Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina

by Misty Copeland

  We had to lean in close and murmur into each other’s ear to be heard over the pounding beats of the music. Our connection was immediate. He was the son of a black father and Jewish mother, his ancestry mixed like mine. It was his last night in the city before returning to Atlanta, where he was attending Emory Law School. He had one year left to go.

  I gave him my phone number, and over the next three months before he visited New York again, he and I talked on the phone and texted each other every day. That’s the way it was for about a year—he’d come to the city every few months while we dated long distance, then he finally moved to Manhattan to start practicing as an attorney.

  Olu had been raised a pescetarian, eating no meat—only fish. He worked out and was in wonderful shape, but he wasn’t obsessive about weight or appearance. When we began dating, I relayed to him my frustrations, my fears. He was very subtle, and he chose the right words to guide and encourage me.

  He made it all seem so easy. “Eat fish tonight instead of beef,” he’d say. “Try cardio, but cut down on the resistance.” He showed me that I just had to change a little here, a little there, to get back to where I wanted to be.

  “ABT is still excited about you,” he reassured me. “They still see a future with you. You just have to work on this one little thing.”

  I knew he thought I was beautiful, in any case. My weight no longer felt so overwhelming.

  Olu had a countenance and confidence that I so admired and which, except for when I was onstage, I did not see an inkling of in myself. He made it his mission to change that, to help me learn to communicate through more than just dance. It was Olu who helped me realize that I did not need to run away from ABT to join Dance Theatre of Harlem. He truly believed that I had the talent to attain what I truly wanted, to become a soloist and principal right where I was. But I had to learn to ask for it.

  I was very nervous about speaking up for myself. I didn’t want to displease others, to be rejected or misunderstood. It seemed that whenever my voice had the courage to rise up—when I lived with Cindy, when I joined ABT’s Studio Company—it would recede back to a hush at the first sign of adversity.

  But Olu told me that I had to approach things in a different way, that I couldn’t just feel sorry for myself: I had to fight. There’s an old adage in the black community that we have to be ten times better just to get as much. I took that to heart. I had to be undeniably excellent. But I also had to let ABT know what I was after.

  My boyfriend, ever the lawyer, decided that we should rehearse my argument. Our practices took place in his small Upper East Side apartment. He was a good taskmaster: he would give me time to pull my thoughts together, to jot down notes and bullet points on the topics that I wanted to cover. And then he’d enter the room and pretend to be Kevin.

  “I want to be pushed,” I’d read from my note card, my lips trembling. “I want to be a classical dancer. I’m a strong member of the company and can play those roles. And I want to give everything to this company. I appreciate the opportunity you’ve given me, and I want you to trust me, to believe in me.”

  “But you’re so wonderful with the contemporary works,” Olu would say, playacting as Kevin. “You shone in Gong. We have modern choreographers who want to create works just for you. Why not focus on those?”

  “I know contemporary is a strength of mine,” I’d say, my voice growing stronger, “But I want to be a ballerina.”

  It was terribly hard at first. I struggled to find my words, to express myself without reading them from a piece of paper. And I didn’t want to disappoint Olu or to show him this embarrassing weakness.

  Looking back, I also think that it was frightening for me to free my emotions. Few things elicited passion from me like ballet, and I think that I unconsciously feared that talking about how much ballet meant to me, how much I needed it, might break down my emotional dam and force to light other things with the power to cause me pain. Like the memories of my itinerant childhood; like my embarrassment that Mommy had had so many boyfriends and husbands; like the buried trauma that still lingered from my forced separation from Cindy.

  But Olu was patient, supportive.

  “You can do this,” he’d say gently. “They picked you. Just remind them of all you can do.”

  As rehearsals usually go, whether for a meeting with your company’s artistic director or a performance of Swan Lake, they helped to give me confidence, to drain away the tears and tension and leave behind what I needed to succeed.

