Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina (32 page)

He went on and on, about how I had a fire inside of me that he had not known I contained, and how I had the ability, the talent, to soar beyond anyone dancing beside me in ABT.

“You are beautiful,” he said. “You have the lines, the technique, the body. You are classy and smart. You have the total package, which few have. You can have any role you desire. You have no limits.”

I sat there, humbled and grateful. I thought about how I needed to recognize how special these moments were and how fortunate I was, instead of constantly worrying about what hurdle might come next. I thought about how my hard work was paying off in such sweet ways.

Still, it was difficult for me simply to bask in it all. In a way, in my mind, I was ever the latecomer, ever the student, ever the shy little girl just trying to please.

That’s why it was so easy for me, standing on the crest, achieving
ballon
from the words and passion that followed my performances in
The Firebird
and
La Bayadère,
to be deflated by a few words of negativity.

And to come crashing down.

After that wonderful dinner with Arthur, Lorraine, and so many others, I went home, turned on my computer, and read a blogger’s review, which criticized my Gamzatti.

Even worse, it went on to say that I didn’t deserve to be a principal and it would be wrong for ABT to give me such a promotion merely to appear more racially diverse and inclusive.

It was awful. Sitting there, I couldn’t believe, after all my hard work and my much praised performances, that I still had to fight this battle. And I knew that this writer was expressing what some in the audience were also, very likely, thinking.

Then I got angry. And with my anger came determination. I realized that it might take more than one stellar season, but deep down I knew that I would continue to grow, learn, and explore opportunities for more classical leading roles. Yes, I was black. And yes, I also deserved to be promoted, to stand center stage.

I had briefly allowed a negative, close-minded few to drown out all the support and love that was lifting me up. But I recovered. I had to face the truth that there were some whom I would never win over. And if I were ever promoted to principal, the negativity would likely only increase. I had to hang on to my special moments and keep fighting.

Little did I know that I was about to wage a battle on an entirely different front.

“SO WHERE DO I
begin.”

It was June 22, 2012, a Friday, when I sat down to my journal. Five days earlier, I had pulled out of the entire Met season.

That glorious night was the one and only time that I would be the Firebird in New York. It was only a week before that I’d taken the stage, but it felt like a lifetime.

A couple days after that performance, I was in so much pain that I finally had to admit that something was terribly wrong. Since my first serious injury a decade before, I had suffered stress fractures on several occasions. I was prone to them because my knees—those knees that bent backward—were hyperextended. That meant that when I was
en pointe,
I was putting more pressure on the front of my shin than was normal.

When I first went to the Lauridsen Ballet Centre, Diane would have me repeat the most basic of positions and moves over and over again to make sure I articulated them perfectly. At times I hated her for it, feeling as though there was no way of achieving the perfection she clearly expected. I came to understand that the constant repetition was her way of saving me. I was so flexible, I was more prone to injury, and she wanted me to do everything correctly so that I didn’t hurt myself.

I’d had injuries over the years and had always healed.

But this time was more serious. I had six stress fractures in my tibia, the larger bone below the knee. I had been in pain the entire six months I had prepared for
The Firebird
and
La Bayadère,
unknowingly building fracture upon fracture.

I was devastated. I had dealt with so much emotional and psychological pressure during my career, struggling to maintain courage and confidence despite the criticism of some who did not feel a girl with my skin color or body type could ever truly belong, a life of highs closely followed by the deepest of lows.

I had started the season by seeing my face on a banner, rustling in the breeze as it hung in front of the Met. For a moment, I, a black woman, was the face of ABT. Then during my premiere performances in New York, the audience was filled with luminaries, the legends of black ballet, who deserved the applause that I received on their behalf. It was amazing.

Now this.

Having to sit out the season, the season in which I had been the Firebird and Gamzatti, was too much to bear. I felt as if everything that truly mattered to me in my life was gone.

My doctor said that I would need major surgery. And when the casting continued to be posted for the remainder of the spring season, it was as if I’d never existed. One minute you are the star, and then you are hurt. Someone moves into your light, and you disappear so completely, you cannot even find your shadow.

I put my heartache to paper.

“I just don’t know how much stronger I can be and for how much longer,” I confessed in my diary. I’d worked with integrity, pushing myself at a pace that sometimes felt impossible to maintain, and finally gotten a break. “I’m grateful for what I do have, but sad that it’s not enough,” I wrote in my journal. “God, when will it ever be easy?”

OF COURSE, IT WILL
never be easy.

In life, like in ballet, you have to find your balance. To push yourself as far as you can go, but know when to pull back from
the brink—of injury, of despair. I wanted to run away, but where would I go? How could I go?

I wanted to be an inspiration, but I also wanted so much more. I wanted to be a prima ballerina.

I knew that I just didn’t have it in me to give up, even if I sometimes felt like a fool for continuing to believe.

Chapter 14

MY SURGERY TOOK PLACE
on October 10, 2012. Seven months later, I returned to the stage.

