Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina

by Misty Copeland

  Our physical regimen is strenuous. During the weeks the company is working on its repertoire for the season, there’s a ninety-minute ballet class every morning to warm the dancers up for the day. Then we rehearse from noon till seven. Most days we get a lunch break from three to four, but not always. For every other classical ballet company at ABT’s level, class is mandatory, as much for the company to guarantee that their dancers are staying on top of their training as for the dancers’ own convenience. But at ABT it’s up to you to take class. Because there are around eighty of us in the company, we would split into two classes for our barre and center work. Though they happen at the same time in studios one and five, you can pick whichever you like better from day to day, whether it’s to train with a certain teacher or avoid a classmate’s bad mood. We rehearse as a company Tuesday through Saturday, with only Sunday and Monday off.

  The schedule is even more intense during the actual performance season. We’ll go to the theater to take our morning classes, and then rehearse and perform from ten thirty a.m. to eleven at night. That’s the routine, Monday through Saturday.

  Even during layoffs, I will still go to ballet class in the morning, and I’ll also work out, doing Pilates and perhaps cardio a couple of times a week.

  Exercise and ballet class are critical, not only to stay fit, but to demonstrate your prowess and technique so that when it is time to cast the season’s ballets, you are kept in mind. As a member of the corps, standing out in class or during the group numbers on the stage is the only way to be singled out for a starring role. We don’t audition for parts within ABT. The closest thing to a tryout comes only when a choreographer is creating a new ballet. Then, you and perhaps two dozen others might be selected to help with the work’s creation process. As you and the other dancers learn the same movements, the choreographer is able to determine who best fits and executes the evolving part. You want to show you can pick up the movements quickly and are able to adapt to whatever changes the choreographer desires.

  But generally, the path to a starring role is less clear and largely beyond your control. Kevin will watch you, silently, in class and onstage, and then decide whether or not to give you a chance. Soloists and principal dancers will usually be told what roles they will be dancing throughout the year, or which they will be learning for future performances, during the mandatory assessment meetings all dancers have twice a year with Kevin and the assistant director. They’ll then have a steady, rigorous schedule of rehearsals to learn and perfect their parts.

  The process to reach the pinnacle within a company by becoming a principal or soloist is similarly subjective and, I’ll admit, a bit mysterious when you’re going through it. Though some European companies hold annual auditions for those positions, within ABT, you again are simply observed over time. Then, one day you may be among the fortunate few to get a tap on the shoulder, or an urgent phone call, beckoning you to Kevin’s office, where you hear the news that you’ve been promoted.

  I WAS JUST STARTING my climb toward becoming a soloist or principal, the ink barely dried on my first-year contract, when my honeymoon abruptly came to an end.

  By then, other choreographers and companies had begun to notice me, and I went for all that I could during that first year’s layoff, flattered by the invitations and hungry for every chance to hone my technique.

  Often the rehearsals began late and extended deep into the night. One of those late evenings, I was at the Juilliard building in the Lincoln Center complex working with a choreographer on a piece. I remember that it was a contemporary work, so my body was moving in ways that I wasn’t used to.

  Suddenly, extreme pain exploded in my lower back.

  Foolishly, I danced in pain for a couple of weeks before finally going to the hospital for an MRI.

  It turned out that I had a stress fracture in my lower lumbar. It was the type of injury that is usually far more subtle, with the breaking occurring over time. Once you notice it, the injury has been building for a year or more. It was unusual that I’d caught it as soon as it happened.

  I had never been hurt before, but I knew I had been unusually fortunate. Injuries are extremely common in the ballet world. Every day there is someone who suffers a stress fracture, a pulled muscle, a neck spasm because we are constantly dancing, dancing, dancing. In a company like ABT, we feel fortunate to have so many talented dancers who can fill in as understudies when somebody has to pull out.

