Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina (30 page)

With every rehearsal at ABT’s studios, every performance at the Met or Brooklyn Academy of Music, I risked letting down everybody who believed in me, perhaps no one more so than myself.

I had countless people in my corner, from my mother, who loved me enough to let me leave her for a little while to live with the Bradleys, to Kevin McKenzie, who gave me my dream of dancing with ABT.

But there have, and continue to be, many in the ballet world who criticize me, whose twisted notions about my looks, my ability, and my motives hurt me still.

Some bloggers felt that my appearances with Prince demeaned ballet. Others decried the fact that I had the nerve to “play” the race card. Others cited the many articles about me as proof that I wasn’t much more than a press-hungry amateur.

I wanted not to read these vitriolic words. And then, when curiosity wouldn’t let me leave well enough alone, I wanted it not to hurt, not to make me angry. But it did both.

Paloma never reads her reviews, though she’s in a small minority of dancers who are able to disconnect from the public in that way. For me, being active online and in social media is another way of connecting with my fans, whether they’re the ones who have front-row subscriptions to ABT or have only seen clips of my dancing on a tablet screen. But there are people who will just never want to see me dance because of my race. No matter what I do or how I do it, they won’t like me.

I’m tempted by Paloma’s resolution: she doesn’t have to deal with the comments that numb your artistry and tear your soul apart—she doesn’t live in fear that the joy of doing what she loves will be taken from her. I never want that.

How do I explain what it is like for someone who has never met you, has never walked your path, to view you through a fractured lens and then render judgment? Giving interviews,
dancing with Prince, and taking every opportunity I can to speak to young people are what I do
because
I love ballet, not to exploit it. I want to share this beautiful art form, which at its heart is so uplifting, with as many people possible because I know the joy and grace that it has given me.

I also find it interesting when people talk about my mixed roots. Most black people have ancestors who came from Europe or the indigenous groups of the Americas. My blackness has always been clear to those who want to say I do not fit into the classical world of ballet. But when I am getting media attention for beating the odds, and gaining unlikely success in this exclusive, cloistered world, suddenly my Italian and German grandmothers take center stage.

I choose to define myself. I am a black woman, and my identity is not a card to play, or a label that I begrudgingly accept because it’s been assigned to me. It’s the African American culture that has raised me, that has shaped my body and my worldview. Admittedly, I don’t always handle my hurt and outrage at the prejudice I see so often very well, but I have agency in being able to speak my mind. So many times, I’ll hear the seven-year-old girls I teach reflect the bigoted mentality that poisons the dance world. They’re children and already have to deal with such grown-up messes. It’s very much an issue. And while I want everyone who sees me dance to be transported and transfixed, when I soar across the stage, I feel that I am carrying every little brown girl with me, those with broken wings and those who are just about to take flight.

Someone once asked me if, as a dancer, I ever have a perfect night. Sometimes it seems that way. You feel totally in balance. You land every jump perfectly. Your arms float like ether, and
your body arches strong and gracefully. Dancers say then that “you’re on. You’re on your leg.”

But that is rare. Instead, I think a professional dancer is always striving to be able to correct what’s askew, to make things work when they’re off. We train our bodies to be able to find balance when we’re off-kilter, and to quickly deal with whatever is thrown at us—a missed beat, a twisted ankle, a stumble or fall.

Before every rehearsal, without fail, I go to ballet class. And I always begin with a warm-up at the barre. I work at it like I’m back at the Boys and Girls Club in San Pedro, touching it for the first time. Some days, I stand on one leg and find that I am tired, that I am weak. So I shift my weight to find another way to stand tall and push through.

That has been my mental battle as well: to block out the criticism, to remember all the little brown girls who are counting on me. Then to stand tall. And push through.

I WAS IN TOKYO,
performing as a flower girl in
Don Quixote,
when I first heard about
The Firebird.

It was in the fall of 2011, and I’d been a soloist for four years. With music composed by Igor Stravinsky,
The Firebird
is a work that melds the most virtuosic parts of ballet with bravura solos that tell a story of spells, mystical creatures, and love triumphing over evil.

As the story goes, Prince Ivan loses his way and winds up in an enchanted garden, where he comes upon and captures the beautiful Firebird. When she breaks away, she leaves
behind a magic feather that he can use to call her if he is ever in trouble.

Next, the wandering prince encounters thirteen frolicking princesses. The young maidens are under a spell, cast by the sorcerer Kaschei. He wants to keep them all to himself. But Prince Ivan is smitten with one of the dancing maidens.

When Ivan clashes with the evil Kaschei, he waves the Firebird’s magical feather. She appears and casts a spell of her own, forcing the wicked sorcerer and all who are gathered to dance themselves to exhaustion. The Firebird eventually guides the prince to an egg which holds Kaschei’s soul. Ivan breaks it. Soon, the princesses are liberated from the deep, dark magic that had entranced them and the sorcerer’s other victims are also freed. The magical garden blooms in sunshine once more and the Firebird triumphantly rises over the prince and his love, like an angel.

It is a beautiful, iconic role. One day, Kevin pulled me aside and told me that I would be learning the part.

That was unusual. Usually, there is a casting list, hanging on a board at ABT’s headquarters where the dancers can see every role for every ballet the company is performing that year. Next to the roles are lists of names in the order of the cast in which they will appear. Your name being written there doesn’t guarantee that you will be in the principal role. You might be preparing to be an understudy.

