My B.E. Moment

While I sat waiting in the rotunda, my brain went into overload. Random thoughts. Questions. What ifs. Remember to smile and be friendly, I tell myself. Look confident, but not too confident, or you’ll end up looking arrogant. Is my shirt tucked in? Did I manage to get those curls on the side to look less nappy? As if they’d even notice. Would they notice? As much as I told myself ‘don’t be nervous’ my body didn’t listen. It wouldn’t be the last time that it would ignore my commands on that day. I looked through my notes again, trying to rehearse answers that wouldn’t seem rehearsed. Despite what it may have looked like, I felt prepared. I felt ready.

“We’re ready for you now”, a woman said smiling reassuringly as she held the door open for me to walk through. Four more reassuring smiles belonging to two men and two women greeted me as I entered the room. Immediately, my stomach had that feeling I always get on a roller coaster in those first few seconds it starts the descent from the top. I could feel the dampness of my armpits inside my suit, thankful that sweat stains aren’t visible through black. The next 20 minutes flew by like 20 seconds; A demo lesson and a round of Q and A which my over-preparedness and mock confidence got me through. My charm offence was working - it even elicited a light laugh or two as I adeptly answered what seemed like an onslaught of questions, nailing some, while cleverly sidestepping and deflecting others. The interview was going so perfectly I was beginning to imagine how things were about to change for me. Then suddenly, things did. It took one question, just one question and my sense of success was derailed.

The committee member with the sweetest voice betrayed me by asking the hardest question, or at least, one I didn’t have an answer for. What followed was a moment of awkward silence while I scrambled to find a way to respond. Stalling, I asked, “could you repeat the question?” She tried again, re-wording it this time. Still, I was lost. For the second time that morning, my body betrayed me as panic crept in. I opened my mouth to speak, but no matter how hard I tried, the words wouldn’t come out. Instead, hot tears slowly rolled down my cheeks. I wanted to tell them, I really did. But how could I put into words that I didn’t just want this job, but that I needed it? Not only to finally be financially stable but more importantly, to feel a sense of progress in my life. How could they know that I was the last born in my family, but a first-generation Canadian, and the only one to graduate from university? Or the barriers of poverty I was so determined to break through by getting this job and changing patterns I thought the universe was signalling I was destined to repeat: a life of low-rent cockroach-filled apartments, surrounded by broken dreams and broken lives. It would prove my parents' gamble of moving to this country and putting me through school paid off, and all those years I spent trying, learning, listening, studying, and writing were worth something -all of it culminating in me getting myself into that room in that chair in front of their eyes to show them that despite where I was from and how I looked, that I could be a good teacher. Instead, between sniffles and sobs after what seemed like hours, all I managed to say was “I may not always have the right words... but I have the passion.” This was met with reassuring smiles again, encouragement and an anecdote from one of the male committee members about a time he cried. The rest of the ordeal was a blur.

The bus ride home felt longer than usual that day. As I sat in one of the solitary window seats and stared out at the world passing by, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed in myself for not being able to answer that damn question and a sense of shame for letting my emotions be so readily on display. I wondered what they had said about me immediately after I left. Would they see my breakdown as human? Unprofessional? Or worse, a carefully calculated and strategic move to appeal to their sympathy? It was during this reflection on the whole disaster that it suddenly occurred to me: I was Billy Elliot. An odd statement to be sure. A movie set in the eighties about an 11-year-old boy from a coal-mining town in Northern England with a natural ability for dance would seem to have very little to do with me, a black Canadian man of Caribbean descent in his thirties who wanted to be a teacher. That this movie would enter my thoughts immediately after a failed job interview might seem stranger still.

But I can explain.

When art of any form is produced, the artist never knows how far their work may reach, who it can influence or shape. I understood Billy’s feelings of not measuring up, his challenges with his family, his love for something that doesn’t match his upbringing. I knew what it was like to want something so bad that you mess it up. When you come from a working-class background, sometimes it feels like the cards are stacked against you. And whether you like to admit it or not, you carry the feeling of being less than around with you. Sometimes it’s a source of strength, a motivating factor that pushes you, to prove that you’re just as worthy, just as good. Other times it’s an inner saboteur, that voice that rears its head at the worst possible moments -creating self-doubt as you become paralyzed with fear. Billy is an underdog of sorts; a small kid from a working-class background who needed that proverbial lucky break that could change his life. It came with a chance to audition at the Royal Ballet school. Feeling dejected after his performance, another boy, unlike Billy, seemingly from “the right background”, tries to console him, saying nonchalantly “it’s only a stupid audition” and “there's always next year,” unaware that for some, there is no next year. Already disappointed in himself, the comments cause Billy to lash out, striking him. In that punch was the anger and frustration with how unfair life sometimes feels when face to face with privilege personified and all the benefits that those who come from it take for granted. Sat in front of a committee in the next scene, he’s scolded about his bad behaviour before being asked a few rudimentary questions. Just before he leaves, he is asked to describe what it feels like when he’s dancing, to which he answers:

“ Don't know. Sort of feels good. It's sort of stiff and that...but once I get going...then I, like, forget everything...and ...sort of disappear. I sort of disappear. Like I feel a change in me whole body. Like there's a fire in my body. I'm just there...flying...like a bird. Like electricity. Yeah...like electricity.”

As I watched, I knew that moment was about more than just getting into a ballet school. It was bigger than that. It was about how being accepted could change his life. A pivotal moment, not just for Billy, but for anyone who has ever struggled to describe the indescribable. The parallels between those final scenes in the film and my real-life moment were not lost on me: Being in an environment that both impresses and scares you because you’ve never seen anything like it. The intimidation factor when in a room with people you feel inherently inferior to.That feeling that you’re an intruder in a space not made for people like you; like you’re a dirty spot on an otherwise white piece of fancy clothing. You do not belong.

When you’re an underdog, people count you out. At times, it feels like unknown forces are working against you - as if the universe is somehow trying to tell you ‘don’t even think about trying to break free of where you’re from. Despite my age and how far I’d come in my life, deep down I was still that kid from the poor part of town who didn’t feel good enough. It made me wonder how many of us carried around ghosts from our past while trying to create a different future.

So what happens when someone has the right skills but the wrong look? A dream and a drive but no dollars? I thought about all of the people who, like Billy and me were good at something but because they don’t have the right connections or pedigree are never given a chance. People whose fates are left to the powers that be to look past our outer shell and see our determination, see our drive, see our passion. See us. So what if we didn’t have the right words. We had passion. And just like in the movie I wanted mine to count for something. It had to.

But where Billy succeeded, I was sure that I failed. Life, unlike movies, seldom has a happy ending. I thought about how much I wanted that job, how much was riding on that interview and that their ‘yes’ was a bigger deal than they would ever know. Yes meant progress.

Three months later, I got a call. A teacher had to take a leave of absence and they needed someone to take his place. Was I available?

I guess that sometimes passion pays off. Underdogs can win after all.