  I’d also started to realize that, despite my impatience, ABT had recognized my gifts. The fact that I was there at all, dancing with this illustrious company, was an opportunity that was one in a million. And when I looked at the big picture, it genuinely frightened me to think there might not be another woman of color in my position for a very long time.

  Slowly, the fog that dampened my confidence began to lift. I made an appointment to talk to Kevin.

  I could go days without seeing him. An executive as well as a creative director, Kevin was consumed with handling the business of ABT, and he was often in back-to-back meetings. Still, he would oversee some of the principal role rehearsals, as well as some run-throughs by the full company as we edged closer to premieres. Occasionally, I would have private rehearsals with Kevin if I was preparing for a starring role.

  Otherwise, he was elusive, a shadow who all of us dancers knew was there, keenly watching every single performance.

  I went to Kevin’s office. It was finally time for me to speak.

  “I know contemporary ballet is a strength of mine because a lot of ballerinas don’t move like I do,” I told him. “But I was trained as a classical dancer, and that’s what I really want to do.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Kevin said. “You have the talent to do both.”

  That was it.

  Soon after, there was a new beginning. And I began to gain perspective.

  Those first months in the corps I had been overwhelmed, not just by the dramatic changes in my body, or the occasionally negative reactions to my skin color, but by the competition I felt among my colleagues and friends.

  But, I now realized, Kevin had pulled out a figurative ladder and was giving me opportunity after opportunity to pull myself up toward that prize I wanted so much to grab.

  The role of an artistic director is complex. They are creative forces and also business executives. They have to be open, willing to take chances for the company to grow, yet stay true to the company’s history and what it represents. They must make decisions about which dancers are capable of carrying the company and filling the theater’s seats, while also entering the studio and giving each dancer the motivation that he or she needs to grow.

  Kevin might have to dismiss a dancer at a moment’s notice. He could give praise for a performance one day, then offer sharp criticism the next to ready someone for an upcoming show.

  It was also true that he had watched me grow up, and with that our relationship evolved. I saw him at first as an authority figure, for whom I had tremendous respect and who I desperately wanted to please. He then became a mentor offering guidance and encouragement. And now, more than a decade later, I view him as a colleague to whom I can speak, grown-up to grown-up, dancer to dancer.

  Recently, when I was on tour in L.A., I realized how far Kevin and I have come as I’ve grown up in ABT. It was the first time I felt that we could appreciate each other as adults. I had no idea how to communicate with a director as a nineteen-year-old—I spent most of my meetings with him as a teenager trying not to cry! My confidence developed slowly. I know he has an emotional connection to me, which I so value, just as he does with all of his dancers. It’s part of what makes him so excellent and what makes ABT feel like a family. He always wants the best for us, though it’s part of his job to criticize even his best-loved dancers, or in the worst cases, let them go.

  One of the rituals I’ve treasured the most at ABT is the time just after the curtains close o
n our performances. Kevin watches all of our shows from a box at our theater, along with the other ballet masters and mistresses. If you watch closely about ten minutes before our last bows, you can see them slip away from their plush seats to escape backstage before the hallways of the Metropolitan Opera are thronged with patrons. Once the applause has died away, it’s nearly eleven, and we’re all exhausted—most nights, I just want to take off my makeup, go home, eat, and pass out before I have to wipe the sleep from my eyes at eight the next morning for class at ten. But by the time the curtain swings shut, Kevin is already on the stage with notes: “This is what you did wrong during the coda,” he’ll say, pointing to one of our principals. “For the next show, make sure you enter a beat sooner,” he’ll critique another. There’s so much that needs to be said to all of us, and so little time between our shows during the hectic performance season that there’s no time for sugarcoated niceties. Of course, he can’t pay attention to all eighty dancers and what we’re doing at every moment during a crowded company scene, but I’m constantly amazed by his and the artistic staffs’ abilities to cut straight to the important corrections we need to be the best possible artists. It’s an important postshow ritual for all of us, and when the season’s over, I find myself craving that connection, that striving, that time to focus on my performance. It’s comforting to know that, as busy as Kevin is with every other commitment he has as our artistic director, he’ll always be there.

