My second year of being in tap lessons.

There we were. The “Tap” promotional campaign that involved–oddly enough–tap, and I had made it to the Saturday finals. My rivals were many; their talents were intimidating. I had only been slapping my shoes against hardwood for three years; they had been doing this since they were barely out of diapers.

I was confident in my abilities, but I was now facing intense competition on Saturday, when the judges would decide which one of us finalists would be flown to NYC and compete on a massive scale. There was something like twenty of us, and we would be repeating the original number that we had performed earlier that week. I think I’ve already informed you that my incendiary little performance was clacking it out to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” which I won’t link to again.

I was up against quite a few young, very skilled girls from my own dance school, other girls from rivalling dance schools whom I had known (and even distantly befriended) through the years, and a few others in their very late teens who seemed like croaking, barely-mobile fossils compared to the rest of us who had just discovered the beginnings of our own pubic hair in weird locations. By this point, at thirteen years old, I had everything in place on my body except those g-damned breasts, and by the time they finally sprouted far too late, they ended up being enormous.

You really do get what you pray for.

Saturday, January Something, 1989. The stage was still intact, under the east escalator where all Coquitlam Centre events took place, and some DJ from the then-popular LG73 radio station was emceeing the event. His name was Jeff. He had the requisite look for the time, which was a very agreeable, clean mullet; a pink-and-purple tie-dyed sweatshirt with his radio station’s logo on the front; tight acid-washed jeans; high-top sneakers. He was cute for the time, and he was making some extra bucks (thanks to his overlords) by hosting an event he most likely cared absolutely nothing about, and that’s just what you do. A cheque is a cheque, kids. I will repeat that phrase until the day I pop my clogs.

I remember all of the details from this finals competition because my parents were in attendance, and Dad recorded every single thing on his camcorder. It’s all on some tape at my parents’ house, and I used to watch it at least three times a week for about a year after the entire thing took place. Someday, one of us Bondoreff kids will find the means and/or motivation to transfer this footage to Youtube, along with all of the home videos of lip-synching and self-penned skits I made of myself and my girlfriends. Let’s put it this way: I am old enough now to love those videos, but had Youtube or the internet in general actually been a thing when I was a teen, I would have swan-dove into a sort of public humiliation that I am beyond grateful to have avoided.

We were all costumed up and ready to do our respective numbers again. I watched as several young girls dazzled and grinned and tippity-tapped across that stage, many of them smaller, more agile, and more experienced than me. While confident in my abilities, I still sort of felt like an imposter: I will remind you again that I had only been doing this for three years. Despite winning quite a few awards in local festivals, I figured this would be my downfall, my unveiling as a true amateur: the empress having no clothes, really. Because, if I can be honest here, I still didn’t really know what I was doing apart from blissfully losing myself in making beats with my metal-enhanced shoes. These others girls (and a few boys) had been at this for a very long while. I had not.

I watched as some of my fellow dance classmates, like Claudia and Jenny, aced their way across the stage. I bit my lip as some other competitors I knew from other parts of Coquitlam, like Tania and Elise, executed fancy-foot techniques I had never seen or attempted to practice before. I held my breath as some older candidates, like 17-year old Diane and 18-year old Patrick, absolutely destroyed the stage and audience with their adroitness and adeptness, all of it seemingly effortless. What was I even doing here, with my corny costume and 1940s musical accompaniment?

We all finished; there was murmur among the judges. Jeff from LG73 came to the stage and, as we all held our wheezy breath waiting to hear who placed where, he said that the four judges wanted to see six performers again. A collective groan went through the dancers who were onstage, just wanting this thing to be over with.

“The judges want to see….” And as a great deal of the insanely-talented young girls waited to hear their names called, it turned out they weren’t wanted at all.

You know who was? The aforementioned Diane and Patrick, some other late-teen guy named Jeffrey, a 21-year old named Lisa, anther 13-year old named Karen, and me. That’s who. The many others were sent packing.

I couldn’t quite believe it. There was no way–no way–I was technically better than my competitors. However, I accepted this and had to do my dance number one more time for the judges.

When I watched my performance (thanks to Dad’s recording) around twelve thousand times times after this, because who wouldn’t, a few things jumped out at me: one, I was obviously not a polished-and-scrubbed stage performer. Several of the other little girls who competed had been doing this for years, and they had every last detail rehearsed for ages: their smiles, in particular, or how somewhat inauthentic they were in their deliveries. The type of grin they would flash whenever particular lyrics or notes came on in their song. The facial expressions they’d move around to match the melody. The stage-kid moves and inauthenticity they’d give in each performance, with no soul or character, every last arm movement and swish and kick and pose rehearsed to within an inch of their lives.

I’m only saying this now because I watched their numbers so many times, and I watched my own, and I still can’t understand how I made it to the final six. I wasn’t that great. Not at all. I was earthy, a bit clumsy, and not at all perfectly-rehearsed.