Three to four weeks before the first performance, that same board notes the dates that you will perform, and lets you know, finally, if you will perform as the principal. ABT will also issue press releases announcing who will play which roles, and when, during the season.

Kevin told me himself that I’d be learning Firebird. It was the most expedient way for me to find out, because I was going to have to commit to rehearsing for it during a company layoff.

I assumed I would be an understudy, but I was still thrilled to be studying Alexei Ratmansky’s new choreography.

I dove into rehearsals, determined that if ever I needed to fill in for the lead, I would be ready.

Alexei challenged me with his eccentric, brilliant choreography. His steps were more contemporary than classical, and there was really no established vocabulary to describe them.
The Firebird
would have two big solos, as well as a
pas de deux.
The first solo was extremely important because it would form the first impression of this mythical creature, and Alexei was obsessed with getting it just right. Three casts would be performing the ballet, and the Firebird in each would have her own unique entrance.

For my entrance to the stage, Alexei wanted me to run out at full speed and then come to an abrupt stop while the musical score continued to play. Then he wanted the Firebird to execute a dramatic movement that demonstrated her power, her wildness. I was constantly focused on that as I looked in the mirror during rehearsals. Normally, in classical ballet you want to hold your neck in alignment with your spine. But as this wild creature, I jutted my chin forward.

What also made working with Alexei so special was that unlike so many choreographers who merely verbalized their vision, Alexei was able to demonstrate—an off-balance
piqué,
a jerky
pirouette.
My ability to immediately mimic whatever motion I saw was critical. And learning the steps in this visceral
way was also refreshing. With many classical ballets created centuries ago, you don’t really know what the creator intended. Instead, you’re trying to interpret an assumption. Not so with Alexei’s modern inventions.

Still, Alexei’s vision was not easy to bring to life. He didn’t want it to be. In
The Firebird
’s
pas de deux,
Prince Ivan is trying to capture the creature, and she is trying frantically, poignantly, to escape. It is a struggle, not a romantic embrace. Alexei’s choreography reflected that.

At the same time I was learning the part of the Firebird, I was participating in a choreographic workshop with Dance Theatre of Harlem. The company had been resurrected after its long hiatus, and ABT was on a summer layoff for two months. The workshop would have no final performance. It was simply, beautifully, an exercise in creation, as expressed by myself, one other young woman, and two young men. It was an honor to participate in finding the identity for the new Dance Theatre of Harlem, under Virginia Johnson’s direction. I also continued to find comfort there, surrounded by dancers who looked like me and who unconditionally supported, rather than questioned, my talent.

We had a busy morning of choreographing and improvising together. Finally, we got a five-minute break, and I plopped down on the floor, exhausted, and picked up my phone. I started browsing idly through Twitter as I stretched my tired legs.

And that’s how I found out.

There was a link to an ABT press release about the official casting for
The Firebird.
Natalia Osipova, ABT’s guest principal dancer, would be in the first cast.

And I—Misty Copeland—would be the Firebird in the second.

I would become the first black woman in history to play the Firebird for a major ballet company.

My eyes welled with tears. For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

“Is everything okay?” someone asked with concern. “Is it your family?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve been cast as the Firebird.” Then I burst into tears.

Everyone around me started crying as well. There were arms everywhere as they reached out to grab me, hug me.

When you are in a dance company, the other members are like your family. Some of my dearest friends have been the boys and girls, men and women, whom I danced beside, whether in San Pedro, in San Francisco, and of course in New York City, within ABT.

Many of my peers at ABT later congratulated me, happy for my achievement. But I know, in the moment when I discovered that I had been cast, their reaction would not have been like what I received that day among the company members of Dance Theatre of Harlem.

Though I was not officially a member of their company, we were family because we shared a different, more profound bond. They were also black dancers, and they felt the significance of this moment in a way that few others would: deep within their souls. They knew, without my needing to spell it out, every setback or curve in the road: that I had fought for ten years to be recognized, to show that I had the talent and ability to dance in classical ballets. They had fought that fight alongside me. And
so they felt as much pride and elation as I did, seeing an African American dancer cast in the lead role of such an iconic classical ballet.

As for me, my tears were as much an outpouring of relief as they were happiness. I was incredibly excited. But I also felt a weight that I had carried on my back for a decade slowly getting lighter.

I’m not sure that I could have rehearsed any more intensely than I already had been. I approached every ballet class like a rehearsal, every rehearsal as if it was an actual performance. I was immersed in the part completely, practicing up to seven hours a day, five or six days a week, for six months.

While I focused on the performance, ABT’s historic decision was making waves. Numerous African American luminaries, from the worlds of television, literature, and the arts, were purchasing tickets to my premiere. My mentors, Arthur Mitchell, Raven Wilkinson, and Susan Fales-Hill, called me with congratulations. The pressure was building, but I was so elated to be getting my chance at such a seminal role that I didn’t have time to be nervous.

Before kicking off our season at the Metropolitan Opera in New York, we debuted
The Firebird
on the road. Our first performances were at the Segerstrom Center for the Arts in Orange County, California. It was a homecoming; Mommy and my brothers and sisters were there. And afterward, Prince in his quiet, unassuming manner put together a small celebration for me to share in my achievement with family and friends.

Ballet blog talk praised my performance and that of Herman Cornejo’s, who played the part of Prince Ivan.