The Meaning of Nutcracker Resides in the Front Row

What could be a better way to begin the holiday season than with a performance of San Francisco Ballet’s Nutcracker? And, on opening night, I had one of my most memorable experiences ever.

When I arrived at my seat, a small child dressed in white sat next to me, examining the little gifts she had received at the door, a part of the festivities for the first Family Performance at the Ballet. Curious, I said, “May I see your little mouse?” The woman on her other side said, “She doesn’t speak any English.” It turned out that this little girl had moved from Russia to the United States only three weeks earlier.

The three-year-old sat quietly, absorbed in the action of the party scene. Suddenly, the set transformed. The Christmas tree started to grow. All of the furniture became huge. It towered over us in the front row. A mouse appeared. The child next to me froze. Another mouse crept out.

I glanced at my seatmate to see how she was taking it. The child’s tiny hands were motioning the mice away from Clara. And it was like that all through the fight scene. She worried when the Mouse King appeared. Her little fist delicately pumped the air when the Nutcracker Prince brought on his battalions of soldiers. She turned from side to side as the battle raged.

Then, it was over. Clara’s Prince had won. The stage was bare, save for Clara and Uncle Drosselmeyer. This made my little neighbor unhappy. Was she worried that the performance was over? Was the bare stage frightening? There was no way for her to tell anyone. But her mother reassured her, Drosselmeyer performed his magic, and the stage was transformed into the ethereal beauty of the snow scene.

My little neighbor was entranced all over again. She sat right up when Principal Dancers Yuan Yuan Tan and Tiit Helimets appeared as the Queen and King of Snow. As far as I could tell, though she loved the snowflakes and the snowstorm itself; she recognized that something special was happening when Yuan Yuan danced.

Yuan Yuan Tan performs in Tomasson's Nutcracker. (© Erik Tomasson)

As the intermission came to a close, my little neighbor returned with her own wooden Nutcracker. I learned now that she had been adopted by a San Franciscan family three week ago. Now I understood why her mother did not speak Russian to her. The child had recently made this huge change in her life and now sat in the front row of the Opera House watching a ballet that had originated in St. Petersburg, Russia.

A little finger gently poked my arm. She wanted to show me her doll. She stroked his felt moustache and indicated I should do the same. The bubble wrap was still around the doll, which she tenderly arranged under his chin like a blanket. She pointed to the shiny metal plate at the base. “Nutcracker,” I said, pointing to the word.

Then, I had an idea. I turned my program to the title page and pointed to the same word in its distinctive label. “Nutcracker,” I said. We each pointed to the two Nutcracker words while I repeated them aloud.

“Nutcracka,” said the child in a soft voice.