…but that, I suppose, is why the judges liked me. I think I gave them heart and soul rather than fiercely-scrubbed technical ability; there are only so many little rehearsed stage girls you can watch before you get bored. Then this flat-chested, yet sexy-hipped and nicely-shaped kid (me. Look, I am female, and my body is therefore my main currency) gets onstage and doesn’t give a toss about winning or losing, amazed enough she is to even be there: she does her number, she clearly enjoys herself and expects nothing, and she ends up pulverizing nearly everyone. And most of “everyone” meant other girls my age who were accustomed to winning everything in their age and stage categories, and by whom I was very intimidated. They were thinner, more beautiful, more confident, and more experienced. I suffered from imposter syndrome for the majority of my tap-competition years, and this event was no exception. I couldn’t believe I was here, right alongside them, and doing so well.

Not just doing so well, but keeping up.

Not just keeping up, in fact, but leaving them in the dust.

I will mention here very briefly that I had gone to a dance summer school with a handful of these same girls, and some had snubbed me for the entirety of our time there for reasons I could never understand. Therefore, my success in this competition was vindication to me, although from second to second I couldn’t believe I was doing so well.

And wouldn’t you know it? My doing so well meant that they were suddenly my closest pals that day during breaks and deliberations; I had instantly become a mini-celebrity in the local dance circuit catapulted into regional popularity. Not that I paid them any attention at all. Girls in competitive dance are awful, and it’s generally their mothers who sculpt them this way. I was the exception, as my own mom just wanted me to have a good time.

That’s what happened throughout my short tap career. And I didn’t win this particular contest–I came very close–but I annihilated all of the other vicious little girls in my region during this competition. And I hate to describe them this way, but I had talked to them quite a bit backstage over the years, and I had heard their mothers talking to them, and it was a disgraceful verbal bloodbath. They gossiped and bad-mouthed most of the other competitors. Their mothers would say without compunction, “___ is fat, they’ll never choose her” or “___ can’t dance at all, she shouldn’t even be here.” Great way to instill values in your vulnerable little girls, ma!

Then this robust little Doukhobor ended up beating them all to make the final six of this very odd contest.

They couldn’t even believe it. And neither could I. That is where heart, soul, authenticity, and joy get you sometimes: you can make the finals and smoke your more-experienced competitors at their own sport. Maybe not now, but it sure worked back then. And it felt amazing. Every step of the way, I was just in it for fun, and with each step, I was surprised and grateful. Holy mackerel, girl. This is a blast. You won’t win, but this is a blast.

* * * * *

Around the same time, I did some 80s jazz number at the Kits Showboat. It was really expressive, self-choreographed stuff set to a Janet Jackson song. I love that I have these pics!

The six of us went on to do our dances again. Without the footage I mentioned somewhere above, it’s not really worth describing, but Diane–the 17-year old gal–did an insanely fantastic dance to some kind of remix of “It Don’t Mean A Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing.” I watched that video so many times, trying to understand her moves; trying to understand if I could ever emulate what she was doing. She was dramatic, intense, entertaining, thrilling, and…she introduced me to a word I had never heard before.

“She’s butch,” said a member of my family.

“Butch?”

“Yeah, she’s…mannish, kind of. Like, not feminine. She’s butch.” They shrugged.

Watching Diane after this–with her short hair, bowler hat, suspenders, baggy pants, and extremely stompy tap moves–I think I know what they meant. Yes, Diane was butch. When she walked up to claim her second-place prize after all was said and done, she had the stride of a WWE wrestler. But damn if that lady couldn’t tap dance. Butch? I’m sure I would be cancelled by someone just for using that word. So here’s something you need to understand: DIANE WAS A BUTCH LESBIAN. And she was one of the greatest dancers I’d ever seen. I spent months trying to do her dance in my parents’ bedroom, sans tap shoes. Her moves were just like nothing I’d seen before, coming from a dance school that encouraged flowy, femme, rehearsed, stage-ready performances. She was sexy, loud, dramatic, magical, and she should have won. I would love to know what she’s doing with herself now.

Patrick was another one called up for the final six. He was a lanky young man, 18 years old, and was doing quite a job smashing up the stage to a remix of Michael Jackson’s “Bad.” You must keep in mind that the song was still a monster hit in January of 1988. He was clad in all black, and concentrated mostly on what his feet were doing instead of grinning and engaging in phony stage presence. It was a symphony of sheer technicality as he just got down to it and showed us footwork that put the rest of us to shame.

Who was the other person? Oh, right: a guy named Jeffrey, embarrassingly outfitted in a complete tuxedo. His performance was underwhelming, and he looked to be hitting thirty although he was nineteen. Bad genes? Weekend binge drinking? I know teenagers always looked older in the 80s, but he could have been my Dad’s dad.

Lisa was a young woman of 21, and while decent, I learned not long afterwards that she actually had her own dance studio. I didn’t feel this was fair, yet her performance was also unmemorable. A lot of fancy jazz hands and cutesy looks at the judges, entirely unbecoming for someone of her age and stature, but I suppose she had the technical part of things down.