  But an injury can be as psychologically painful as it is physically painful. One day you’re on the stage and you’re the star. The next day you’re out with an injury and someone else is on the stage, dancing your part. And you’re forgotten.

  Though we were in the midst of a layoff when I got injured, ABT was gearing up for the next season, and I suddenly got a call from Kevin McKenzie.

  He wanted me to come in and start rehearsing with the company. He wanted me to be the lead character, Clara, in The Nutcracker.

  It would be like a homecoming. My performances as Clare in The Chocolate Nutcracker with Debbie Allen had launched me into the spotlight, had helped to cement my reputation as a prodigy. It was a role in a ballet that I loved. I told Kevin that I would be there.

  But with my fractured back, I was in so much pain that I ended up having to pull out and relinquish the role.

  My healing and recovery from that fracture would take a long time. Twenty-three hours a day, for six months, I had to wear a back brace. I did everything but bathe in it. Then, there would be another six months spent rehabilitating.

  I had finally graduated from the Studio Company to the corps. I had a contract. And now, for the entire first year, I would not be able to dance.

  When I returned to ABT’s stage twelve months later, I would be heavier, older. I would never be asked to play Clara again.

  Yet I didn’t know that at the time. Back then, the professional world of ballet was still so new to me that I was blissfully unaware of all that was at stake. And that may have saved me for a little while from the psychological stress that I now so often feel in my career. I was too naive to worry that I would not get another chance, too intent on healing and too excited about the future to fret about another dancer shifting into my spotlight.

  This is just something I’m going through, I said to myself. When I go back, I’ll pick up right where I left off.

  A dancer’s body is the instrument with which she makes music, the loom with which she weaves magic. But we take our bodies to places they would naturally never go. We make them fly, dance on tiptoe, whirl like a dervish. We subject ourselves to unbelievable strain. And sometimes we stumble. Or break.

  Chapter 8

  PICTURE A BALLERINA IN a tutu and toe shoes. What does she look like?

  Most would say she is a fragile-limbed pixie, with flaxen hair and ivory skin, spinning in pale pink tulle.

  Then there is me, with my full breasts, muscular limbs, and a curve to my hips.

  In nearly every way, my body was molded for dance. I have legs and arms that go on forever and are as pliable as rubber bands. My neck is long, my head is small, and I have knees that veer backward as I stand straight. Many young ballerinas look at those odd knees with longing, trying to replicate my line. I was born this way.

  I’ll bet you didn’t know that I could fly. I can bounce into the air, then float there a little while, before lighting, softly, on the stage—achieving the balletic grace known as ballon.

  My body is strong, able to perform jetés and fouettés, leaps and spins, for hours and hours across the stage and studio floor.

  But ballet isn’t just about ability or strength. You must also look the part.

  That was no longer the case. It’s so important for people to understand that just because it’s 2014, racism is still real in the world—and in classical ballet. I was so protected as a young girl, but I was one of the lucky ones. It’s one of the things that has saved me and gotten me as far as I’ve come. My confidence was really born out
of a naivete about the prejudices that colored the world of ballet. As an adult, I recognize this as such a blessing, albeit a bittersweet one. And there came a time, standing in a chorus line of ballerinas with boyish figures, when my body stood out as well.

  I suppose that for much of my youth, I was lucky. I grew up eating whatever I wanted, filling up on Cheetos, burgers, and whatever canned or junk food I could find. Even when I began to dance, I knew nothing of what was required to nurture a ballerina’s body as she grew and matured. Cindy made sure that I expanded my palate. But the pasta that came with the shrimp scampi I loved so much was hardly a diet that would keep me slim. At the Lauridsen Ballet Centre, and San Francisco Ballet, the nurturing and guidance I received was focused on my technique, not my diet.

  The reality was that just as I achieved the ability to appear suspended in midair when I performed a grand jeté, my body was also locked in time, perpetually prepubescent. At nineteen years old, I weighed less than one hundred pounds. And I had never menstruated.

