Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina (24 page)

Then I thought about my mother.

I realized that what I’d seen as her strength when I was growing up—the courage not to let the fear of raising so many children alone bind her to unhappiness—was a failing instead; that Sylvia DelaCerna was always running away, with my brothers, sisters, and me grabbing hold of her shirttails. Now, I was about to mimic her pattern. And that terrified me.

Rarely had running ever solved any of our many problems. There may have been a temporary respite, a momentary sigh of relief. But then we’d look up and find ourselves in a situation that was arguably even worse, leaving us with too much time to ponder what we had done, why we had done it, and how would we ever recover.

I called Arthur a few days later. I told him I was so thankful but I couldn’t accept his invitation.

Later that year, Dance Theatre of Harlem closed because of financial problems. The main company would not perform again for nearly a decade.

IN ANOTHER JOURNAL ENTRY
where I recounted Mr. Mitchell’s offer, I ended my musings with a determination.

“I need to go in there and show them how much better I am,” I wrote, referring to Kevin McKenzie and the rest of the artistic staff.

In contemplating Arthur’s invitation, I had felt the full
emotional force of how badly I wanted to succeed at ABT. How I couldn’t give up, couldn’t run away, and if I had to work ten times harder than everyone else, then I would so I’d always know that I’d tried. I’d fought way too hard to abandon my dream of being a principal dancer with ABT. I wanted always to know that I’d stood my ground, whether or not I got my reward.

But I had to keep tamping down the tendrils of doubt, the voice in my head, that would creep up in the dark.

Mommy had always been afraid that I’d given up my childhood for a dream. Sometimes I wondered if she was right.

Chapter 10

WHEN I WAS STRUGGLING,
feeling unattractive and overweight, isolated and alone, I had a refuge right at my doorstep that helped to keep me afloat.

It was New York City.

Of course, I had an intimate circle of dynamic, successful black women mentors and friends, like Victoria Rowell, Susan Fales-Hill, and Raven Wilkinson, who helped me to embrace my more womanly, physical self, and to remind me how wonderful my ethnic heritage was even if some couldn’t see it.

But when I went out on the streets of New York, I was instantly, anonymously, lifted up, surrounded by a multitude of people who looked like me, from their copper complexions to their bodacious bodies.

Out there, beyond a ballet scrim, people appreciated my curves and could care less whether or not I’d lost weight.

When I moved to New York, I had to fall in step with two
distinct rhythms, the one behind the walls of ABT, and the other outside, on the streets of the city.

It took more than a New York minute for me to learn the razor-edged etiquette of Manhattan, how the subway doors would barely close behind you before you had to find a spot to fix your gaze—an ad for foot cream? the map of the city’s tunnels?—to avoid looking a strap-hanging stranger in the eye. Maybe I wouldn’t have instantly become a mark, but my naive straight-on gaze would have labeled me a tourist as surely as if I’d worn a sign declaring
KICK ME—I’M FROM CALIFORNIA.

I remember riding the train that first summer I was in ABT’s summer intensive program. It was packed and unbelievably hot. Body odor, incense, and perfume made for a dizzying blend. And I felt anxious, sandwiched between strangers, sometimes feeling hands on me where they shouldn’t be.

That first summer, I would stand on the corner, helplessly looking for the button that would magically change the pedestrian sign from red to green. As I stood waiting for the light to change, waves of jaywalkers would pass me by, darting through speeding cars, knowing better than to wait for permission to cross.

But New York City, all its grit and frantic rhythms not withstanding, became my salvation. Those first months in ABT’s corps, when I felt so unhappy, self-conscious, and alone, the city was the one thing that I could rely on. I appreciated that even as it pulsated with electricity, it was always familiar, always the same.

When I stepped out of ABT’s studios at 890 Broadway, I felt as if I was just another person. It was nice for once not to stand out, to blend in. And as much as I cared for and
appreciated my colleagues, it was great to be able to walk outside the studio and surround myself with people who weren’t ballet dancers, who’d had diverse experiences and led lives that weren’t defined by private lessons and hovering parents, and who’d found richness and depth in other ways.

Being a ballerina had begun to consume my entire identity, and that made me worry about what I would be—who I would be—if I didn’t succeed.

On the most crowded streets of New York, I could put on my headphones and feel independent, empowered—free.

But I also had to make a million adjustments.

I was used to the arid climate of Southern California, warm and dry during the day, cool and even breezy at night. My first summers in New York the heat and humidity wrapped around me like a blanket, sapping my energy.

It was hard to drop my slower California pace, my seaside attire, and pick up the New York rhythm. In California, I always wore flip-flops when it was warm. But my sandaled feet were no match for the endless, reeking puddles that seemed to pop up on every New York street. I performed
petit allegro
all over the city, hopping over those fetid pools, then going home to clean the dirt and grime off the soles of my feet.

THE PLACES I LIVED
were also in stark contrast to the apartments, motel rooms, and condos I’d called home in California. After moving out of Isabel Brown’s brownstone, I stayed on the Upper West Side, but from then on I lived on my own.

