Published by Dancers' Group, In Dance is discourse and dialogue to unify, strengthen, and amplify.
in dance SUMMER 2021 DISCOURSE + DIALOGUE TO UNIFY, STRENGTHEN + AMPLIFY
P.30 The Reclaiming
P.22 A New Light
P.40 stylish muscling
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WELCOME By Sima Belmar, Guest Editor
I WROTE MY FIRST DANCE REVIEW for the San Francisco Bay Guardian in the late 90s. I had been writing listings for a while and this was my big break—500 words on the Bay Area debut of Sonya Delwaide’s Compagnie de Danse L’Astragale at Laney College in Oakland. When I received the first edits from, J.H. “Tommy” Tompkins, I thought, “Oh well. I guess I can’t be a writer.” It looked like he had pressed “select all” and then “strikethrough.” And his marginalia! Scribble after scribble of disdain. Tommy had shredded the review and, along with it, my soul. But when I went into his office to hand in my badge, Tommy explained that his edits and comments, though harsh, were a sign that he was taking my writing se- riously and an act of encouragement. So I took his edits and comments to heart, revised the review, and went on to write for the Guardian for several years. I wasn’t sure that Tommy’s “tough love” editorial style was necessary to encour- age green writers like myself, and though I remain grateful to him for giving me the opportunity to develop my craft, I’ve been lucky to have had a range of readers among peers in graduate school, friends in the dance community, and right here at In Dance , who’ve helped me form my editorial praxis, one that encourages exten- sive dialogue between writer and editor. I assume that if I don’t understand what I’m reading, the problem may not be with the writing; how I hear the written word is an amalgam of my literary experiences as an over-educated Gen X Ashkenazi Jewess from Brooklyn. The original call for writers for this issue of In Dance emphasized my interest in hearing from dancer-millennials who identify as BIPOC and/or LGBT+ and/or dis- abled, and in folks who may not have experience with writing. I wanted to work with writers as a developmental editor, to move back and forth through Google Docs until each felt their articles struck the right balance between individual voice and clarity of message (or fuck clarity of message, as the case may be). I reached out to folks I knew who reached out to folks they knew, a community effort that led to over 20 dancers who’ve expressed interest in writing. The essays by JP Bayani, Lashon Daley, ArVejon Jones, Joslynn Mathis Reed, Ezra Myles, Benedict Nguyen, Nkeiruka Oruche, and Preethi Ramaprasad are the fruit of a truly dialogic process. They express the trials, tribulations, and triumphs of a gen- eration of artists living the double whammy of choosing a dance life in the context of late capitalism and enduring systemic racism, sexism, and trans/homophobia. Dancers are connoisseurs of what a body can do and what a body knows, and I’m extraordinarily privileged to have several platforms at my disposal to uplift their voices—on the podcast Dance Cast, in my classes at UC Berkeley, and right here at In Dance . I’m certain their stories will move you to laughter, tears, and action.
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CONTENTS
35/ In Conversation
10 / Casting Call
Dancers’ Group gratefully acknowledges the support of Bernard Osher Foundation, California Arts Council, Fleishhacker Foundation, Grants for the Arts, JB Berland Foundation, Kenneth Rainin Foundation, Koret Foundation, National Endowment for the Arts, Phyllis C. Wattis Foundation, San Francisco Arts Commission, Wallace Alexander Gerbode Foundation, Walter & Elise Haas Fund, William & Flora Hewlett Foundation, Zellerbach Family Foundation and generous individuals.
