I'll Never Change My Name

by Valentin Chmerkovskiy

  Strangely enough, we didn’t put two and two together right away. We failed to realize that the people we were trying to reach with our Dance With Me promotions were the same people who watched Dancing with the Stars. “Synergy” wasn’t a word that occurred to us, but what did mean something was that our beloved Maks remained down in the dumps. It didn’t make sense to us that he would decline a chance for a fresh start on a hit Hollywood show, doing what he had done at the highest level in competition. Seen from that perspective, Dancing with the Stars was a natural fit for Maks.

  My father, mother, and I got together and staged something like an intervention. We didn’t call it that, but that’s what it was, because we were trying to blast Maks out of his funk.

  “Maks, you’ve got to do it,” I said. “You’ve got to go out there, you’ve got to try this. Switch it up a little, you know? You only have to do one season. You’ll make a little money, enjoy a little bit of L.A., experience a change of scenery. Then you can turn around and come back home, you know?”

  “No one will hold you hostage out there in Hollywood, will they?” asked my mother in Russian. “If the television show is not for you, then you do some other thing.”

  “Yes, you can always come back,” my dad added. “You could come back and continue to dance in competition, but for now, you don’t have a partner, am I right?”

  “It’s only three months,” I reminded him. “Actually two months, or two and a half.”

  Not really realizing the impact it would have on our lives, the three of us kicked Maks out the door, onto the plane, and into a role on Dancing with the Stars. The move would come back to haunt us, because it immediately became clear that Rising Stars Dance Academy, for one, would never be the same without Maks as head instructor. He was the heart of that studio, with my father acting as the brain, and me and the other student-dancers serving as the soul.

  I would take over the lead instructor’s role as best I could, but Maks’s pulling up stakes for the West Coast would have serious repercussions for all of the Chmerkovskiy family enterprises.

  MY BROTHER WENT OUT TO L.A., AND A STAR WAS BORN. HE came, he danced, he conquered. In the winter of 2006, performing on Season 2 of Dancing with the Stars, Maks demonstrated that he had the ballroom chops, for sure, but he also exhibited another quality that made him a vital addition to the show’s cast of professionals—a ready-made masculine image that translated very well on TV.

  Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the Russian bad boy of ballroom, Maks Chmerkovskiy! The cameras loved him. He came across as cool, impossibly handsome, and slightly dangerous, the kind of charismatic figure that viewers could spin fantasies around.

  Now that we had an excellent reason to, my parents and I tuned in for every episode of the new season. As we watched, we fell in love with the show and came to admire the whole pro-celebrity concept. The production itself smoothed out the first-season kinks and became sleeker, better, and more professional. The number of competing couples increased from six to ten. The shakedown run was over. ABC had a smash hit on its hands.

  Sitting in front of the tube in New Jersey, a continent away from the action in L.A., I looked on with amazement, pride, and a slight pang of jealousy as my brother came into his own. As a family, we had trouble believing what was happening, because for the first time our unpronounceable, ridiculously difficult last name crept into the vocabulary of the average American household. Emergency room visits for sprained tongues increased noticeably.

  For his first season on the show Maks was paired with actress, singer, and celebrated beauty Tia Carrere. They made for a dazzling couple, combining the exotic and erotic in an explosive mix. When they danced, it was difficult to take your eyes off them. Tia gave off the vibe of a new, modern kind of woman, eager to regain her prematernity form after the recent birth of a child. She just happened to be matched up with a seething, strutting Russian-American stud, like a gazelle in the embrace of a panther.

  Maks managed to make a hot show hotter.

  On Dancing with the Stars, contestants lived with the constant presence of the camera. Early on that season, an incident occurred, caught on camera during rehearsal, that ignited controversy and at the same time cemented Maks’s badass reputation. Tia had just performed a move that Maks had taught her. After completing it, she looked over at her pro teacher in excitement and a sort of girlish pride.

  “Hey, so how was it?” she chirped.