  I look back and see that every step of the way, he has nurtured me, continuing to see my gifts and potential, no matter the ups and downs.

  IN 2002, FOR INSTANCE, only a few months after I’d healed from my back injury and returned to the company, Kevin decided that he was going to have me represent ABT in one of the dance world’s most prestigious competitions.

  The Princess Grace Foundation awards scholarships and apprenticeships to the best young talents in dance, cinema, and theater. Every year, Kevin nominated one young dancer to compete for the honor. And that year, Kevin chose me.

  Coming so soon after my year away, my being picked to be the face of ABT was like the bouquets leading ballerinas receive at the close of each performance: an offering to let me know how much Kevin and the company still believed in me. And it was also a chance to hop back on the proverbial horse, to not waste time fretting about having spent so much time away from ballet because I was now undeniably back in action.

  I rehearsed with Kevin in preparation for the competition for a month. I would dance George Balanchine’s famous Tarantella. Its pas de deux is exuberant, fun, and flirtatious. Balanchine created it in 1964 for Edward Villella, a principal dancer with New York City Ballet.

  I got to partner with an old friend, Craig Salstein. He was my very first partner at ABT’s summer intensive program, and then we moved on to the Studio Company together. He joined the main company a year after me, and we danced our very first peasant pas de deux from the ballet Giselle—with each other as corps members.

  Having grown up in Miami, Craig was well acquainted with Edward Villella, the dancer for whom Balanchine created Tarantella and who eventually became the artistic director for Miami City Ballet. Craig worked directly with Edward for most of his training. He eventually became a soloist with ABT, like me.

  Tarantella was, like its creator Balanchine, dazzling and quirky. It pushed the boundaries of the classical ballet world. It was full of contradictions, from big grands jetés to quick pointe work. I did a ton of échappés, rapidly moving my feet from a closed fifth position to an open second, as well as many steps that probably looked comical to an audience not familiar with ballet. I would start an échappé, en pointe, with my feet splayed, pointing in opposite directions, in second position. Then I’d plié again, still en pointe, tilting my head slightly to the side. It was an off-balance and fun effect you would usually never see in a stylized classical ballet. Craig and I each carried a tambourine that we used to shake and tap our hands and toes.

  I also prepared one of the flower girl variations from Don Quixote. As a ballerina, it is hard to choose a ballet that is your favorite. It would be like saying that you prefer one child over another. You may indeed feel more in tune with your son than your daughter, but it feels like a betrayal, an insult to the other, to utter that affection out loud. Still, I must say that Don Quixote has always held a special place in my heart. It was the first full-length ballet I’d ever performed when I was attending Cindy’s school. A variation from Don Quixote launched me after I performed it and won the L.A. Spotlight Award. And now, here it was again, for me to dance for the Princess Grace prize.

  ABT filmed my two performances, and I gave them everything I had. We then sent the videotape to the Princess Grace Foundation for judging.

  I didn’t win. But I still felt victorious. I had achieved another milestone by competing, and I’d reinforced Kevin’s faith in me.

  BALLET WAS NEVER SOMETHING that was outside myself. As Misty the woman evolved and matured, so did my dancing.

  Maybe it was because of the confidence I gained knowing I could heal from being hurt. Perhaps it was the realization that the timid girl from San Pedro could thrive on her own, in the urban melee of New York City. Or maybe it was knowing that I could be bent low by the occasional spectator deriding my caramel-colored presence, but rise again, undeterred, and stand my ground.

  Whatever the motivations, all I know is that one day I woke up and made one of the most important emotional decisions of my life. I wanted to meet my father.

