Being Yourself

Last night I watched Billy Elliot for the first time.

This is surprising in itself, because Billy Elliot is precisely My Kind Of Movie, that by rights I should have already seen 20 times and know off by heart--but for whatever reason, that hadn't happened, and so I saw it for the first time last night.

There is a scene where Billy stands, petrified, before his father, having been discovered dancing in secret, once again. The moment stretches on and on, Billy's face filled with terror and defiance and anger, his father's with anger and confusion and fear. And then Billy's face hardens, and he begins to dance.

The bravery, the determination in his little face as he fights to be himself--it was a sledgehammer to my heart. I remember thinking over and over, He is so brave to simply be himself.

And the I realized that, when I was Billy's age, that expression was the stupidest thing ever. Be yourself? Be yourself? What the hell was that even supposed to mean? How could I be somebody else? I'm always me. It's not like I suddenly transform into Amy or Tiffany or Jack if I'm not paying attention. I'm Flannery, and I'm always Flannery, and there's fuck all I can do about it, I'd think to myself.

But that's just a patent misunderstanding, isn't it?

I don't know when the shift happened, when I began to understand just how hard it is to be exactly who you are, at all times. All I know is that I understand it now, because watching that scene made me cry, both with pride of Billy and with jealousy of him. It's hard to be yourself, even when you're not a little boy from north England trying to dance ballet.

And I don't know who I am, to be myself! I feel like I have five puzzle pieces missing, and so I have to make me up a lot of the time. Being yourself is not so simple, nor so easy, as the two-word phrase would lead you to believe. It is an art as difficult and delicate as ballet, and takes just about as much practice.