  Maks looked lazily back at her, cynicism in his eyes and tough love in his veins, and with a slight tinge of sarcasm uttered a phrase that would be linked to him forever afterward, helping to define his character on the show.

  “Well, you know what?” he said. “That wasn’t disgusting.”

  The odd thing about the whole tempest-in-a-teapot affair was that for me and my parents, watching back in Saddle Brook, the moment passed by without us thinking anything about it. We didn’t even twitch, because that demeanor, that voice, and that attitude were all eminently familiar to us.

  But to America at large, Maks’s behavior was such a shocking revelation, and it lacked political correctness to such a degree, that it came off like a slap in the face. He suddenly became “Maks the Knife.” Blunt honesty made for great viewing, especially when it was combined with my brother’s aesthetic. And of course his dance aesthetic was absolutely riveting, if I do say so myself—after all, we are related.

  Along with everyone in our Rising Stars circle, my parents and I understood Maks so well, and his cold-hearted approach was so notorious among us, that the dismissive, offhand comment to Tia seemed to be part of just another day in the life of our favorite dance instructor. But the internet had come into its own at the time, and it didn’t take long for us to realize that the rest of the world didn’t see Maks in the same way that we did.

  Well, that wasn’t disgusting.

  What? Who in the hell treats a new mother that way? Poor Tia! Some viewers got angry. A few wept tears over the unfairness of it all. Others grasped the real truth of the moment, and reacted with comments along the lines of “If you can’t stand the heat, get off the dance floor.” The show’s website portrayed an audience split fairly evenly between those who were appalled by what they considered to be my brother’s vanity and bad manners, and those who applauded his tough-love approach to teaching.

  Those were the days of chat rooms and discussion boards, before Instagram, Snapchat, or Twitter. Commentary about the show was pretty much limited to the ABC website. Visitors to the network’s web page had to choose Dancing with the Stars from the menu of ABC programs, then click on “Forums” to access the discussion boards. Digging into all the commentary from back in New Jersey, when I was still in college, I became aware of my brother’s popularity—or rather his notoriety.

  I felt an overwhelming urge to demonstrate my loyalty. I didn’t limit myself to voting, either, nor to soliciting votes back home or getting my friends to call. I set up anonymous accounts on the boards so I could defend my man. I’d check the list of all the chats starting up. Invariably, they spelled his name wrong.

  Max is so rude. Max is hot. Max is an asshole.

  Whenever “Max is an asshole” comments started to outweigh “Max is so hot” comments, I would come up with subject threads to balance the negative with the positive. Trying to fit in and not blow my cover, I spelled his name wrong, too.

  Max is so cool. Max is actually really nice. Max is special. Look at this picture of Max with puppies.

  It’s not something I exactly brag about today, but bent over my funky Compaq computer in Jersey, I made the effort. I figured it was the least a brother could do.

  Controversy was TV gold, controversy brought discussion board attention, controversy made the fans tune in. Love it or hate it, that’s just the way things were. So whatever else happened between him and Tia (they were eliminated sixth that season), Maks had proved that he was what they used to call “good copy.” All this arose from him simply being himsel
f, doing what he had done every day at Rising Stars Dance Academy.

  But then something occurred to temper the outrage and give the discussion board trolls a deeper understanding of my brother. For each contestant, producers on Dancing with the Stars created a “package,” short pretaped pieces about a dancer’s background, edited into miniature biographies. A package ran on Maks and his activities as a teacher at Rising Stars, showing him interacting with students. The collection of kids came off as absolute darlings, little men and little women who were accomplished pint-size terpsichoreans (I swore I would never use that comical, ancient-Greek term for dancer in this book, but there it is), and they charmed the pants off everyone out there in TV land.

