Greg Bruce: I’m proud of my daughter, even though she wishes I wasn’t

Hip hop is life. Photo / Getty

OPINION

Earlier this year, our 7-year-old told us she wanted to audition for one of the hip-hop crews at our local dance studio, despite having never in her life performed a single hip-hop move.

I loved this, loved that she wanted to audition in spite of a complete lack of evidence that she could succeed, loved that she wasn’t fussed about rejection or humiliation, that she never once seemed to think her selection in a competitive hip-hop crew might require the prior doing of at least a little bit of hip-hop.

I wasn’t surprised though. This was just the latest example of her willingness to give everything a try, and to believe that nothing is beyond her, which are qualities I had always hoped my kids would develop in spite of the fact they’re qualities I’ve never possessed.

It was with considerable shock and delight that, a few days after her audition, we received an email saying she’d made the crew. She had tried, she had been unafraid, she had thrown herself into life rather than standing back on the sidelines, and she had succeeded. I could not have been prouder. I knew I couldn’t tell her that, though. For some reason I’ve never been able to understand, she hates me being proud of her.

She began going to weekly hip-hop lessons and weekly crew training sessions. At home, she worked even harder, assisted by my wife who cares about few things in life more than passing on her love of dance to our children.

Her first major competition was earlier this month. On the morning of the competition, unable to contain my excitement, I told her how proud I was of her. She looked at me contemptuously and told me not to say that. I told her I would be yelling her name when she ran out on stage. She told me I was not to do that. I asked if I could at least yell out the name of her crew, preceded by “Let’s go”, but again she said no. Eventually, maybe sensing she’d hurt my feelings, she said I was allowed to clap.

Early that afternoon, when she ran out on stage, I immediately disregarded every one of her edicts. The audience was 1000-strong and a sizeable portion of them were whooping, hollering and stomping. I wasn’t going to be outdone.

In that moment, as she stood with her back to us, in perfect formation with her crew, I could feel the joy and excitement radiating from her. When the beat dropped and they hit that first move with all the power in their tiny bodies, the attitude, the swag, was so big and so real I immediately welled up. Hip-hop, I immediately understood, was life. The movement broke open the universe and everything exploded out, all the emotion and the power. And my kid was part of it! Their performance was super-tight, on point, fierce and so many other adjectives I can’t carry off. It was too much for one parent to bear.

Half an hour later, she came and joined us in the audience. She sat in the seat next to me, because there wasn’t one free next to my wife. I was so pumped on parental pride I could barely contain myself.

“That was amazing!” I said, offering her a high five she ignored. “You were so great!” I said to her face of stone. “I’m so proud of you!” I went on, ill-advisedly.

“Daddy, stop!” she hissed, turning to me angrily. “I told you not to say that!”

And, because I know about the importance of role modelling, and of not deliberately provoking one’s children, I did stop, but it wasn’t easy: parental pride is a powerful force. I was proud of her then and I’m proud of her now and I will always be proud of her. No longer allowed to say it out loud, I record it here, where it will hopefully outlast me, and where she might one day come across it and be reminded that it was always true, even when she didn’t want it to be.