But I realized, when I breathed in the fragrance of my paternal grandfather’s sister for the first time, that there was nothing like actually knowing an elder who shared the same blood. Mommy had been adopted and largely raised herself. So this was the closest I would ever get to an actual grandparent, to relatives whose ancestry was the same as mine.
My father was sweet. He was almost shy when he first greeted me, and then he wrapped me in his arms.
He was full of stories about his childhood in Kansas City, about being the son of a German mother and African American father. He told me how pretty Mommy had been when they met, how much he had cared for her, and how proud he had been of his four beautiful children.
It was crazy to me that he had been a phone call or plane ride away all this time and I had never seen him. Crazy—and also sad. But I was elated that I had made the effort to follow my curiosity where it led me, into my father’s embrace.
“I have his lips,” I jotted excitedly in my diary. “I wish I had his pretty hazel eyes. That would look fresh on me.”
“It’s like a part of me has been fulfilled. I’m really happy.”
Of all the emotions I felt after meeting my father, anger at Mommy wasn’t one of them. I think becoming a woman, and having to face and make my own difficult decisions, has helped me to understand her better. I knew that Mommy often handled difficulty by choosing not to deal with it.
I also understood that I was different from her, as was Doug, perhaps more so than our other siblings. We were reflective. We didn’t want to flee. We wanted to take the situation and turn it over in our hands, to gaze at it and try to figure out how to make it better.
I thought of the trips I had taken: to China as an apprentice with ABT, to Mexico and Jamaica on my first cruise with Leyla, to Cape Cod with the Studio Company. And I thought that I would have given up every one of them to be here in Wisconsin, spending time with my father.
It was a joyful time, but Dad also spoke about more painful things. He had a long-time girlfriend, Debbie, whom he’d dated pretty much from the time my mother left him. But he never had any more children. He told my brother that he already had two sons and two daughters far away, and he never wanted any more. I know that he always loved us and wanted us to have a relationship. Our mother’s leaving and our disappearing had taken a toll on him.
I had actually been startled when I first saw him. Compared to his pictures, he seemed shrunken, and his hair was turning gray. His hazel eyes sparkled, but he barely resembled the youthful man I’d seen in those photographs. Doug Jr. was a reflection of what our father had once been physically, but was no longer.
Though our growing happened without him, I think he is as proud as I am at how we all turned out. I marvel that I not only came through my chaotic childhood and somehow emerged as a professional ballerina, but that all my brothers and sisters have also done well.
To this day, I don’t really understand how we did it, given the situations that we were put in. We’d been taken from our natural father, in the case of myself and my older siblings, and then from Harold, the only dad we’d ever truly known, to live with a man who spewed epithets. Next we lived with family friends in a gang-infested neighborhood, moved in with strangers, and then, finally, settled down in a shabby motel. It is still a wonder to me that not one of us has ended up in jail or on drugs.
Instead, we thrived. Chris eventually joined me in New York, and not long ago he passed the New York bar. Doug married his high school sweetheart, Raven, a beautiful woman whom I love like a sister. She is a physician, and Doug works in the insurance industry. They still live in California, where they are raising my adorable nephew, Orion.
I think Erica in many ways had it rougher than the rest of us, being the oldest and, in many ways, our surrogate mother. But she also has a great life. She’s still strong, confident, and independent, and she and Mariah’s father, Jeff, have been a couple for more than twenty years, ever since they were teenagers and he would give me rides to Cindy’s school way across town.
Then there’s Lindsey, who was a track star and attended Chico State University on a scholarship. She married a wonderful young man, and I was maid of honor at her wedding. Cameron, our youngest brother, is the most like me artistically. He was never much of an athlete, like Chris and Doug; instead, he’s a prodigy at the piano. He still plays, and he also acts, sings, and writes music.
I rarely get angry when I think about my childhood, wishing for what we could have been if we’d had more of a nurturing home environment. It made us all strong fighters, primed to push through the toughest of struggles. But I do get frustrated with people who experienced relatively ideal lives and yet don’t appreciate what they’ve had. Performing with ABT, I have sometimes overheard my dance mates complaining about going to the same vacation spot with their families, going on and on about how they’d rather be sunbathing than rehearsing, or how bad we have it at ABT versus City Ballet, or some other inconsequential thing.
I would think about all that I had been through, what I had to navigate and overcome to stand on the stage at the Metropolitan Opera. What are these people fussing about? I’d chuckle to myself. I do what I love for a living; I have my art, spend most of my time devoted to it, and travel the world while most can only dream of this opportunity. When our idyllic life at ABT is gone and we can no longer perform, I can guarantee that every one of those dancers will regret not appreciating every second of it while it was theirs.
Knowing what I’d survived, what all my siblings had made it through, makes me all the more grateful.
A DECADE LATER, I feel as if I’m still struggling to get to know my dad, to do the impossible and recover all that lost time. But we are not giving up. Since Dad and Debbie live in Wisconsin, they often make the trek to Chicago whenever ABT performs there.
And every single Sunday when the phone rings at ten in the morning, it’s my father on the line.