  Aw, maybe the bad boy wasn’t so bad after all. Just look at how his kids respect Maks and thrive under his guidance! Viewers saw another side of Tia Carrere’s tormentor, injecting a little Mother Teresa flavor into the mix. The package effectively rocketed Maks to star status, elevating his visibility among the corps of dance professionals on the show. He became a force to be reckoned with, not only as a dancer but as a personality, if not as an actual complicated, flesh-and-blood human being—which after all might be asking too much of reality TV.

  The package on the Risings Stars kids lent Maks credibility that he wouldn’t otherwise have enjoyed. As much of a stud as he was, his arrogance would have never been accepted if viewers hadn’t been introduced to his heart, because arrogance without heart is just plain old obnoxious, which couldn’t be farther from what the Chmerkovskiy household was all about.

  All of a sudden, this brash sex symbol who had been eliciting comments along the lines of “Who the fuck does this dude think he is?” instead showcased qualities of humility, leadership, and sacrifice. Maks’s genuine love for his young students was obviously reciprocated, producing an intense camaraderie that viewers could sense right through the TV screen. That same passion for teaching his students translated to how he taught his partners on the show, a fresh, unique, and above all genuine approach that people at home wanted to see.

  I TURNED TWENTY THAT YEAR, AWARE OF A FEELING THAT things were snowballing. Because my brother’s life changed, my life changed, too. From the enthusiastic viewer response to Maks’s video package, the producers knew they had tapped into something special. They quickly reached out and asked if a select few students from Rising Stars Dance Academy could come out to California and dance on the show.

  I made my first appearance on Dancing with the Stars, not as a pro dancer matched with a celebrity contestant, but as one of Maks’s former pupils.

  In our little New Jersey studio, the invitation to come on the show hit us like a bomb. We sorted out three couples to make the appearance: including my partner, the feisty Valeriya and me; plus four others—Nicole matched with Boris, and Sergey paired with Michelle. We weren’t your typical Hollywood marquee names, but everyone involved had appeared in the package footage, representing the cream of the crop at the dance school.

  The producers wanted us to come in with our dance numbers all set and ready to go. FedEx delivered tapes of two songs, Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean” and the perennial favorite “Mambo Number 5.” We prepped routines for each, made recordings of them, and sent the videotapes out to L.A., so the producers could work out such details as blocking (positioning of the dancers) and camera placement.

  When it came time to travel, the actual experience took on a slightly surreal flavor. The JFK-to-LAX flight was in itself a revelation to some of us: exciting, foreign, and fresh. We came away from the transcontinental journey thinking how immense America really was, because after six and a half hours on the plane, it would have made sense to us if we had landed in a different country. What? This is still the U.S.A.?

  The beautiful weather and overall Southern California vibe sure made it seem as if we had entered into another world, a magical land where a car service picked you up at the airport and whisked through traffic. The producers put us into rooms at a boutique hotel right across from CBS Television City, the home studio of the show even though it aired on ABC. The studio has a long history, and everything from American Idol to Three’s Company and The Twilight Zone has been shot there.

  The journey from Saddle Brook to West Hollywood ought to be measured in light-years. I grabbed on to anything that felt even vaguely familiar to my Brooklyn-raised senses. A block up Fairfax Avenue was Canter’s, the best New York–style deli in Los Angeles. In fact the whole neighborhood had something of a Jewish atmosphere, with places where I could get a good bagel, the old-fashioned food stalls of the Farmers Market, and—more sobering—the nearby Los Angeles Museum of the Holocaust.

  We had an early call the next morning. The six of us walked across the street, received our ID badges, and made our way to the soundstage. Suddenly the exotic vibe of the experience totally dropped away for me, because the pros who were on the set that day were all dancers I knew well, people such as Tony Dovolani, Cheryl Burke, and Louis Van Amstel. These were colleagues who had history with me totally outside of any Hollywood bullshit that was going down. Being with them was like slipping into a warm bath of friendship, with my peers celebrating my arrival. I took my rightful place as a member of the extended family of ballroom dance.

