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336 pages, Library Binding
First published January 1, 2021
My very first skating dress was a pink crushed-velvet number with a she'll-grow-into-it fit. At six years old, I asked my mom to sew a feather boa onto the sleeves because I had seen Oksana Baiul skate in a feather-laden dress on TV. The end result was a ridiculous and adorable outfit—a unique creation that made me feel superhuman when I put it on (although I probably looked less like a superhero and more like a bubblegum chicken). As I got older, I stayed heavily involved in the dressmaking process—sketching out designs on scraps of paper with my mom and carefully gluing patterns of gleeful rhinestones onto our creations. But at some point, the procedure lost its magic. My coaches started getting involved. Judges started making notes. I was told not to wear halter dresses because they made my boobs look too big. I was not to wear white because the color emphasized the rolls of my stomach. I was told not to wear shorts or pants because they were against the rules. (Yes—in the sport of ice dance, there are rules against women wearing pants.) (216)There's so much here, isn't there? There's the irony of being older (and being a more advanced skater) meaning less control over the creative process. There's the emphasis on weight: size seeming as important as skill, and boobs being something to hide because...because...I haven't figured this one out. Because they imply a healthy amount of body fat, I suppose, and we can't have that. The extremely binarily gendered way in which ice dancing operates—always male/female pairs; women apparently can't wear pants (and men presumably can't wear skirts); Manta is one of very few openly queer female figure skaters, because heteronormativity is a thing.