I DON’T KNOW IF meeting my father, holding my great-aunt’s hand, and connecting with a previously undiscovered part of myself sparked something extra inside me. But I know that I returned to ABT from that trip to Wisconsin turbocharged. I felt incredibly motivated and excited, the way I had when I first went to Cindy’s studio, looked in that wall of mirrors, and felt a jolt of recognition that I was finally where I was always supposed to be.
That soloist contract suddenly loomed large in my consciousness. It was no longer an elusive mirage but close enough to touch. And I didn’t just want it for myself. Knowing that I could make history and be the first black female soloist with ABT in nearly twenty years made me so excited, I felt dizzy. I’d said it was my goal for years; that was one thing. But I was really starting to feel inside that it was truly possible. The expectation buoyed me.
“If this could open doors for black women in ballet, that would mean the world to me,” I wrote in my ever-present journal. “It would all be worth it. That’s what I’m doing this for. Not just for my own pleasure and gratification. I need to remember this every morning I wake up tired, just think[ing] of what I could do, not just for me but [for] others.”
I was determined to focus like a laser on my technique and my performances over the next year. I would ultimately spend six years in the corps, and while I sometimes felt that I wasn’t getting my due fast enough, I came to realize that many, indeed most members, never become soloists, the featured performer only a step away from being a principal. I would get that chance.
ABT AND NEW YORK City gave me many gifts. The genesis of one remains a mystery.
Since I was seven years old, and my family left Harold to move in with Robert, I had suffered from crippling migraine headaches. I took medication to try to control them. I had missed my sweet sixteen party at the Lauridsen Ballet Centre because of a migraine, when I had to lie down in a dark room while the festivities went on without me. And they were so painful, I would often have to stumble to bed, sick to my stomach and barely able to see.
Wh
en I moved to New York, I was terrified those headaches would prevent me from performing and rehearsing.
But after a year with the Studio Company, I discovered that my migraines disappeared. My stress was different. I was different. I was in control.
I haven’t had a migraine since.
Chapter 11
BESIDES KEVIN, THERE WERE other artists who gave me guidance and support. Like Isabel Brown. Hers is not a soft love. She is opinionated and gives praise only if it has been well earned.
The first time I performed with the Studio Company in New York City, she made sure to attend. Later that night, back at her Upper West Side brownstone, she came to my room with roses. I wondered why she had not presented them to me at the theater, where some of the other dancers had been greeted by parents and friends.
She set the vase on a side table.
“I didn’t order the flowers until I saw that you’d performed well enough to deserve them,” she said, giving me a cool stare.
That’s Isabel, but I love her. I appreciate her generosity in allowing me to stay in her home, and her honesty, which let me know that if Isabel Brown said I was talented, then it was the truth. Isabel and her daughter Leslie, who taught some of my classes at ABT, watched my performances like hawks and gave me great praise, making me feel as if I was a member of their own illustrious family. After I joined the corps, Leslie was quoted as saying that I was one of the greatest young talents in ABT’s main company. To have the stamp of approval from the Brown Dynasty is like being told you have a great voice by Pavarotti, or being feted by the Williams sisters for your powerful backhand.
I was also inspired and encouraged by another performer who had soared to the pinnacle of his art form, far from ballet.
Prince.
MY FRIEND KAYLEN RATTO, whom I’d met at the Lauridsen Ballet Centre and with whom I eventually went into business, was working for a company called Career Transition for Dancers, which helped ballerinas apply their discipline and skills to new professions once they’re retired.
One Saturday morning, I woke up to a text.
“Can I give Prince your cell number?” it read.
Prince?
One of Prince’s assistants had apparently called Kaylen’s office, asking if someone there could track down my contact information. I didn’t have a clue as to why Prince wanted to talk to me, but I told Kaylen she should definitely pass on my number.
Later that day, my cell phone rang.
Of course his speaking voice, a seductive baritone, bore little resemblance to the chandelier-shattering falsetto that he often summoned for his biggest hits. Still, it was impossible not to recognize who was speaking.
It sounds unreal, but I didn’t particularly feel any way when he called. More than anything, I was intensely curious as to what he wanted.
I wasn’t exactly his biggest fan. Boy bands, rappers, and R B chanteuses were more my musical speed, but I knew his music from the radio and MTV. And, of course, I’d seen Purple Rain.
He spoke softly. “I’m remaking a song, ‘Crimson and Clover,’ and I would love to have you in the video.”
I immediately zoned out, trying to envision how I would move to his music as a ballerina. The thought was odd but thrilling.
“That would be awesome,” I said.
I sent an e-mail to Olu, who was out of town, telling him of the offer. I also called Mommy, who was even more excited than I was. Both thought I had to jump at the chance.
ABT was on hiatus, so I could essentially do whatever I wanted. Prince and I figured out a date that worked, and a few days later I was on my way to Los Angeles. I flew first class. And though my family lived there, Prince had booked me a room at the Beverly Hills Hotel—an unbelievably plush suite, far too big for one person. Flowers, champagne, and a handwritten note were there in the room to welcome me. Prince’s assistant was in charge of taking me to and from the studio where we shot the video. Otherwise, I was ferried around in a limousine.