  I had gone home to San Pedro to recuperate, and had more fun than I could ever remember. Mommy was glad to have me home and coddled and looked after me in a way that, frankly, she hadn’t since I was a little girl. Liz and Dick were also there to look after me and care for me. And I did things that I hadn’t gotten the chance to do in high school, either because I was so focused on ballet or because I was too shy to try.

  I got my driver’s license. I hung out with my close friend Catalina, whom I met those first days at Cindy’s school. We’d go to parties on the beach, where we’d sit around bonfires and talk, joke, and laugh until late in the night. I also took my first cruise, traveling to Mexico and Jamaica with Leyla and her family.

  The good times were balanced by the monumental effort I put into getting better. I took class from my old ballet teacher, Diane, as well as Pilates to build back my strength and stamina.

  I stayed in touch with ABT, and Kevin and the rest of the staff were extremely supportive. I’d travel back to New York every so often to see my physical therapist. Kevin made it clear that I should take my time and heal fully, and that when I had recovered, they would happily welcome me back.

  When my second year in the corps came, I was more than ready to return to the stage. I had a new contract, and I went back to New York, eager to dance again with the company.

  But I was not the same ballerina that ABT had known before.

  During one of my trips back to New York while I was still recuperating, I went for a routine physical; my doctor said he was worried about the strength of my bones and the fact that I had yet to have a period. Though I was not sexually active, he decided there was a need to accelerate things, and he put me on birth control pills.

  It wasn’t the most natural way of progressing into puberty. Basically, my body was forced to grow. And grow it did. Within a few weeks, I had my first period and gained ten pounds. Where there had been buds that could barely fill a bra, my breasts became full and voluptuous. They were so foreign to me that they were uncomfortably heavy. I was startled when I looked in the mirror.

  Once I returned to New York for good, my body had completely changed. I was menstruating. I was heavier, and I had a very full bust. It was a woman’s body, and it felt unfamiliar. I soon realized that ABT, too, was searching for the little girl that I had been.

  In the corps, you’re constantly switching and sharing costumes with other girls in up to three different casts of the same ballets. There isn’t time or money for the company to have costumes tailored to each individual dancer and body.

  When I first returned to New York, I was to perform in Giselle and Swan Lake. But the costumes I was given, handed down from other dancers with their boylike frames, were too tight in the chest. The wardrobe staff would have to let a seam out here, another seam there, to make it fit. I was bewildered and embarrassed. I could feel my confidence start to seep away.

  I was constantly searching for appropriate bras that would give me support under the costumes but not make my chest too prominent. I needed the right kind of undergarments that would give me room to move and breathe while I danced.

  Finally, the ABT staff called me in to tell me that I needed to lose weight, though those were not the words they used. Telling already thin women to slim down might have caused legal problems. Instead, the more polite word, ubiquitous in ballet, was lengthening.

  “You need to lengthen, Misty,” a staffer said. “Just a little, so that you don’t lose your classical line.”

  I was five feet two and just over a hundred pounds. They suggested a nutritionist, but the company would not pay for it, leaving me boxed in. I was trying to survive on a corps member’s salary—six hundred and seventy-nine dollars a week—in New York, the most expensive of cities. And now I had this additional pressure to try to hire a specialist to help me lose weight.

  I also needed strength and energy for my grueling days of training. I couldn’t go on a strict diet that might leave me weak and depleted.

  Like so many things that came late in my life—my introduction to ballet, a more mature body, a license to drive for the first time—I was also starting to feel another emotion most young people experience years earlier, often while they are still in high school.

  Rebellion.

  Who do they think they’re talking to? I would mumble to myself after a long, stressful day. I have so much talent. Why do I have to be stick thin?

  My backup plan was to outdance everyone, to be so technically perfect and unbelievably lyrical in my movements that all anyone would be able to see was my talent, not my breasts or curves.

  In rehearsals, I would push through and focus, push through and focus, returning home each day tired to the bone.

