Tap Dancing, mormon improv, and body dsymorphia

Alan Alda/My body

Dove had been taking an improv class. I was fourteen, and I remember it was winter, because I had been walking from lesson to lesson that day with purple ankles. I was a gangly 14, and had just begun to realize what they meant by “late bloomer” All of us kids grew up swapping hand-me downs, with each other and the other homeschoolers we knew. I never had a pair of pants that fit. Better yet, I never had legs that would fit a pair of pants. I had weird legs. Ma used to bring up a movie she watched when she was a kid that had aliens with long long legs but no torsos- that was me, she said. It’s funny, but I know if I brought this up now she’d be horrified. She used to say a lot of stuff that she regrets now. It’s lucky that she’s always had horrible memory, or she would hate herself even more than she does now.

Language lessons, acting, ballet, piano, karate, they had it. These were all things I tried out, in fluctuating levels of success. Mildly fluctuating. I was pretty shitty when it came to rehearsing at home.

But between the four of us, we must have given thousands of dollars to the center with how many lessons we all took. Thursday was the big day- for whatever reasons, Thursday was the day the stay-at home moms, college students, and retired musicians were free to teach. So every Thursday Ma shuffled us from one room to the next, one building to the other- the studio where Mariah and I danced clumsily, the old high school where Isaac played in the orchestra, and the old movie theatre converted for acting lessons.

I remember that day Dove had driven with us. They were eighteen years old, a “big kid” in everybody’s eyes. Dove had a different name then, and was my brother. I don’t know what it felt like being eighteen and being Dove. But I remember sitting in on that class. I knew Dove had made a lot of friends in that class- but they made friends wherever they went. I looked a lot like Dove, but they drove a car, played violin beautifully, and all the girls had a crush on them. But Dove wasn’t very tall- we looked a lot alike, only about an inch apart with our four year gap. We both stooped, and had big noses and little long necks. When we laughed, we stooped over like a duck drinking water.

I remember sitting in that class, not really knowing what it was- I knew acting, I loved acting. This was something new for me. I sat in the back corner, not very far removed from a small circle of “big kids” that went through their exercises. I could wax poetic about this moment, but you know what improv is. I didn’t- it sucker punched me, making me double over laughing. It was like I hadn’t laughed that hard in my life. I liked the feeling of laughing. And for the first time, there was a hope… I could be like Dove. I could take a class to be charming and likeable. 

I joined the class, much to the annoyance of Dove, and I still didn’t bloom. I learned that I loved improv, and after Dove left for college, became some of the best in the class. It’s funny how lighter my shoulders were when they weren’t around, even though they lit rooms up so well. 

That’s a whole different story- what’s important is that there was Audrey Hepburn, Cinderella, Laura Ingalls, and Princess Buttercup. That’s what a woman was- and someday, when I figured out how, that was what I would be.That was something that would happen naturally, something that was inevitable. In the meantime, if I couldn’t secure connections by looking normal, I could at least make people laugh. Sometimes. More often than not the joke fell flat, end I never knew why. Sometimes I still don’t know why.

I knew what I liked, and what made me laugh: I liked the Muppets, and Danny Kaye. Dick van Dyke was great at pratfalls- that seemed to be part of the gig. And tap dancing. In one of my favorite movies was “The Inspector General” (one of our few vhs tapes that lived under the brick-like tv) In “Inspector General”, everyone seemed to want to kill Danny Kaye, and he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. But he sang fast, and danced well. I wasn’t a puppet, and couldn’t tap dance… was I funny at all? My naturally odd demeanor did give me an upper hand- I at least knew that funny was cool. I mean, just look at Dove. At youth group the other teens would gather around in groups to chat, and Dove would make them all burst into laughter, an explosion of fireworks just for him, by his omnipotence. It was electric just being around it. There was a command there.