  I had never ached for him. I had had Harold from the time I could remember, and he had been a loving, wonderful daddy to me in every way that he could possibly be, despite the flaws that had separated him from my mother. I had even had a relationship with Robert, though the way he treated my mother, my brothers, and especially my beloved baby sister, Lindsey, soured my memories of him. But a curiosity about the man who had actually been my dad had recently begun to grow, and now I was ready to take action.

  Growing up, we had only the vaguest notions of why Mommy had picked up one day—Doug Jr., Chris, Erica, and me in tow—and hopped a Greyhound for California. We knew Mommy said she’d been unhappy, and since picking up and leaving is what she constantly did, there was little reason to ponder what had propelled her the first time, or whether the reasons were any different from those behind all her other departures.

  So Mommy never spoke about our father, and we never asked. I never even saw his picture.

  Somehow I understood that it wasn’t his choice not to be a part of our lives. Rather, we kids felt, perhaps intuitively, that Mommy did not want us to reach out to him. So we didn’t. After all, we Copelands were a tribe, with Mommy at the center. We knew from the crumbs of stories that she would drop along the way that she’d had a rough childhood, a tough life. And we wanted to protect her.

  But after Doug Jr. graduated from high school, he decided that he wanted to find the man for whom he was named.

  Doug had always been independent. He’d also been someone deeply interested in his roots, both cultural and familial. The little boy who’d tracked down a tuft of natural cotton to try to experience what it might have been like for our ancestors to pick it wanted to meet the man without whom he wouldn’t exist.

  I was about sixteen then, enjoying being back home, in a comfortable apartment with Mommy. I loved my studies at the Lauridsen Ballet Centre—hanging out with new friends and giddy from my summers away, first in San Francisco and then New York. I had ballet on my mind.

  “Misty,” Doug Jr. told me one afternoon as we sat together in the kitchen, when he was home from college. “I found our father.”

  “Our father?” I asked him, confused. Harold was only a few miles away. What was he talking about?

  “Yeah!” Doug continued excitedly. “He’s living in Wisconsin. I tracked him down, and we’ve been talking on the phone. I’m going to get some money together and go see him.”

  It all clicked. “Oh,” I said. “That’s gr
eat!” I was happy that Doug was so elated. But I wasn’t really that interested.

  Of course, Mommy hadn’t known about Doug’s search. But now that he’d found our dad, Doug Jr. didn’t keep it a secret. He was grown, after all, so I guess she accepted it begrudgingly. Eventually, Doug Jr. did go see our dad, and he returned with a stack of photos detailing all the years that we had missed.

  Senior and Junior looked just alike, copper-skinned and sinewy. Our father had apparently been a great athlete when he was young, and we figured that’s where Chris and Doug Jr. had gotten their talents on the basketball court and football field from. I also concluded that was where I’d inherited my body structure, so much more muscular than Mommy’s lithe frame.

  It was fun hearing my father’s stories from Doug Jr. But the rest of us were too busy with our present lives to reclaim the one we’d lost with a man we’d hardly known. Erica was living with her high school sweetheart, and together they were raising my beautiful niece, Mariah. Chris was focused on his studies, preparing to go to law school. And I was living my dream of performing with ABT.

  But after being in the corps for a couple of years, I began to wonder more about my dad. What did he sound like when he spoke? Had he missed us? What might he think of his daughter, the ballerina? Those questions crowded my journal, began to haunt me in dance classes and through the streets of the Upper West Side.

  One day I picked up the phone and called Doug Jr.

  “I want to meet our dad,” I told him.

  “Okay,” Doug said. “Let’s book the tickets.”

  And on August 20, 2004, I met my father.

  Doug Jr. and I flew to Wisconsin one weekend while I was on a break from ABT, and we stayed for a week. While I was there, I also met my great-aunt and a few of my cousins.

  We Copeland kids had enjoyed wonderful, raucous gatherings with Harold’s family, and I had a host of surrogate relatives, from the Cantines, my godparents; to Bubby; and even Robert’s mother, Grandma Marie.