  But deep down, I knew that the backup plan wouldn’t do this time. My body just wasn’t right. It wasn’t where it needed to be to perform the classical roles I so loved, or to be in a company as prestigious as ABT. That realization ached. And it was usually at nighttime, when I was home, alone, that I got the most emotional.

  MANY ASSUME THAT EATING disorders are rampant in the ballet world.

  In a profession that is so focused on appearance, where athleticism and a certain aesthetic are key, dancers will, of course, think about their weight. Yes, sometimes their eating patterns will become unhealthy. For young people who join a high-pressure, high-status company like ABT, it can be easy to feel adrift, to feel as if you don’t belong. And in your search for stability, it might be tempting to change one of the few things you can control—your body.

  But contrary to myth, there are no weigh-ins by company staff. There are no stern warnings to lose weight “or else.” I can honestly say that in my thirteen years with ABT, I have known only a handful of dancers who suffered from an eating disorder like anorexia. We could all see it, though we didn’t often discuss it. Other than that, my exposure to those illnesses goes no further than seeing a painful story recounted in a Lifetime movie, or reading the memoir of prima ballerina Gelsey Kirkland, who acknowledges struggling with anorexia as well as drug abuse.

  As usual, I turned to Leyla for support and as a sounding board. After that first “fat meeting,” I was deeply hurt and lost. I cried and cried as she reassured me that, no matter how I felt, I was decidedly not fat. Still, as a young woman, her next instinct was to cheer me up by convincing me to go out clubbing. I needed nothing more than to dance my worries away.

  We went to a trendy new club called Bed, where we lounged and mingled on luxurious mattresses. People came and went, introducing themselves to us, sparking casual conversation. A young man sat between Leyla and me and asked each of us what we did. My answer came out as effortlessly as it always had. “I’m a ballerina.”

  He looked at me strangely. “No way,” he said. “There’s no way you could be a ballerina and be as big as you are. Ballerinas are thin.”

  That was the start of my ultimate low.

  I feel lucky that it never crossed my mind to starve myse
lf or purge what I had eaten. But in hindsight, I briefly suffered from a disorder of a different kind. I began to engage in emotional overeating.

  Thinking I was fat became a paralyzing mental loop, and I was paranoid that everyone could see it. My mental picture of myself became distorted, as if I was looking in a fun house mirror.

  I craved large amounts of fattening foods, like cake and hot dogs, but I was too embarrassed to go to a restaurant and order a big meal.

  I’m huge, I would think to myself. What’s it going to look like for me to go up to the counter and order two hamburgers and fries?

  So once again, I came up with a backup plan.

  The doughnut company Krispy Kreme had a location on the Upper West Side, not far from where I lived, and they delivered, but only in bulk. So I would call and order two dozen doughnuts, the type of order a company would place.

  I would then proceed to eat nearly all the sticky pastries in one sitting.

  My binges sparked a whole range of emotions. I would feel comforted at first, then defiant as I thought of how I was ignoring the not-so-subtle entreaties for me to lose weight and was choosing to stuff myself instead. They want me to lose weight, I’d think out loud, taking a sugar-crusted bite. I’ll eat what I want!

  But in the morning, I’d feel awful, my stomach tight, my body racked with guilt. I would go the studio and have to face my swollen reflection in the studio’s mirrors. I stared at myself, hating what I saw. I’d remember what I’d done the night before and feel ashamed.

  Then I’d go home and repeat the pattern all over again.

  Because I was continuing to dance and work out, I didn’t gain weight, but I didn’t really lose any, either. Every few months, the staff would once again gently prod me.

  “We believe in you, Misty,” they’d say. “We want to push your talent, but your line is not as lean and classical as it was before. We’d like to see you get that back.”

  I began to notice that I very easily built muscle, and so I had to be careful not to bulk up. I learned that I could do cardio exercises but could not use any resistance when I did.