I came back from two weeks of work with protruding neck bones and a dependency on MSG.
Six-year-old Celeste Barber. This is still my go to pose when people want to take my photo.
I grew up near a beach that has bred some of the best professional surfers in the world, but it was lost on me. I didn’t do weekend nippers like everyone else because Saturday was dancing day – DANCING DAY – a day to dance: DANCE DAY! Mum would drop me off at class by 9am and I would carpool home like James Corden, singing the Spice Girls’ greatest hits, and since James hadn’t reinvented karaoke yet, our neighbours Esther, Bianca and Ashleigh were my lift home instead.
Jazz for the babies (two to four) was first and Bianca and I, along with other Show Group and Senior dancers, were student teachers. I didn’t love teaching but I just loved being at dancing, and especially on Saturday because it was when everyone from all the different studios across the Gold Coast would come together. We would compare the choreography we had learnt that week, and share clear nail polish to cover up the holes we made in our shimmers (they are stockings with a high shimmer finish, you guys: shimmers). We weren’t one of those dance schools that had to wear a uniform; we could wear whatever we wanted, as long as it was awesome and outshone the other dancers. One of the male dancers, who wasn’t ‘out’ yet, was partial to a fluorescent yellow unitard – an outfit that he would reserve for a 34-degree day, knowing he would sweat and make all the other curious boys jealous.
Miss Colleen always wore black, black on black with a side of black and something black. She always had a full face of make-up that my sister would say looked as though she had laid it out on her bed, tied her hands behind her back and just fell face-first into it. Miss Colleen did a few tours of Vietnam entertaining the troops in the ’60s – something that she loved and romanticised about often. She was a born performer and gave us and the studio everything she had, including her bad temper and sass.
After Babies Jazz came Babies Tap and a whole lot of noise. Intermediate classes came next and this is where it got exciting, because all the older dancers would start arriving and stretching or trying on costumes for upcoming shows, then there would be a break where we would run down to the 7-Eleven to get a medium Slurpee and a Killer Python, which we shoved in the straw of the Slurpee so it would freeze. Miss Colleen would put in her order of a cheeseburger with no bun, a can of Coke and a chocolate, which the most responsible dancer (AKA her favourite) would get for her. I was never asked.
Then it was back to class and our turn, the Show Group and Senior dancers. This is when we would TURN IT ON. We performed like we were at Madison Square Garden and J.Lo was our backup dancer. Well, I did anyway – I didn’t really know what the others were doing as I had my eyes closed most of the time to get the full effect.
Dancing was a place full of super-weird people that I felt safe with. Mr Fluorescent-Yellow-Unitard was super-bendy and loved to tell me inappropriate stories about his sex life. He called everyone the C-word before the C-word was even a thing. At first, I thought he just called me that as a nickname – a term of endearment, if you will. But then I found out otherwise, and was equal parts flattered and confused.
If I wasn’t meeting my potential in any aspect of my life he would challenge me and ask why. He would laugh at my jokes and roll his eyes when I complained that the prettier blonde girls had been put in the front row again.
Him: Listen, C, you will never be in the front line. Miss Colleen has her favourites and you’re not one of them. I love you. Get over it.
Me : But I’ve worked really hard.
Him: No one cares. Now, let’s sit in the sun and bitch about absolutely everyone.
Dancing was the first place, outside my family, where I felt safe being loud, ambitious and different.
Miss Colleen died in 2018 at the age of 77, and I will always be grateful to her for teaching me how to count to eight, and for playing show tunes so loud that I think it has caused me permanent damage.
Seven-year-old Celeste with 84-year-old sister, Olivia. Liv and I didn’t love ballet. We were more hip hop girls. Obviously.
Still not asking for it.
@leamichele
I’M A BIG SUPPORTER of the #metoo and #timesup movements. I’m pretty vocal about standing up for women’s equality, and that crazy idea that women shouldn’t feel as though we need to be subjected to sexist bullshit just because we’re women.
I have a story – two, in fact – and I’m going to share them in this book because I want to. I’m not going to name people, because I don’t want to. These are my stories about my experiences, and even though they have in no way shaped who I am as a person they are still my stories.
I’ve noticed that when people are named then they become the focus. Taking them down becomes the main objective, and the person who has told her story becomes just another victim and just another woman with a grudge. The perpetrator becomes the focus and is treated as a one-off event, whereas it’s a whole culture that needs to change.
I’m putting these stories in black and white in my book because I want other women and girls to start doing or not doing things because they do or don’t want to – not because they feel that they should, or that it’s their responsibility. The only people in these horrible situations who have any responsibility are the men. A responsibility not to sexually harass, assault, bully or intimidate women at any point, in any field, for the rest of time. In the name of the father, son and the holy goat, amen.
In 1996, my 14th year dancing and fourth at the Johnny Young Talent School, I was given a solo in the end-of-year concert. I was the only Senior and only one in the Show Group – the fancy dance group – who hadn’t been given a solo before, but this year was my year. You better believe it. I’d pinned that curly headpiece into my head year after year, but this year was different; I didn’t even cry when it drew blood. I was ready – I was fucking born ready for this solo, dammit!
Miss Colleen would put together a medley of different musicals each year. And by ‘put together a medley’, I mean she would pick her favourite songs from her favourite musicals, cram in some tried-and-tested choreo from previous concerts, and not give two shits about the narrative or how she was butchering classics. AND WE LOVED IT!
Only the Show Group was invited to take part in this section of the concert. One year it was a song from Grease. Julie, the pretty blonde girl, played Sandy; Remi – the only straight guy, whose mum and dad redefined the term ‘stage parents’ – played Danny; and I was a fun Pink Lady double up the back, miming the wrong lyrics to songs and trying to make my friend Bianca laugh. Another year saw us do a number from West Side Story. Julie played Maria; Remi was Tony; and I’m pretty sure that was the year I was lucky and talented enough to play a little bit of all the ethnic characters up the back.
Then in 1996, my final year, we did part of the 1969 classic Sweet Charity, and I was cast as – wait for it, you guys – THE LEAD. Yass, queens, I was cast as Charity Hope Valentine in Sweet Charity (hair flick emoji).
One of the exciting things that went with such a prestigious role as being a fancy Show Group dancer and performing in a bastardised medley was the exciting and nearly impossible quick-changes that needed to be performed side stage. They were almost as important as the concert itself. And they involved A LOT of planning and responsibility. The job of organising other people’s props if they were onstage was given to Show Group performers only