The Black Swan

“Ballet’s image of perfection is fashioned amid a milieu of wracked bodies, fevered imaginations, Balkan intrigue and sulfurous hatreds where anything is likely, and dancers know.”

I wanted to be a ballerina. Well in fact, I still do. However, being a prima ballerina is easier said then done and to be one of those American Ballet Theatre bitches whose life depends on landing that triple pirouette, is almost impossible for the likes of me. I wanted to be Misty Copeland (who is the only dancer at ABT that I could somewhat relate to) so badly. But I have two things working against me to accomplish this dream.

1) Being black
2) and being black

Reason one. This is all I’ve heard my whole life. Being a ‘black’ ballerina makes life difficult. The only two options that I really have as a famous prima dancer are Alvin Ailey (who doesn’t like me!) And the Dance Theatre of Harlem. Maybe I could go to Alonzo King’s Lines. But influential black ballerinas are rare and I’ve witnessed this since the beginning of my dance career when I realized that I was the only bean in a pot of rice. Each studio that I traveled to with my pink tights and canvas slippers proved to be the next battle of the mountainous climb to self-acceptance. My whole life I have been fully engulfed in cultures that weren’t my own which consequently caused me to loathe ballet at the same time. What should have been my reason for identity caused me to question everything that my black skin stood for.

Reason two. Being the physical, stereotypical black. This means that I was blessed with a black woman’s body (breasts, hips, thighs and the dreaded behind). This didn’t help me blend in to my translucent classmates who were shaped like stiff branches on a pine tree. I was forced to curve my spine in ways that seem physically impossible to hide the outline of my ass that was only emphasized by my white leotard. The one male teacher that I had (who wasn’t gay) would stare at my chest curiously as my breasts seemed to marvel him to no end. Tutus never looked quite right on me as they tended to stick up awkwardly in the back. My partners would complain in pas de deux class that my calves were bigger than theirs. Thus, I became self-conscious about my body. Even at my skinniest (where I looked like some starving child from Ethiopia) my ass still remained. ABT would never accept me.

I should hate ballet. All of the names, struggles, put downs and insults that I went through to prove myself as a worthy dancer pushed my esteem into a corner protected by snarling wolves. Although my struggle for acceptance still continues with me, ballet has given me an appreciation of structure, discipline and motivation. I’m ready for corporate America (which can be synonymous with the ballet community). I’m not going to put my pointe shoes to rest just yet. My solution: to take dance classes again. That’s all I really wanted to say.