  And of course Maks was there, too. As he had my whole life, my brother bulldozed a path for me to follow on Dancing with the Stars. His presence was a huge blessing and at the same time something of a minor curse. I felt his love and protection, yeah, but I also saw myself slotted into the “kid brother of” pigeonhole that even back then was starting to feel confining.

  I experienced a stab of envy and couldn’t wait until I entered that glittering world myself. I glanced around at the lineup of professional dancers, and a childish, petulant voice inside me spoke up.

  “These guys are not even close to my level, but here they are enjoying an incredible level of exposure. More people see them in a single night than have watched me dance during my whole competitive career. What the fuck is that all about? Two years ago they might have been ranked maybe forty-eighth in the world, while I was out there winning every competition. Now I’m coming in as a sideshow? What am I, a worn-out shoe?”

  Etc., etc.

  It was an exciting time, with big changes afoot, and I, too, had to change with my circumstances. When you feel everything around you changing, you have a choice. You either try to cling to what you know best and stay put, or you sense the changing tide, feel the flow, realize the dynamic, and grasp the bigger picture. Then you can begin making decisions to grow and build, and continue your efforts to thrive, to function as an alpha in a new environment. “Keep it moving” was always a phrase I kept foremost in my mind.

  I started to make adjustments starting from that first guest appearance in Season 2. The key to my success on Dancing with the Stars was not my brother’s advice, not anyone else’s advice, not my dancing ability or competitive experience, not my looks—though all that helped. I made a simple but crucial decision early on. The tool that helped most on the show was my ability to see myself as a student and have a complete lack of self-consciousness about it.

  I’ve been a student my whole life. From violin, poetry, and dance to plain, old-fashioned education in school, I loved learning. My previous experience in ballroom taught me to check my ego at the door, and also allowed me to feel comfortable on the set. I kept myself open, and thankfully was secure enough that pride didn’t prevent me from being schooled in the finer points of producing great content.

  I was able to say, “I don’t know anything about this business of staging dance on television, but I’m ready, willing, and able to learn.” My appreciative attitude toward those able to teach me went a long way to helping me fit in.

  I was impressed, but I wasn’t intimidated. As I stepped onstage at Television City, of course I was somewhat nervous, but by that time I had a ridiculous amount of experience performing—though obviously none of the competitions could compete with a milli
on-dollar production in the heart of Hollywood. But certainly the nerves I had going into my debut appearance on Dancing with the Stars didn’t come close to the nerves I felt at a world championship or a Blackpool championship, or even at the Russian restaurants in Brighton Beach where I performed when I was thirteen.

  I’d been tested. I had endured my trial runs already. So for me the main emotion was not nervousness but excitement. The brighter the spotlight, I told myself, the brighter I’ll shine. I felt completely at home on that stage in West Hollywood. Mostly I simply enjoyed the time spent with my friends dancing before an audience of millions.

  Among those in the audience were two people who would change all our lives. The actor George Hamilton, he of the perpetual tan, competed on Dancing with the Stars that season, paired with a professional dancer whom I knew well, Edyta Śliwińska. Hamilton was dear friends with Steve and Elaine Wynn, the casino moguls who together had founded an empire based on real estate, hotels, fine-art collecting, and gambling.

  The Wynns watched the show to root for their friend George, and Elaine especially was charmed by the package on Maks and the kids from Rising Stars. Like a lot of people, she was inspired, but unlike a lot of people she had plenty of resources to act on her inspiration. After she saw the troupe perform, she reached out to my brother.

  “We have a charity event coming up in New York City at Sotheby’s auction house, and we’d like to have your kids dance, perhaps something like a thirty-minute number.”

  Of course we said yes. We put a show together and had our whole fam at the event, performing for an audience of heavy hitters, not only the Wynns but Italian fashion designer Roberto Cavalli and Donald Trump (then just a real estate magnate). Steve Wynn fell in love just as his wife had. They ended up hiring us to do New Year’s Eve showcases at the Wynn casinos in Las Vegas for the next three years.