I was sitting in the makeup chair at the video shoot the next day when Prince finally walked in. He was carrying an adorned cane. But he was very quiet and humble, not at all what I guess you’d expect from a superstar. He casually walked over, said hello, and shook my hand. He seemed almost nervous.
I was to be my own choreographer, improvising to the music. He respected that I knew my art form far better than he did. On the set he sat quietly, just watching, allowing me to discover and create in the moment.
That evening, the limousine came to pick me up and take me to Prince’s home for dinner. When I got in, I found a lavishly wrapped gift. Inside the box was the sand-colored couture gown that I’d worn on set during the video shoot.
A member of Prince’s staff let me into his house. I must have waited forty-five minutes in a living room area opposite the kitchen, making small talk with his chef while I watched anxiously for him to arrive. I peered around his beautiful home. There were windows everywhere, stretching from floor to ceiling, and they provided a moonlit frame to his sexy, purple piano.
Finally, I could hear his heels clicking down the hallway as he came to get me. He walked me to the dining room, where we sat and ate the vegan meal his chef had prepared. It was an unbelievably long table. He sat at the head of it, and I sat beside him.
From the beginning he showed an enormous amount of admiration and interest in learning everything there was to know about me and ballet. He asked a ton of questions about my background, what music I enjoyed, how I felt performing, and what my experience had been at ABT.
After dinner the limousine carried me back to the hotel. And I wouldn’t see Prince again for another year.
He would call me every so often. One day he invited me to see the funk rock group Graham Central Station perform in New York City. Once again he sent a car. Once again he was shy. We sat at a large round table, just the two of us. At one point during the evening he got onstage to play the guitar. He was masterful, fierce, and passionate, and he drove the audience crazy. It was the first time I saw that side of him. Then the night was over. I went home.
That’s the way it was with Prince. He would disappear, and then just pop back into my life, out of the blue. It was mysterious but also exciting. About five months later, he called again.
“I’m going on tour in Europe,” he said. “I’d love for you to be a part of some of the shows. You could maybe even kick it off with a solo.”
While it was easy for me to work with Prince while ABT was on hiatus, if I wanted to do something outside the company during rehearsal or performance season, it was much more difficult. I would have to request a release, and I would likely be docked in pay. Most such requests are denied.
I would just barely make the deadline in the end: the European tour would take place later in the summer, so I was free to go.
It was an unimaginable opportunity. Not only would I be able to work with a pop icon, I’d present ballet to a whole new audience. This is unreal, I thought. But I played it cooler than that.
“I think I can come,” I said calmly.
When I arrived at Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport, Prince was waiting for me in a black Town Car. We didn’t speak much on the ride to the hotel. We stayed at the Hôtel Le Bristol, where I ran into the actress Rachel McAdams while I was waiting for Prince outside his room. She was in the midst of shooting the film Midnight in Paris.
That first evening, Prince and I went to see the singer Erykah Badu. Her performance was like an act of communion. She was ethereal, sensual, and clearly having the time of her life.
Later that evening, Erykah sat with me to watch Prince perform in a jam session at an after-party. The night was endless. Prince must have played for four hours straight—that’s how much he loved his art. He could compose and rehearse it all day, then play at it all night. As a dancer, I completely understood that passion.
We were supposed to have a show in Paris, but it ended up being canceled. I don’t recall why. I’m sure there was
a dramatic write-up about it and possibly a lawsuit involved, which happens with such things. At any rate, we ended up only doing one show, in Nice, France.
We arrived in Cannes a couple days later. The band and crew stayed at the Negresco Hotel, but Prince was very particular about his accommodations and didn’t feel comfortable there. The two of us drove around, finally settling in at the Grand Hyatt Cannes Hôtel Martinez instead. It was quite the drama, trying to find a place at the last minute. But this was Prince after all. He made it happen.
When it was time finally to do our show, we went to the venue and were shown the dressing room. Prince and I had to share, something that he apologized for, and something I later learned rarely happens to such a superstar. But I was fine with it. We sat and talked, joking around as we applied our makeup.
After Prince’s band and background singers made their way onto the stage, I was next. I walked out, not really knowing what I was going to do since I hadn’t rehearsed. But I wasn’t worried. I was in the zone. I was about to perform, which I loved to do, but far away from ABT, so I didn’t have to worry about executing the perfect forward leap, or jeté en avant, with all eyes critiquing my form. I could dance freely and introduce some newcomers to my love, ballet.
I had been dancing for about a minute or two—raising my leg at the hip, with my knee nearly touching my forehead, lowering it sharply, knees straight, a grand battement—when the crowd erupted into screams and cheers.
Wow, I thought, feeling a charge. They liked that!
Then, as I spun around, I caught a glimpse of Prince walking onto the stage. The roar, of course, had been for him. I chuckled to myself and slowly exited the stage. I stood there in the wings, taking it all in. It was the first time I saw my new, easygoing, curious friend as Prince, the legendary musician. I actually stood there with my mouth open, awestruck by his transformation. He was kinetic and yet totally in control. And his fans were as passionate for him as he was for them. It was the type of artistry and connection with the audience that I sought to emulate in my own career.
Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina Page 18