Everyone in the Hammond house was sort of funny- but when Dove started getting older, and did the improv circuit, it became like a family business. Mariah and I planned tv shows to be filmed by us, starring us, in the hopes we would stumble on to being funny on accident. That’s what I wanted out of it, at least. Maybe Mariah just wanted to spend time together. It was definitely a trail-and-error, being funny. Because to be funny, you had to be clever, and quick. Dove often reminded me that I wasn’t clever, so this made me too nervous to be very quick, either. So making people laugh, laugh when I wanted them to, for the REASON I wanted them to… this took a while. It wasn’t the movies- no button to press for the laugh track. Like a lot of young people that want to get into show business, I started having fantasies of being interviewed on late night TV. Lots of people got on TV, whether for acting, comedy, or writing. I loved the dynamics of the hosts, too– Stephen Colbert clips became a guilty pleasure for me, all the swear words kept in, interviewing liberals and questioning all the little rules that were part of my daily life. Whew. their energy was the kind Dove had. I couldn’t be Dove, but I could be the person on the other side of the desk.

Sure, it was tough looking so young, but it’s not as if I went out much anyway. There weren’t any boys to speak of in my hometown, and the only places I spent outside of church and my own home would be the community center, and my friend, Lena.

Mariah and I spent all of our childhood playing on Lena’s family farm, and who are you going to impress in the woods? At Lenas, no one ever cared about anything. We could stay up all night, make pancakes for supper, and go sledding down the carpeted stairs, all while wearing fancy dress costumes and covered in mud. No one really made comments- not at Lena’s.

Lena’s dad was always watching MASH… and I mean always. There’s a family story told that her younger brother used to be put to sleep by turning on an episode, because he had heard nothing else but MASH during his whole time in the womb. Sometimes on our escapades we would take a breather in the living room, catching maybe the last half of an episode. MASH was, even in 2012, a fixture of American culture. Hospital waiting rooms, my grandma’s nursing home, pharmacies, even the pizza place played MASH on a loop. There were other things, too, like Andy Griffith or Hogan’s Heroes, but those never penetrated into my subconscious. Something about Alan Alda- from an early age I decided he was an alright guy. He got all the laugh tracks, and he was handsome, apparently. Maybe he was full of himself, but he seemed to be doing alright.

Some of the comments on my body could hypothetically be sorted into a “good” section. To make me feel better, my mother would say I had a ballerina figure. I think this was the only reason I kept up with dance for so long. If I was going to be a princess, with the grand transformation, I’d need some skills. And if I looked anorexic, I might as well dance like one. Even after Lena left, I kept it up- even after Mariah left, I kept it up. I had to slip out at least once a class to have a cry in the bathroom, but I kept it up until I was thirteen. I was missing something– the youngest in the class, I always seemed to have the hardest time learning steps. The whole building, brightly lit and warmly decorated, haunted me every time I walked in. It would be five years later until we realized that I had several undiagnosed disorders, including auditory processing disorder. I didn’t know this at the time- all I knew was I had to beg my mom to take me out, over and over. I wasn’t known for my consistency, so I can’t blame her for making me stay as long as I did. After all, there had to be a reason I looked the way I did, right? Might as well put those bony little legs to use.

The little bob shrunk as the years grew by, and I began to be misgendered often. I went from ballet lessons to clogging, which was almost like tap dancing. I remembered Dick van Dyke, Danny Kaye- except they did this to make people laugh. I didn’t want anybody laughing AT me, I wanted to make them laugh- it wasn’t any fun when you weren’t in control. I quit clogging, and moved on to martial arts. For my qualification matches, I wore red lipstick, hoping the folds in my uniform made it look like I had curves. Lena started talking to boys, got married. The homeschoolers in the area got together to form a prom– I begged Dove not to laugh, but he mocked me relentlessly for going. I went, but not before buying my first party dress, just like Audrey Hepburn. Red lipstick again, and the short hair. The week before I had watched the Flight Facilities music video, with Sam Rockwell– it was like a puzzle piece falling into place. Something about the half humerous/half sincere rhythm of the electro swing got my limbs moving. Because if you’re already self-aware, how can people laughing at you hurt? Maybe this dancing was for me. Mariah and I practiced electro swing for hours, learning the short, old-hollywood style steps. It wasn’t very feminine, but the dress would take care of it, I knew it. I danced my heart out that night. I went home lonely, but well-exercised.