My friends and I called my first solo apartment “the
dungeon.” One of the many odd characteristics of life in New York, an insanely expensive city, is that you basically have to pay more in rent if you want an apartment with windows and natural light, things I’d once seen as basic necessities, no matter how shabby my accommodations had been before then. I didn’t make much money, and so I was one of the many in the city whose apartment never saw a ray of sunshine.

There were two windows covered in bars that faced a brick wall about five inches away. I had a loft bed that hung above my dining room table, which was actually a child’s arts and crafts table I’d bought at Ikea. If you sat up in the loft, you’d bang your head on the ceiling. And the narrow space that passed for a kitchen had the type of tiny refrigerator that belonged in a dorm room. But I loved it all because it was mine.

As were the roaches in my apartment, which were unbelievably huge. Growing up, we’d had roaches in some of the rougher neighborhoods we’d lived in, and they’d always freaked me out. The fact that you could live in such a well-off and desirable neighborhood and have rats and bugs inside was frightening to me and unfamiliar. Still, I wasn’t home much. There was too much life to see—to live—outside. I walked probably more than I ever had in my life. And being outside at all times of the day and night, I would often have to make my way through a blast of catcalls.

“How ya doin’, sis?”

“Hey! Can I get those digits?”

At first, they were unnerving. I was living alone in the city, and it made me feel vulnerable having strange men leering at me.

But after a while, I began to realize they were mostly harmless and good-natured. You might draw some attitude if you acted
snooty. But if you smiled, or said hello, the calls would usually go no further than flirting, ending with “Have a good day.”

Some of the attention actually made me feel good after a while. I wasn’t fat on the streets of New York. I was desirable and attractive. In fact, my look—dark hair, brown skin, curvy physique—melded seamlessly into the urban rainbow.

It seemed that everyone claimed me as one of their own—African Americans, Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, even East Indians. I loved seeing and hearing the range of hues, accents, and backgrounds mingling and loving one another on the city’s streets. I may have stood out among the frail-looking white dancers whom I danced beside, but out here, they were the ones who didn’t quite fit in.

I went to Harlem with Leyla, still my constant partner in crime. We ate yassa chicken, the lemony dish that is a staple of Senegal; bought incense from the vendors; and strolled down streets where Malcolm X walked and Adam Clayton Powell Jr. preached.

I remember we went uptown to see the movie
Paid in Full.
As much as I appreciated the operatic treble of
Swan Lake,
I’d grown up steeped in funk, rock, and soul. And I loved everything hip-hop. I don’t even think
Paid in Full
was showing anywhere lower than 125th Street.

I felt at home, making my way to Harlem to see it. Once, I even got my hair plaited into corn rows uptown, and I proudly sported my thick braids back downtown to ABT.

I was less enthusiastic about going to Brooklyn.

Why leave Manhattan?
I wondered.

Leyla had to drag me there. On its own, even without its sister boroughs, Brooklyn would still be one of the biggest
cities in the United States. It had its own distinctive flavor—from the West Indian restaurants standing cheek by jowl with Hasidic shops in Crown Heights to the stately brownstones in Park Slope. But Brooklyn never captured my heart the way Manhattan did. As we got older, Leyla began to prefer the more laid-back beer-garden vibe that she could find there. But I preferred the pumping beat that pulsated across the river.

Every weekend, on our days off, we’d hit another corner of the city. We’d shop along the cobblestoned streets of SoHo. Or we’d go to Central Park and stroll for hours. I would often go there by myself, throughout the summer, until the end of fall, listening to music and jotting down musings in my journal.

I loved that I could stand in line at the TKTS discount booth and grab a cheap ticket to nearly any Broadway show I wanted on my days off. I felt sophisticated and worldly wandering through art galleries and sculpture gardens.

I also loved the bohemian vibe of street fairs, ubiquitous in the city during the summer, especially on the Upper West Side. I would spend hours walking through, nibbling on shish kabobs or corn on the cob and drinking lemonade.

When I would go away for weeks at a time on tour with ABT, no matter how interesting or exotic the place we were visiting, I remember yearning to get back to “the city.” I always felt like New York was moving and growing without me, and I was missing it all while I was away.

Turning twenty-one had opened up a whole other side of New York to me. I could hang out at luxurious all-night lounges and have the occasional glass of wine. Leyla and I went out dancing every weekend, and our favorite haunt, by far, was Lotus.

It was in the heart of New York City’s meatpacking district. Once best known for transvestite prostitutes and butcher houses, the area’s sticky cobblestoned streets still smelled of rotten meat. By the 2000s, the neighborhood transformed into the unlikely trendiest corner of Manhattan, and Lotus was its glittering beacon, filled every night with celebrities, young professionals, and all the cool kids. Leyla and I would go and dance until early morning. There were no
jetés
or
arabesques
in our moves, no worries about our “line” or technique. There was just sweaty, unbridled hip shaking, fueled by the giddiness we felt partying among the young and fabulous in New York City.

Looking so crazy in love’s

Got me looking, got me looking so crazy in love

Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Mr. Diggs would like you to join him at his table.”

Taye Diggs, the actor and star of
The Best Man
and
Private Practice
was sitting at a table in Lotus’s VIP area. I walked over. It turned out he’d invited me so that I could meet his cousin, Olu, who was in New York working as a summer associate at a law firm.