I'm up early, before my alarm, with tears still wet on my face. My eyes are fogged with sleep and the tears left over from the most hideous cry I had last night. I stayed up to watch Misty Copeland on Independent Lens. I know her story and have devoured so much about her as she's made her historic rise to principle dancer with the American Ballet Theater (ABT). Like so many women, black women, with daughters and a love of dance and the arts, I have gravitated toward this tiny, elegant force, found myself spinning around her like a mama moon. I am up early, before my alarm, because I am moved in the most spiritual of ways by an artist and her work and a moment that was a long time coming.
To say that Misty Copeland is inspiring is to discover that the word has been overused and that there are hardly words to describe this woman, her talent, and her trajectory. This is the story of a prodigy, of an artist come to life, of a consgilieri and a coven (written in the best way so don't go in) of "firsts" and strong, able, successful black women who brought a baby light into the fold. I was as moved by this group as I am by Misty's absolute command of her craft, her body, and her art. That these women were called to be her guides by the incredible Susan Fales-Hill, a writer/producer/patron of the arts and education, that they met the call to protect and nurture this artist who was sure to take her place in the pantheon they'd begun creating with their life achievements, filled me with a love and pride that is indescribable.
I have loved dance since I was a small girl dreaming of all the major roles in classical ballets and watching Michael Jackson and Solid Gold. Much of the latter part of my childhood was spent in the studio and I trained many days a week. My dance teacher, a ball-breaking Russian dancer, hurt by her turn as dance teacher to the suburban kids of New Jersey in her basement studio, still found a way to push and pull me and try to make me into something. She told me there were very few black dancers out there and that those were not players in the mainstream dance companies. She did not say this with callousness but matter of factly. I did not know about the Dance Theatre of Harlem and though I had enjoyed Ailey, I wanted to wear pointe shoes and perform the classical pieces I'd been spoon fed. I can't say that I even let myself dream of a chance at a career or a life in dance as I believed that there was no place for me in the arts and that though the arts were enriching, there were better things for one to do with one's future.
I was no Misty Copeland, she's an incredible talent, a force, but I was good. Good enough to dream about it and phantom dance through every song, sound, and watched performance. Good enough to hear the muse calling to me, but not quite sure what to answer back or how. This is the struggle of a young artist or performer. Feeling full of the spirit but needing commitment and guidance from a master. I gave up before even trying to find such a mentor, convinced that to dance was a pipe dream for me, that there were more "serious, important, pressing things" in my future. I have regretted this for all my life. Not because I thought I should or could be a dancer, but because I stopped speaking a mother tongue, a language I loved and understood to babble on in one I could only mimic.
I am absolutely mesmerized by the delicate balance of power and grace in this young woman. I have loved other ballerinas, followed their lines, studied their hands and their feet, seen the longing heaving in their tiny ribcages, watched their sternums expand and contract with each gesture. I have moved with them, hypnotized as they moved across the stage in a seemingly effortless dance that masked the years of training and hours and hours of work to prepare. But to share with my daughters a dancer that looks like them, that is shy and sensitive as they are, who, despite her fears and loneliness persevered is a precious gift. To be the first, the one and only, forging a path of one's own are themes that I have sought to share with the girls in literature, movies, stories, music, and art. Girl power and black girl magic has to come from me. I cannot wait for them to find it on their own or worse, never discover it or not believe it.
As a small girl, I had the great fortune to meet and even dance for Judith Jamison and the Alvin Ailey company backstage. My mother had gone to college with "Jam" and we'd gone to see them perform. I remember the sound and the fury of backstage life, seeing the dancers in street clothes but full stage make up, smoking cigarettes, laughing, flirting, smiling. I remember their beautiful bodies, their taut, black and brown bodies, and the feeling of the stage behind me and the seats of the empty theatre in front of me. For years after this wonderful moment, I carried that rarefied air in my lungs, all that hope and desire, that longing, until it slowly faded. When I watch Misty Copeland, I feel like that girl again and I am soaring behind her, carried along in her wake and pushing her forward with my hope and love for her. I have been taken in by this historic moment and feel such pride.
I don't know if my daughters will keep dancing, don't know if this is what calls to their spirits, but I am grateful that they have seen a dancer achieve what seemed impossible and hope that whatever they might believe is impossible now seems a little less so.
(c) Copyright 2016. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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