Andréa Spearman chats with Erik Lee and Vanessa Sanchez
by Nkeiruka Oruche 14 / Cyphers in Cyberspace
36/ The Manifesto of the Collective
Reimagining Cultural Arts and Dance Education in a Post-COVID World by Ezra Myles 18 / Black Ballerinas in Picture Books Rupturing the Color Line in American Children’s Literature by Lashon Daley, PhD 22/ An Old Friend in a New Light Reflections on Collaboration in Bharatanatyam by Preethi Ramaprasad 26/ Transcending Racism in the Dance World A Long Way to Go by Joslynn Mathis Reed 30/ The Reclaiming Empowering The Next Generation of Dancers by ArVejon Jones
Not Following the Company Model by John Paul “JP” Alejandro
40/ stylish muscling
creative play and the necessity of functional movement By Benedict Nguyen
44/ In Community
Highlights and resources, activities and celebrations for our community— find more on dancersgroup.org
48/ News
Anniversaries, Awards & Remembering Anna Halprin
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BERKELEY BALLET THEATER BERKELEY ALL T THEATER O F F I C I A L S C H O O L O F ER E B
O F F I C I A L S C H O O L O F O F F I C I A L S C H O O L O F
Learn more at: berkeleyballet.org postballet.org Learn more at: berkeleyballet.org postballet.org Learn more at: berkeleyballet.org postballet.org BBT Studio Company dancer in Laura O’Malley’s Inscape Photo by Natalia Perez
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(formerly Sangam Arts)
From Diversity to Belonging through intercultural arts
join the movement! mosaicamerica.org
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#StopAAPIHate #TheGreatAAPIElderPrintOff
www.foryou.productions/the-great-aapi-elder-print-off
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RO C O
fall 21 Productions “Peter” and “OnStage”at Marin Center
AUGUST 23- JANUARY 23,2022 PERFORMANCES JANUARY 22-23 Register at rocodance.com
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Internationally-Flexing, Izzie-Award-winning, Artistic Director of Afro Urban Society, Nkeiruka Oruche, a 15-year+ IRL & URL vibes dispenser and charlatan of Afro Urban Dance is casting for a new show that takes place at the renowned Ase-Umoja-Juju Cultural Dance Center. This docu-series, tentatively titled DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW TO DANCE?, follows participants as they navigate the riveting world of African dance class, from Congolese to Senegalese, Afro-Brazilian to Cuban, Haitian to Hip Hop, and more. We are looking for mov- ers of all types and levels, including but not limited to: folks who can launch into unsolicited full splits and back-bends, the ability to dance on the 1, non-stop chatterboxes, people that always do that one ‘African’ dance move, social media slayers, and more. Tal- ent must be comfortable acting out improvisational scenes and demonstrating extreme emotion on camera (e.g. unwavering focus, I-don’t-care attitude, just-give-me-da-light eyes, am I disgusted or is it “I just can’t see the instructor” frustration). by NKEIRUKA ORUCHE CASTIN
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CALL FOR NEW “AFRICAN” DANCE REALITY SHOW
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ROLES
You will always find these ones in the center of the room. Nothing is going to ruin their moment.
BACKHOME BINTOU They come in and they are giving it what it’s supposed to give! You are getting life. You’re giving them, they are taking it. They are giving you! You are receiving it! But beware! Some of them are habitual contrari- ans. They. Will. Never. Follow. Instructions. They won’t follow your moves. They’ll do their own thing because they already know how it’s spose to go. They are irri- tating af but you can’t say shit, because, well, you’re grateful they are here. What’s that tiny bead of sweat just on the corner top of your left eyebrow? My friend, call it what it is: Molecule of Apprehension. Because with all the glee of having your fam in the building, you know, you BETTA not fuck around and do or say a move incorrectly. The eye roll and sucking teeth that will follow, enh? You will cry for your mother. SEARCHING FOR THE MEANING-THIRD EYE LUNALIGHTLOVE GRASS Africa! Oh Ancient “undiscovered” Africa. Enshrined in a glass case of pure antiquity. These ones have come to find you, your dance, your music, your ways. What does this back pop move mean? Does it open my 5th chakra? It reminds me of a move I did at this silent yoga retreat I went to last week. Can you speak more to the energy and depth of this whole experi- ence? Allison, it’s really just ‘shake. your. ass’. ROOTFUL RUWA This is their first time coming to take an African dance class. Even though you’ve been asking them for over 7 years to come. But now they have watched Black Panther. They must discover their roots. Incase Wakanda citizenship application comes. Well done sah. Well done ma. Whenever a person wakes up, is their morning. Here’s your dashiki. THRIFTY TAMMY Aunty! Do you want me to live in poverty? Do you know how many hours it takes to be learning dance, practicing routines, curating music, packing all my shit, putting a smile on my face and energy in my voice, while my life is in shambles to be here for you? I don’t have health insurance. If my leg breaks today you will say ‘sending healing vibes’. You want all the joy and life I have to give, but you want to complain about money? Listen, man cannot live by vibes and inshallah alone. Why is it so costly? Have you asked your Gucci bag the same question? God is watching you. Send Money.