During the time that I was rehabilitating, I started taking private floor barre classes, healing with what is known as the barre à terre technique created by Boris Kniaseff. I had befriended Marjorie Liebert, the instructor, after I pulled out of the spring season. Marjorie was my savior. She kept my mind and spirit positive, while I looked toward healing. In those darkest of moments, I felt lost and without purpose. I stopped appreciating my body. Without ballet, who was I? But during rehabilitation, Marjorie convinced me to do everything I could to learn about and from my injury. That process helped me to hold on to the hopes of returning to the stage better than before—even though I still couldn’t walk.

Marjorie would come to my apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and I would roll out of bed and onto the floor. I had just had my cast removed and I couldn’t walk, so I
would do a ballet barre lying on my stomach, back, and side. She kept me focused on the things I could control. I worked on my
port de bras,
to continue to challenge myself and refine the small nuances that make a ballerina a ballerina, the fine and effortless way she carries her arms.

A month after my operation, I put my pointe shoes back on for the first time, to keep all the tiny muscles in my feet articulate, even though I wasn’t yet able to stand on my toes.

I remembered the first time I’d put them on, how exhilarated I had been, and how Cindy had marveled that I could stand
en pointe
mere months after I’d discovered ballet.

Unable to do now what I had so quickly been able to do then was devastating, and having injury impact my life so late into my professional career was the most frustrating part. But Marjorie reminded me that my injury was temporary. She told me I had so much more dancing to do and not to give up my goals or my dreams. Her words were a balm in themselves, and they motivated me to reassess and adjust my technique so that I could work my flexible body more efficiently, and hopefully prevent another serious injury in the future.

I have been a dancer now for seventeen years, but I don’t think I have ever focused as much on my body and my craft as I did during the months I spent healing from my latest injury.

From the moment I woke up to the moment I laid my head down at night, my everything was given to healing and strengthening.

I reported to my surgeon every three weeks to get X-rays taken. I was seeing my masseuse and acupuncturist once a week to have my muscles kneaded and bolstered. I started private gyrotonics classes that allowed me to regain strength in my legs
using machines. I could emulate jumping while lying on my back, without the stress of my body weight.

Five months after undergoing major surgery on my shin, I was back rehearsing with ABT. Two months after that, I was back onstage in the ballet
Don Quixote,
premiering the principal role of the Dryad Queen.

I would be lying if I didn’t admit that it was too soon. I was not “on my leg.” I wasn’t even close.

I read a critique of my performance.

“Misty Copeland has absolutely no jump,” the writer said.

It hurt, especially because jumps have been my strength for so long. I was not yet leaping regularly in class, and it was during the actual performance that I really pushed for the first time and tried to achieve my
grands jetés.

I performed far below my ability.

Perhaps the hardest part of my journey to healing has been recovering in the spotlight, in front of hundreds of people, presenting what I know is not my best, though it is my best for that moment. To be onstage getting criticism from people who don’t know about my injury or don’t care to know is difficult. And so is knowing that there may be a balletomane seeing me dance for the first time, and basing his or her impressions of me on a performance that is much less than what I am capable of.

But that is a responsibility I took on when I made the decision to step back onstage.

I definitely felt pressure to get back, to try again, from myself, from my fans, and from ABT. It’s a tough position to be in. You need and want to heal completely, but you also don’t want to be out for too long, to be forgotten, to miss out on roles, to lose your moment.

Knowing that some writers will be hypercritical, there are those who wonder why I bother reading reviews at all. It’s true that they can be brutal, subjective, and incredibly one-sided. For all its athleticism, ballet is not a sport. There is no pure, clean way to judge it. A
jeté
is not the same as a touchdown, a
plié
not the same as a home run.

One reviewer will say you were marvelous, while another, judging the same performance, will pick out your myriad flaws. Or you notice that when it comes to a particular dancer, the reviews seem always to glow, no matter how he or she performs.

But I believe that I can learn from critiques, however biased or unfairly negative some may be. I choose to see the range of people’s opinions as a way to improve. If I notice, for instance, that ten people have a negative opinion about the way I hold my arms, I will apply a laser focus to making my carriage, my
port de bras,
better. And of course, hearing the same critique from Kevin seals the deal.

I recall reading a quote in which Kevin said that my arms had yet to catch up to the ability and articulation of my legs and feet. It was hard to hear, but I was determined from then on to make my arms my best quality. I now think that my upper body,
port de bras,
and artistry have become my best qualities as a dancer, surpassing the flexible feet, pretty lines, nimble movement, and fluid coordination that come to me naturally.

I also believe that my stamina has finally clicked in just the last three or four years. Like my start in ballet, my endurance probably came later to my career than it appeared for most other dancers. But now, when I’m exhausted, I feel I’m still strong enough to keep my feet and legs in the proper positions,
while before I would often lose the crispness in my lower body. As I always say, there is no shortcut in ballet technique. You repeat and repeat to get whatever you are trying to master to become second nature, for it to become as instinctive as walking. Then you can start to run.