Black Bones and Tutus

I don't think I could forget the feeling if I tried. That moment three times a week, and once for the end-of-year recital in the spring, when I would pull my tan brown tights over my thighs and up to my belly button and  everything would snap into place. My leotard hugged my skin. Lastly, I'd slip on my pink ballet shoes. Scuffs and dirt marks marred the bottom, from weeks of jetés and relevés. The calluses on my big toe sting again; I need a new pair soon. But when I walk over to the crystal-clear mirror with big bulbs overhead — the kind Broadway stars have in their dressing rooms —  I suck my belly in, and everything feels right. Staring at my long brown body and black bun with bobby pins spiking out the sides, I felt I could dance with the world on my shoulders. 

Dance leapt into my life when I was three years old. My mom took a picture on my first day of class. I'm sitting in a frosted pink tutu on the wooden dance floor, and, in the reflection of a mirror, I can see my mom in her flare jeans with her small Blackberry's camera flash sparkling, and my Mimi standing beside her. I only stayed at that studio for two years, but I would become a company member under that same dance team nine years later. I was a "studio hopper", jumping dance schools every couple years. My feet always yearned to try someplace new and my eyes would bulge when I saw dance programs advertised in bright yellow letters in the local newspaper. I was a nomad, always looking for a dance studio to call home. 

I always knew I was different from my dance mates. I was a shy child and would rather nail steps down than waste time with the girls in the back row. I was the polite exemplar student, who got a break from doing planks because "Sanai is the only one who behaves!" Despite all this, I never got to stand in the front row. When the dance studio owner would peek into class, she never complimented me, never told me my kicks looked great, like she did Anna, Madeline, and Jessica. 

Dance brought an isolation that left me frozen over, my black dance studio sweatshirt with bedazzled silver gems the only thing keeping me warm. I was almost always the only Black girl in any of my dance classes, the black licorice in a bag full of coconut jelly beans. Every day after dance, my mom would ask, "Were there any other Black students in the class?" and I could only say "No." I became so used to this fact that it didn't bother me anymore. I was one of few black kids in my class at school, then in my camp group during the summer; why was this any different?

But dance is different. If you typically find yourself a member of the audience, sitting in red velvet chairs and holding roses in your hand, you may not realize how much goes on behind the scenes.  That’s why when I saw my friend repost an infographic on Instagram titled "Here are a few ways you may have participated in systemic racism in dance" I felt a chill. I was the victim of almost every bullet point listed. I laughed bitterly as I identified with all the ways systemic racism in dance has stomped all over my Black body. "Making Black girls ‘tame’ their hair for ballet class." Yep, heard that before. "Not casting POC because most of your dancers are white, and you don't want your image to be broken by Black/Brown bodies." Too true. "Making an assumption that the Black/Brown person walking into your dance studio is there to take hip-hop." I was in my tenth year of dance when I took my first hip-hop class! "Making Black and Brown dancers dye their pointe shoes and accessories."Pointe shoes' production in varying skin tones is exceptionally scarce, pink/peach being the standard.

After I left one studio where the mothers and daughters were like those featured on Dance Moms, I returned to the first studio I ever danced at. After a year of classes and my first official company audition, I was accepted into that studio's Repertory 2 section. I felt like I had finally made it.

 That studio became like a home for a while. I was at the studio 90 minutes, three times a week, and my dad and I would get Popeyes on our drives home. The studio owner, a biracial woman who advocated for Black dancers and a proud vegan, would often reminisce about how she knew me from when I was "this high" and was proud to see me grow. I made my first ever real "dance friends" there. At our end-of-year recital I performed in all seven shows at least two times each night. Going on stage and making my mark as a "company girl” was thrilling. Right before we went on for one of our last shows, this girl was helping all the Black girls do their edges. My mom did my hair that day, but I wanted to join in on the fun, so I asked that same girl to do mine. She was Black and Dominican, so I trusted her, but I will never forget how she attempted to sweep my curls down and said, "Ugh, your hair looks a mess." I cried to my mom about it the next day, not believing that I let a 12-year-old bring my 14-year-old self-down. Even the Black dancers in your class can bring you down too. So much prejudice is internalized. But my mom gave me a pep talk, and I walked on stage and performed my best show of the  run. 

The last studio I went to was in the heart of New York City. Founded by a Black man, it always preaches how accepting it is. A Black woman taught my ballet class, with rigid toes and a strict demeanor. She scared the heck out of me. When I read the bullet point, "Saying someone doesn't have a ballet body because their body doesn't fit your image of a thin ballerina with no butt and no chest." I immediately thought of her frightening face. She constantly belittled me for "sticking out my butt too much” when we did barre routines. I wished I could slice off a hunk of my butt, like a slice of chocolate cake, and throw it in the trash so that I could fit in with the rest of my vanilla classmates. COVID-19 shut that class down, and I can't say I was disappointed.

Now I have closed the curtain on my dancing career and scuttled off into the wings. Dance, you and I have a messy, beautiful, and emotional relationship. You made me fall in love with my body, but also made me hate the way I looked. But you uncovered a piece of me that I don't know any other art form could. You will always be a part of me. Dance is in every Black body, always moving and grooving around; my large mixture of Caribbean and African American family members who would dance at the end of my shows prove that true. I am so proud and will always be a beautiful Black ballerina, no matter what dance teachers, classmates, or the whole world has to say.