I quit the martial arts, and got back on track with making people laugh. I was one of the funniest in the class, but not THE funniest- that would be alright, because I was learning to become a serious actor. I auditioned for Jo in Little Women, a dreamer from a big family, a writer, a passionate woman who men loved. I was given the role of Meg. 

There weren’t very many costumes at the center, so anything given to me would have to me cut up, or in this case, pinned to size. No sense wasting a pretty dress. Because there weren’t very many, there wasn’t really a reason that I would choose the costume- so I was given “the green dress,” a dark plaid with black bows that brought out the plum-colored circles in my eyes. It was Little Women, and the women didn’t really wear much makeup, so my pale face stayed very pale, and my thin lips stayed very thin. I was too nervous to kiss the love interest, so for all three performances we gave a very passionate hug. It wasn’t a rousing performance- I didn’t feel anything when I eked out the lines, and I never made anyone feel anything. Mariah was Beth, and along with our Jo, brought in a tearful audience. That was 2020, and the center stopped doing plays for a long while after that. Our improv group met a few times, and then it was time for me to leave for college. It’s five years later, and I haven’t acted since.

In a period drama, 18 is when all the girls bloom- I knew college was going to be my moment, even if I had to make it so. I was still bone thin, long necked, and awkward as hell, but a new wardrobe would take care of me, and if I made girl friends, maybe I could start wearing make-up properly. Of course I knew I would have to go a little against the grain, but I’d find my people. There wasn’t an improv group, but I’d make one. The film department was pretty bare bones, but great then I had worked with less. I just had to figure out how to raise my voice first.

I found some odd girls in my hall. My roommate was a missionary kid who grew up in abusive boarding schools. It was weird to bring up my own insecurities, when she was always talking about how she felt so fat. If you tried to convince her otherwise, she would get mad at you for it- so my roommate was fat, and I learned to shut up. I learned to shut up about a lot of things. My classmates, in return, were shown a lot of tv they had never seen. No one had heard of Danny Kaye before. I also used to show pictures, old pictures from before everyone knew each other. It was interesting to see how different my new friends had been, such a short time ago. One day they took the phone from my hands, all gaping at what I was showing them. “You were so-” It was as if they didn’t dare say it. “You’re so sad.” They said, I knew it, nodded- it was alright, because these people made me smile. It was as if I was starting to bloom, just like I had hoped.

 I don’t know when it began, but one day my jokes started being drowned out by my roommate’s tears. The tears weren’t just for me, they were for everyone- they got shown around, and I didn’t want to intrude. I used to wait my turn, until I realized I didn’t have one. It’s my fault; I should have kept telling those jokes. But it gave me time to study- instead of talking, I stayed inside and watched films. TV. The West Wing was a favorite, where everyone moved fast and talked fast. Even Sorkin’s idiots were smarter than me. I laughed a lot, cried a little, and forgot everything else. There was only tv for a long while.

At a conservative christian college, the split was pretty even: conventionally attractive education majors, and homeschoolers who struggled with personal hygiene. I fell into the second category. The other homeschoolers and I would wander around campus in freshman year, noticing the herds of upperclassmen that seemed to tower over us- “I feel like I never see girl upperclassmen- I wonder why?” I mused. It only took two seconds to sink in: all the girls got married and dropped out. It’s a trope that our hometown wouldn’t like you to believe, but it’s true- three girls from my hall alone are having weddings this summer. You’ve probably guessed by my irresistible personality, but I’m not invited to any of them- I lasted one year in school, and dropped out.

It’s been in the last week that I started watching MASH from top to bottom. 

I dropped out of school. After serving some time in the retail ranks I moved to the UK for six months. A month into my arrival, I told a friend “I always feel out of place and strange everywhere I go, so if I don’t fit in here, it won’t really matter.” I go to Wales, and don’t stand out too badly, with a handful of other Americans wandering around. Buoyed with newfound confidence, I try london- london knocks me flat, but I scrape my way out. In another phone call to a friend- “I’m a Missouri eight, but a London four.” I go on two dates with two different musicians, both men in their mid-thirties named Tom. Tom one is surprised when I tell him I’m nervous- this is something that regularly shocks people. Understandably so- when it’s your life’s mission to be confident, the last thing you want to do is make other people believe anything else. I trip, I blurt, but I keep rolling. The cameras are always rolling, and everyday is a chance to make the big break. Missouri, Alaska, Wales and London- maybe if I travel again, somebody is going to find me. Tom two likes pink hair, and calls it sexy. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to being sexy. We talk long-distance every day for a month, for hours in a day. I’m the one who says “let’s not continue,” and the one to change my hair from faded pink to strawberry blonde. With no money in my bank account, my mother is the one to buy it, at 7.95. The color comes in a bright carol burnett, which lightens to conan o’ brian a few days later. As I write this in March, it’s now settled to a sandy Eric stoltz. 