TEACHERING TEACHER Maybe you’re the homegrown 5th-generation master dancer who just came from the motherland yesterday, or you spent 15 years studying under so and so, or you real- ized that hmm this African dance thing, I can do it as a profession. Either way. We don’t understand what you’re saying, and we can’t keep up. But we love it here. Do you have any of those lapas for sale? COUNTING COURTNEY Is the dip on the 5,6 or the 6,7? How many times do you twist your middle left toe, before you do the turn? But can you please count it? You keep saying Trakata trakata boom, and I don’t know if it is 1, 2, 3 4 5. Sis, this is Afri- can dance, if I say, Umm aH, boom boom, traga traga ah eh tikititi tukuttu tikiti tukutu, oooh oooh Ah-baka baka bak! Cos if it’s- then it’s-, LEAN, then it’s ra ra POP. Then that’s what it is. Adapt. SERIOUS SAMMY They never smile, or do extra galavanting with anyone. Their eyes and attention are always on you. The whole time. Unless you say otherwise, of course. Following every move. Revising and paying attention to their body. You wonder if you should have brought scantron sheets for the test. AUTHENTIC ABENA They are actually from the culture, or they are an elder in the practice. You show a move or combination and when they do it and it’s like *sun glints off an untouched river in the Serengeti *. They not even trying to show out, they just got it. Easy. A gazelle flitting through the savanna. You question your validity. LOYAL LOLA They will come. Every week. Every class. Even if you travel to Mars to do class, you will see them there. They will pay their money. Not a dollar more or less. They will say, see you next week, and you will, in fact, see them next week. COMFORTABLE COMFORT They walk in, holding their water bottle. Smiling at the wall, the floor, the ceiling, everyone. They wave. Today na today.
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SHOW OFF SALEM Ok. You need some kind of attention that you not getting elsewhere. Or maybe you just a Leo and you always just do that anyway. Breh, this is not an audition or performance. Calm down small abeg. Oh! ohhhh? I see. You ALSO teach your own class, and you came here for the sole purpose of everyone noticing you so that folks will come and talk to you, and you will give them a promo flyer. Ah ah. I see what you did there. We bow. Tactics. TRIFLING TRIBALIST They are from another African ethnic group, and they are there solely to express their superiority over you. These are the mumus that never miss a Ghana vs. Naija jollof battle. But you’re Senegal. Flex your superiority. Ignore them. E choke. EVER-KNOWING EVELYN In 1983, I traveled to Makoko village. Have you been? No, Evelyn, I’m sorry that colonization has made it so I never was able to visit any other African regions, and now have been forced to arrive in the U.S. and the way the immigration system is set up? I can’t ever really go back, or go anywhere else. Oh that’s nice, you’ve been to my family village as well? Oh lovely, tell me more. Do I know Chief Manguru? No. No. I don’t. Oh you created a charity for him. Lovely. Yes. Yes. I’m just a basic dance teacher. I know nothing. I’ve been nowhere. Oh I see I’m not ‘that’ interesting after all. Thanks for not coming to my class anymore. Tell my villagers I said hi. PRIVATE-LESSON POOJA I’m really struggling getting it, and I just can’t really deal with other people distracting me in the space. Can I set some time for privates with you? Ah, Pooja. This is a social dance, part of learning is being with other people. If strangers don’t sweat or breathe on you, the dance will not work. Just keep coming. Omg are you pouting? What is this behavior? MASTERFUL MACKENZIE Do you know it takes me an average of 2 years to learn each movement? And I’m still learning and refining. But you paid $15 and you are angry because you didn’t ‘mas- ter’ it in 30 minutes. Am I a microwave? FITFAM MAYA They come in jogging. They have overpriced non-wicking tight pants on, a headband, a fresh tee from their gym pro- gram, step-tracker watch, and a protein shake in a high- lighter colored bottle. Whenever you pause to give instruc- tions or move the formation of the class, they start jogging
on the spot. When you call for a water break, you find them in the corner doing jumping jacks and burpees. They think your warm up is weak af. ‘MY SPOT’ SHARIF Front row warriors. They protec’, they attac’ but most importantly they come back. If you tell the front line to move to the back, they will wrinkle their nose and look up to the ceiling to avoid eye contact. Every time you change up the rows, their ears will close and they still end up in front. Unaware victims (see: Comfortable Comfort), who find themselves taking their spot, will mysteriously receive a, Oh, my bad, did I bump you? BACKWALL BETTY These ones will never come out of the woodworks. Their eyes are unrelentlessly wide and bulging. The ones who will have a heart attack if you look