Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina (31 page)

“It was so good to see Herman in his solos, as he’s
looking amazing,” the piece read. “And Misty—her feet! her arms! her legs! her back!—was incredible. Both Herman and Misty moved through their backs, everything emanating from their center rather than a jumble of limbs being tossed about. They were fantastic apart and together, which is important for this ballet especially as they aren’t supposed to be a romantic couple.”

“This cast can only get better, I’m sure,” the piece continued. “I can’t wait to hear others’ impressions of them from the Met stage.”

And I was recognized as not just being technically proficient, but stylistically strong, too.

“Even though the Firebird is certainly different from Odette/Odile, Misty has the otherworldly drama and fluidity that makes me really want to see her in [
Swan
]
Lake
now. This ballet really shows [that] she’s not just a technical firehouse . . . and I hope we get to see more of it soon!”

An
L.A. Times
blogged review also lifted me with its praise:

Ratmansky’s revised storyline and forward-backward movement idiom finally emerged clearly with second cast leads Misty Copeland and Herman Cornejo, a hypnotizing pair. Cornejo masterfully sustained tension and contained his energy, thus giving even more force to Copeland’s abandoned, creaturely performance. With them, the audience’s standing ovation was absolutely spontaneous.

WE WERE BUILDING UP
an incredible head of steam, garnering positive reviews and honing our performance. Our premiere on the Met’s stage was drawing near.

Meanwhile, my body was giving me signals that it was being pushed past its limits.

Stress fractures are a slow injury—subtle, creeping—until they become a force that can’t be ignored.

I had suffered my first serious injury my first year in the corps, when I sustained a stress fracture in my lower lumbar. At that time, I caught the hurt early. This time, I would not be so prescient.

I began to feel pain in my left shin, the leg I turn on, about six months before I made my
Firebird
debut at the Met. I had hurt myself during the relentless rehearsal process, and continued to put strain on my leg with the touring shows we were doing before debuting in New York.

The two times I performed as the Firebird in Orange County, there were moments when the pain was so strong, it seized my breath.

I tried to reason it away.

You’re working out hard, practicing all day,
I told myself.
Of course your leg is hurting.

I had stopped jumping in class because I knew it would cause more damage. I saved my
grands jetés
and
petits allegros
for rehearsals and the actual shows.

But I didn’t say a word about what I was feeling. In addition to my role as the Firebird, I also had the secondary lead of Gamzatti in
La Bayadère.
I feared that if I mentioned that I was in pain, I might lose one or both roles. And I wouldn’t risk them, couldn’t lose them.

This is for the little brown girls.

At the same time that I was working out to the point of exhaustion and trying to push fears about my weakening leg to the back of my mind, I was also having a difficult time with the ballet mistress helping me to prepare for
La Bayadère.

Natalia Makarova was a legendary dancer who was a prima ballerina with the Kirov Ballet before she defected from Russia, later becoming a principal with ABT. I was pushed through a process that wasn’t normal for ABT. I was put in a position to compete for a role with another dancer. It was clear Kevin wanted me to have the role of Gamzatti, but he told me that I would be seen by Natalia over the course of a week and it was unlikely I would get the part because she was leaning toward another dancer.

The process was intense and grueling. I knew that Natalia had issues with my body—my breasts, my weight—and did not want me featured in a ballet she was setting. I was constantly on the verge of tears but would hold them back until I was alone in the dressing room.

I knew I had to focus, to stay
en pointe
both mentally and physically. I kept working.

This is for the little brown girls.

I got the chance to perform the part of Gamzatti in one show before my premiere as the Firebird. By then, somehow, I had been able to reach a point mentally that was so strong that I was able to do things physically that I couldn’t get my body to do in rehearsals. And I was able to block out Natalia’s disapproval, her criticism that I wasn’t ready.

Then, it was time for me to take the Metropolitan Opera’s stage as the Firebird.

The day of our New York debut, the company had a dress rehearsal. Afterward, I walked out the front doors of the Met, planning to get a quick haircut since I would be attending the post premiere gala later that night.

After being inside the theater, the bright sun felt good on my face. I breathed in New York—the cabs snaking down the avenue, the crowds of tourists and art lovers ambling by. I took comfort in my city, always there to greet me, cocooning me in its embrace.

I turned around and looked up.

It was me, in full blazing color. There was my face, head thrown back in joy, and my body exuding power and feminity as I stood
en pointe
on a twenty-four-foot advertisement, waving from the front of the Metropolitan Opera. Misty Copeland. The Firebird. The banner had been there a month, since the start of the season. But still, it moved me. My eyes filled with tears. In all my years of living in New York City, I had never seen a black woman on the facade of the Met.