Karen was my age, and she was great: she had it all. She was adorable, she was dynamic, she was way more experienced, and she had a number that showcased her talents. Karen deserved to be in the top six, and I could see her going on to win this thing given her age and charisma. I knew her from around the city and a couple of summer dance schools, and she was a force to be reckoned with. I couldn’t actually believe I had made it here alongside her; she was known in the community for her unmatched talent. She humbled me, and she was sweet and lovely, and she deserved to go onto terrific things.

Then there was me. Doing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” again.

After deliberation, the judges made their decisions. The six of us clambered onstage at the Coquitlam Centre Mall stage, and here was their decision:

Fourth place: Lisa, the 21-year old chick with the dance school.

Third place: Me, who hadn’t expected a single thing, ever, at all, at any point.

Second place: Diane, the 17-year old butch tapper who I thought should have won everything.

First place: Patrick, the gifted 18-year old, who was going to head off to NYC. He received an armful of roses and who knows what else. I do recall him crying at the announcement.

I won a few things. A giant “Tap’ T-shirt, a complimentary ticket to the premiere of the movie, and $100. You have to understand that, for a 13-year old girl in early 1989 to win one hundred dollars, it meant a lot. I don’t think I had even begun babysitting yet, and my allowance was probably five bucks a week. I had very strict parents and no income, but they couldn’t do a thing about the fact that I had a C-note in my name. What did I do with it? Why, I bought junk food at the school canteen (my folks allowed absolutely no crappy food in their house, hence my obsession) and probably a bit of makeup at the mall.

The magnificent young Karen hadn’t placed at all, and I could not even believe it. Further to this, my dance-school owner eventually heard it through the dance grapevine that one of the judges (Chip Someone) had actually wanted me to go through to the NYC prize and win the whole thing, but the others had said I was “too young.” Absolute nonsense, but when you see that the other people who had placed were 18, 17, and 21, perhaps there was some age bias. It would have changed my entire life; it would have turned everything around. Instead, I ended up becoming a misplaced goth and looking like this at my grad:

Yup, at grad, with my fellow theatre pal Richard. Note the very intentional red-and-black look, ranging from my braids and roots to my cloak.

Two months later I joined a local talent show to perform the same number, and won second place. This time I was awarded $150, and most likely bought more junk food, some jeans, and some books. A little junior high peer of mine had actually competed against me, belting out an ear-bleeding version of Irene Cara’s “What A Feelin’” from the movie Flashdance. After I had won second place and she walked away with a universal thumbs-down, she tore into me during one of our classes the following week, saying something like “Well, at least I wasn’t up there, flaring my nostrils and tap dancing to some shitty song!”

Fair enough, I guess. But which one of us placed and won more money, and which one of us angrily went home, vowing to insult and debase their competitor?

At any rate, my dance career was over after that year. Too many stage mothers; too many bitchy little girls; too much pressure. Also, I couldn’t control my body htting puberty. There was no way I could get a grip on this thing that was changing in ways I could not clamp down on. It was morphing, swelling, developing, and getting really curvy, all thanks to my wretched Doukhobor DNA, folks. To this day, I have to eat very, very well and exercise all the time in order to not look like a dumpling.

I look fine, it’s second nature to me, but it does take all sorts of work. I’m not even into menopause. What’s gonna happen when I get there?

On top of that shape-shifting, however, I discovered rock & roll when I was 13 after a chance viewing of the movie “Tommy,” and I never looked back. I quit everything. I changed. I did drugs. I got hot boyfriends. I became a real teenager, in other words. And the end result was nothing I would ever take back or regret, because I had the greatest time of my life.

What’s the takeaway? I don’t have one. Uh…to thine own self be true. Believe in the power of rock. Don’t take mental-health pills without a diagnosis. And never, ever, for the sake of your own sanity, attempt to date a fundamentalist, fanatical, fascist, cruel, abusive, anti-human, hypocritical, judgmental, insane, malnourished vegan. The kind who tells you that you cannot be a feminist because you eat eggs, yet has impregnated women many times (agreeing to terminate at least one of those fetuses) and also got a vasectomy without his sperm’s consent (to use his crazed lingo).

DO NOT DO THIS EVER. Run, and run very fast. If you want support or advice about this nightmare scenario, please email me.

And follow your dreams, even if you end up depressed. I’ve been really depressed. We all have. Heck, I have even looked into the Canadian MAID plan, and it seems like a very humane system. I’ve had a really good, weird, interesting life. Do I want another few decades of struggle? Oh, heck no. I’m dreading it.

And dance. Dance as much as you can. Just throw on some music, watch a video, throw your limbs around, toss your body to and fro, and dance, my darling. Nothing saved me more than dancing. You don’t have to be good. I sure wasn’t. I wasn’t skinny, I wasn’t totally trained, and I wasn’t ready for any of it. And then I nearly won an entire competition because my passion and authenticity made an impact.

Dance. Play. Make music. Write. Draw. Jog. Read. Cook. Jesus, do anything you can do that nobody is forcing you to do. Just DO SOMETHING.

I love you.

Nadya Vera.

P.S. I think I watched on “Donahue” or something who the ultimate winner of the whole North American promo contest was. It was a boy no older than ten. Too young to go to NYC, they said? I swear, those Coquitlam judges ruined my entire future.