I talked to Tom Two about writing this piece- my feelings about self had come up often, and on a date in his village we dug into american-style burgers and talked about everything. “It’s strange,” I had said through mouthfuls, “but I often feel that I’m the woman I am because of men.” I brought up Danny Kaye, Dick Van Dyke, and am able to laugh at the Sam Rockwell dance moves. I tell him that I was always looking up to women I hoped to be, beautiful, graceful women that happened to be so far from what I became. Now, when I look in the mirror, I see the men. I’ve never met a woman like me- I think I made myself up.

There’s definitely a window being missed right now, and it’s hard not to see it. I’ve never had anything published yet, and didn’t get that degree. I could have at least tried to get myself married, but at the moment I can’t even guarantee I know what gender I want to date yet. I still hold out hope that I’ll die young and my work will be published posthumously. Then people can speculate about a life that was never really lived, and therefore bring some meaning to it. Maybe I’ll even get a miniseries made about my life. 

Alan Alda, Danny Kaye, Dick Van Dyke- these men just kept swirling around in my head. I flipped on the tv and saw it- Alan Alda, handsome as ever, throwing quips and spitting gin. With MY neck. How had I never seen this before? It almost made me mad. It did make me mad, it made me furious. Do you know how many hours of footage I’ve deleted just because I was self conscious about that slouch? What I would have done differently if I had thought of it as I do now: not my slouch, but OUR slouch. Meanwhile Mr. Charming is over here making out with nurses left and right. Of course there’s more- the other two began roaming around in my head, taking up space rent free, as the youths say. My big nose never fit the feminine standards, but what about the men? What if it’s a sign of character? And my crooked teeth could be a boyish grin, instead of a goblin smile? My gosh, could I have been LOVING myself this whole time–

I did a deep dive for the piece, into all three of these men. I gotta watch some of the clips that apparently dug pretty deeply into my subconscious. Van Dyke’s soft shoe routines, Kaye chattering away at a million miles away, Hawkeye stacking prank after prank. I see where I got my chin thrust, the goofy grins- the hiccupy uncertainty that I smack myself for, shining through uniquely. What would my life have been if I had stopped trying to be a princess and had let myself shadow someone else for once? Would I have tumbled into myself?

I must be reminded that this isn’t a desperate piece. This isn’t the end. As I keep being lovingly reminded by my mother, twenty one isn’t ancient. Danny Kaye didn’t start his charity work until his 40’s, and van Dyke didn’t break into tv until at least 35. I’ve got time to stumble into something yet. Or better yet, give what I’m doing a damn good try.

While writing this piece, I took a few dance breaks- dance has been such a  way to express myself, and I usually don’t go a single day without taking a break to run around. I can’t help but record- I’m still holding out hope to break into something, though that something gets fuzzier day by day. I do a couple takes, dancing the way I like to dance, to the music I like to listen to. Al Green. Joe Cocker. Wailing music. I watch the recording, trying to stare at all my snarling insecurities right in the face- the slouch is still there, the weak chin, the tumbling, nervous arms. But are they so bad if they don’t belong to just me?

Dick van Dyke will die before I’ll ever get to meet him. Danny Kaye was gone long before I was born, the end of such an important era of hollywood. I’ve got to hurry up and turn myself into a big shot if I have any hope of meeting Alda… 

I just want to make people laugh. I think at this point, I can just drop trying to BE something. I’ve got better things to do. I look in the mirror– I can’t help but give myself a wink.

The names in this article have been changed for privacy- except for Tom. Hehe.