A FEW HOURS LATER,
I was in my brilliant costume of red and gold, sitting in the dressing room at the Metropolitan Opera House.

But I no longer believed that I could pull it off. I was in pain. An incredible, searing amount of pain.

How can I dance,
I thought, staring in the mirror,
if I can barely walk?

I knew that after tonight, I wouldn’t be able to dance again for a long while.

Tonight, knowing that so many people had come out to support me, knowing my struggles and the significance of this moment, would have to be enough. No matter what happened on the stage, I reminded myself that there was a bigger purpose than my personal achievement.

It was time. I rose and walked toward the stage.

I was so far away from San Pedro, so different from the nineteen-year-old girl who first timidly stepped onto the Metropolitan Opera House stage, awestruck and uncertain.

Now I was a soloist, about to play a principal role in an iconic ballet for one of the most respected classical dance companies in the world. People who had nurtured me, supported me, were here, as well as others who had never before seen a professional ballet but were drawn by my presence. They were all waiting expectantly in the darkness.

My lower leg throbbed, but not as hard as my heart. I ignored both. This is what I had spent years longing for. It was time to push through. I paused in the wings before my first entrance.

The chandeliers rose, the orchestra began to play, and the lights shone down.

I was transformed. For the next ninety minutes, I fluttered and darted. I was the Firebird. There were
jetés,
and
piqués
, and
fouettés
.

And I felt no pain. All the training, all the practicing, all the nurturing had come together for this climactic moment.

“This is a
brisé.
” I heard Lola de Ávila whispering in my ear.

“You are God’s child.” I remembered, hearing Cindy.

“You were meant to be on the stage, Misty,” Mommy said in my memory of my first performance, singing “Mr. Postman” behind my brother Chris.

They were all there with me. And so many more.

This is for the little brown girls.

There were times during my performance that the applause was so loud I could barely hear the music. Then it was over.

The cast carried me, the Firebird, so that she could float away. The audience was on its feet. Shouts of “Bravo” rained down. I couldn’t see their tears, but I heard that many in the audience cried tears of joy, as they danced along with me on that stage.

I accepted my bouquet of flowers, let the applause wash over me. Then I turned and left the stage numb to the pain that would come back with a flood of debilitating force two days later, when the last of my adrenaline wore off.

AFTER THE PERFORMANCE, THERE
was a party on the stage to celebrate Kevin McKenzie’s twentieth anniversary as ABT’s director. I was joined there by many friends and supporters.

We took photographs, and for days after, the congratulatory e-mails and notes poured in.

“You have made it. You are officially a ballerina! You have proven yourself in such extreme roles as Gamzatti, then Firebird. I’m so proud of you. You have more than I ever did but I can still see when someone is the real deal. You are the epitome of all a ballerina is.” So read a note from my mentor and idol, Raven Wilkinson.

“There are but so many special moments in our lives and last night was indeed one of them. . . . What joy to watch Misty
on that stage!! What pride to share in her amazing accomplishment and historic performance.” So wrote the president of Black Entertainment Television, Debra Lee.

“Tonight, it was as if you handed each of us—young girls and big girls—a set of wings,” said the writer Veronica Chambers.

I had also received kind words about my performance as Gamzatti. My ballet mistress, Makarova, so hard on me during rehearsals, was effusive with her praise.

“Hearing the applause when the veil is removed from my head, I felt confident and in control,” I wrote in my journal. “Kevin was pleased, Makarova was ecstatic. [She] said I rose to the occasion and did everything she has been asking for.
Firebird
was an incredible success. The night was huge and beyond me.”

I was overwhelmed by the love and support I felt from the black community and also from so many of the ABT staffers, my peers, and the critics.

The New Yorker’
s Joan Acocella wrote an amazing review:

A Firebird has to be like a bird, but to move us she also has to be like a human being. That didn’t happen until the second night, when the role passed from Osipova to Misty Copeland, an A.B.T. soloist. Copeland is the only highly placed African American woman in ballet in the city. Now they should promote her for artistic reasons as well as political ones. She deserves it.

For such a highly regarded publication to say I had proven myself artistically and shown all that I was and could be was lovely affirmation. I was blown away.

I was also nearly overwhelmed a few days after my performance as the Firebird when I sat at dinner with friends and giants from the ballet world. At the table were Arthur Mitchell, former dancer Lorraine Graves, Dance Theatre of Harlem’s resident choreographer, Robert Garland, and my friend Vernon, who works with ABT.

At that dinner, Arthur, who had called me on the phone to tell me how proud he was after seeing my performance in
La Bayadère
as well as in
The Firebird,
said that I had arrived. That I was a queen. That I was a
ballerina.