get changed. they'll think i was being predatory that whole time. it's all ruined. fuck.

a little cold hand landed on my bare back. she was standing there, tilting her head at me. she has the "ideal dancer body" - tall, thin, long-legged. over that dinner, she'd said balanchine was a pedophile and it's weird they expect us to look like this. and i'd said ballet is a bastion of white supremacy. she'd said: you are the better dancer, by the way. they only like my shape.

she hugged her elbows, little goosebumps on her blued skin. "hey." she wouldn't make eye contact with me.

i felt like crying, which was stupid - despite having shellacked myself into waterproof makeup, i didn't want to risk tearstains.

her mouth twisted. "it's almost time for you to get into costume." her words sat between us awkwardly. we both knew i would be alerted by the costume crew when they were ready for me. she frowned, then, her jaw working like she was trying to say something. instead, she just shook her head a little.

"okay," i said. my voice was weird and scratchy. "thanks."

"did you - i heard you." she put one hand above mine on the wall, one long leg out in a common shape for dancers: a cross of fourth position and attitude; digging her foot down into her shoe, wiggling. she cleared her throat. "i heard you say she."

i dropped my hand. i pretended to stretch. "okay." i said. my brain was blank with fear. fuck. it's ruined. "yeah."

"you've dated... women?" she flexed her feet. pointed. started doing gentle hip swings, her body no more than an arm length from mine.

i looked anywhere else. the other people in the hallway, running around before the show. the racks of clothes. the wires. behind us, the greenroom was muffled and raucous with dancers laughing. i was going to be banned from that space now.

i crossed my arms over my chest. the duct tape creaked. (in a few months, i would genuinely crack a few ribs binding like that. but for then i just took the half-air). "yeah," i said. i puffed it out. "i'm. yeah."

"gay?" she was looking at her feet as she made tiny rond de jambs, working her ankles.

"gay," i creaked.

she paused then, and stepped closer to me. i was suddenly aware she had a solid six inches on me, all of which she carried with perfect grace and accuracy. "you go to contemporary on thursdays, right?"

a ballerina is supposed to enjoy ballet more than anything. i was actually secretly falling completely in love with contemporary dance, because it forgave me for having any mass on my body. "yeah?" i looked up into her dark eyes, trying to figure out where this was going.

she handed me her phone. "text me next time. we'll carpool."

stupid and stunned, i punched my number in, first name raquel last name ballet.

she took the phone back, looked at the screen, and smiled a little. she thumbed a few keys and held it back up: first name raquel, last name ballet: and then a rainbow emoji, girls kissing, and little pink hearts. "gotcha. see you then."

and then she turned and walked away in that particular "walking in pointe shoes" way dancers have, a little rolling lope. she made it look graceful, purposeful. i had no idea how to respond. i just stared at the after her, wordless, boggled.

Hey, it would genuinely mean a good deal to me if you could watch this report/take the time to get others to watch it.

I don’t think my parents will ever leave the cult they raised me in, but, I’d really like to get the chance to say: “I told you so.”

I love them dearly, and they have their heads in the sand.

I would love, someday, before I die, to get the chance to do this.

sometimes you can just bury yourself into her cunt, lose yourself completely, obediently following her whispered requests because all you want is to make her feel good, meanwhile she's giving herself over to you completely, gifting you her softness and vulnerability, melting into you

i am already seeing maga people dismiss minors as "young women who just wanted to be around the wealthy and powerful". they are already trying to make it less fucking terrible than it is. they are relying on you being burnt out. stand up and take back the term protecting the children.

do not let platform-appropriate censorship diminish what actually happened. look them dead in the eye and say, "are you fucking stupid? that's child rape. those are children." use the word rape. use the word child. say what actually happened.

do not let them draw you into "well what if X person did it" strawmen arguments. just come back to the original thesis, over and over. trump did do it, though. this is not about X, it is about him. do not let them create some strange if-then narrative of if she was over 15 - say i don't care her age, she was a minor, he had no excuse. if he can't control himself around children, he should not be a president. they are going to do anything to dodge this. they are going to do whatever they can to avoid admitting their involvement.

in many states, you cannot get a full driver's license. you are considered to be too young.

for many banks, you cannot open a singular stand-alone bank account without parental permission. you are considered to be too young.

you cannot donate blood. your body is still developing, and you are considered too young.

you cannot get a passport by yourself, you must apply in person with your parent/guardian also present. you are considered to be too young.*

*(please note that the above-linked government website uses the category "children under 16".)

you cannot work a full-time job, and, depending on the state you are in, the hours you work may be very restricted. you are considered to be too young.

in some states, you cannot consent to your own medical or behavior health treatments, and need parental permission. you are considered to be too young.

in many states, you cannot seek emancipation (legal freedom from your parents), or, if you do seek emancipation, you will likely be denied. you are considered to be too young.

in many states, you cannot be tried as an adult in a legal court. you also cannot be put on parole. you are considered to be too young.

you are not legally allowed to drop out of school. you are considered to be too young.

you cannot sign any legal contract without parental support. you are considered to be too young.

while the risks are not major, it is actually still the suggestion of most manufacturers to skip hair dye. at 15, you are too young to dye your own hair.

on a personal note: at 15 i was still seeing a pediatrician, and most of my friends were as well. despite having many medical issues, my doctor warned against oral birth control until later in life, as i was still too young. at 15 i hadn't chosen which college i'd attend, i hadn't taken a single calc class, and i was still learning how to write a cohesive essay.

many of us hadn't reached our full height. many of us still relied on our guardians for transport/funds/pretty much everything. many of us weren't even allowed to use the internet without parental supervision. many of us were - correctly - treated like children.

for the love of christ. the tradition of a "sweet sixteen" is because even before we had a right to vote or be seen as people - even in the fucking 1500s - we knew a 15-year-old is a child.

for a long time, the effort of traditional conservatives is to make girlchildren seem somehow more "mature". they use the excuse of earlier puberty, of the "general temperament" (socialization) of girls, of the ability to get pregnant. in large part, this is so they can escape the legal claim of statutory rape. a reminder that the majority of teen pregnancies are due to the grooming efforts of fully adult men.

this is genuinely one of the efforts of the patriarchy: to make their crimes seem less heinous, they imply consent on behalf of the minor. they make the minor out to be lewd, lascivious, tempting. having been a minor girlchild, i can confirm that i was sexualized very early in my life. most girlchildren will confirm they were catcalled or blatantly sexualized very early in life. minors cannot consent. end of story.

they are already spinning the narrative. do not let them. that is a child. and it is a horrible, horrible truth. nothing will make it less horrible, or make the pain less present for the victims. there is just reality, the way it actually exists.