Dad’s World with Jonathan deBurca Butler

I THINK I was more frightened than he was. 

I had been told there would only be girls, that Fionn would be the only boy and even though, on the surface at least, I’m one of these idiots who likes to stick the fingers up at the norms of society, there was a part of me worried that there would be people there looking at me thinking: ‘What the hell is that clown doing bringing his little boy to a ballet class?’.

Of course, I didn’t mention to Fionn he was the lone wolf. I’d let him see that for himself. There was no point making an issue of something before it even became one. Boys, girls, black, white... Fionn, like most kids his age, doesn’t care a hoot. If you can play and have a bit of craic, he’ll be your friend and long may it last.

I’m not 100% sure why I was so adamant to bring him to a dance class in the first place. I do remember Fionn once pirouetting off our footstool and landing perfectly on the living room rug. Perhaps that was the moment I began to think to myself: “This guy might just like dancing.”

I had been building up to it all week; showing him videos of Christopher Walken, Rudolph Nureyev and, of course, David Byrne from Talking Heads. By the time we got to the dance hall on the Saturday morning he was positively chomping at the tippy-toes.

Initially, he was a little reluctant, pink tutus and silvery ribbons were being handed out left, right and centre.

There was lots of ooing and ahhing and I was sure Fionn began to twig that he was the only fish just slightly out of water. Luckily, the dance teacher, Emer, twigged it too and when she approached him to say hello, she hid the more effeminate of the costume accessories. Fionn darted in behind my leg, but when she suggested he be line leader he didn’t have to be asked again. He took her hand and led the troupe into the studio. It was a strangely edifying moment.

I stayed outside with the other parents, who to be fair to them, were either oblivious to my defiant gesture against gender stereotyping or just gave me a little smile and a nod; in other words, no one really cared.

After about 15 minutes, the door opened. I was dreading that it might be Fionn but, not for the first time, I was wrong to doubt him. Instead, one little ballerina dressed in a tutu and shiny headband was on the way out and boy was she letting everyone know.

By now I couldn’t hold back, I had to have a look. I climbed the stairs and peeked through the steamy portal. There he was, sitting on the floor wiggling his toes and looking around at everyone else with a big smile on his face. I left him to it and was now so confident that he’d last the full 45 minutes that I went and got a coffee for myself.

Later, when I went up again, he was admiring a large silver star on the top of his wand. I could see it in his eyes: “I’m going to turn them all into frogs.”

In the middle of the room, six little girls were pretending to be asleep; I was later informed they were sleeping mermaids. The others, including Fionn, were standing still.

Suddenly, from an unseen corner came an exultant “Go!” from the teacher, and with that off Fionn went, with his wand and his new found friends. They danced around the mythical sea creatures who gradually began to wake from their slumbers. Fionn was beaming, laughing with the exhilaration of it all.

I walked away before it stopped and locked the image away in a safe buried deep in my soul. It was wonderful.

At noon the classroom door burst open and out rushed the little future of Irish dance.

“How did you get on?” I asked him as I sat him on my knee and put his shoes back on him.

“Dad,” he said. “Can we come again tomorrow?”