at them, or tell them to do a demo or solo. Oh god. They have died now. WATCHFUL HUANG Oh you’re just here to ‘watch’. Well, since you’ve decided that we are African Netflix, as of next week I’m going to start charging a subscription fee. MANAGING MANAGER Oh what y’all doing in here? Is this some kind of African Hipity hop? Oh you know I used to do a lil’ African dance back in my day. Learned a few moves. Oh nah. It’s okay. I’m good, I just wanted to see what all the noise was about. Oh and by the way, y’all ten minutes over time, I need to close the building, if y’all don’t leave in the next 5 min- utes, I’ll be forced to write you up. Ha! Uncle, how did we come to the end of the road so fast? MIRAGE MIRIAM Mama so and so, it was great to see you. You really were amazing, I don’t know if that’s your real name, and I don’t have your contact info. If you see this message, I still have the wrapper and left over food container that you kept in the corner even tho I mentioned no eating in class. Also, have you seen my phone charger? It was next to your bag. N KEIRUKA ORUCHE is a multi-local, multi-interested Igbo creative who currently works and plays in Huchiun, unceded Lisjan Ohlone territory. Written words have always been her jam. You may find her cuddled up in bed battling debilitating pain, while simultaneously planning themed house parties or making spread- sheets to organize the multi-pronged takedown of capitalistcolonialheteropatri- archy. She’s obsessed with Pan Afro-Urban culture and believes that most of our problems can be cured with a fire-ass playlist . Absorb her reverberations through Afro Urban Society , Bakanal de Afrique , BoomShake Music , and House/full of BlackWomen . If personal stalking is more your vibe, try your luck at nkeioruche.com , IG: @nkorigible; TW: @Playcookie or just Send money Paypal | Venmo | Zelle. Because, Igbo girls don’t swim in water, we swim in wealth.
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O N TUESDAY, MARCH 16TH, 2020 , Governor Newsom announced that a shelter-in-place order would go into effect across the State of California. Initially, I went into quarantine secretly optimistic. Running from late-night performance gigs to school sites to weekend events was already taking its toll on my health, so I saw the SIP as an opportunity to take much- needed (and deserved) time to rest, reflect, and plan. Before the start of the pandemic, I worked in Richmond as a cultural arts educator, event production manager, and program admin- istrator for East Bay Center for the Performing Arts. I coordi- nated after-school enrichment programs and taught Afro- Diasporic dances like Samba and Hip-Hop to African-American youth in the West Contra Costa Unified School District. by EZRA MYLES REIMAGINING CULTURAL ARTS AND DANCE EDUCATION IN A POST-COVIDWORLD CYPHERS IN CYBERSPACE
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44 Gough Street, Suite 201 San Francisco, CA 94103 www.dancersgroup.org
CARNIVAL PARADES ARE INTENSIVE, ORCHESTRATED PRODUCTIONS, but they are also verymuch about the spontaneity of dancing and playing music in the streets for the pure joy of performance.
Before the pandemic, I knew that many of my students weren’t aware of the Afro-Diasporic roots of the art forms we studied, but I only pro- vided historical context to supple- ment a focus on technique and phys- ical fitness. I didn’t feel the urgency to explore these aspects in-depth because when we were together in person they could experience first- hand the qualities of Afro-Diasporic dances that make them so powerful and special. Whether it was the Hip-Hop cyphers of the Bronx, the capoeira and samba rodas of Bra- zil, or the Second Line parades of New Orleans, these practices inher- ently cultivated rituals of community exploration, competition, coopera- tion, and social/emotional awareness through self-expression. During vir- tual learning, I realized how import- ant it is to explicitly articulate our dance practices’ shared histories and legacies through play. For my stu- dents to see the social, emotional, physical, and intellectual benefits of learning culturally responsive arts education, I had to forsake linear, regimented, Westernized pedagogical structures in favor of a circular, holistic, experience that more accu- rately reflected the Afro-diasporic communities from which these art forms originated. O ver 365 days later, the country is slowly emerging from its solitary confine- ment. As I reflect on this year of virtual dance learn- ing, one thing has become strikingly
the Transatlantic Slave Trade or the Afro-Diasporic origins of Hip-Hop dance before taking my class. Second, the lack of comprehen- sive, culturally responsive arts edu- cation in our public schools deprives the students of valuable context to understand and navigate their expe- riences as children of color in Amer- ica. In other words, the dances they see on TikTok and other social media platforms are part of a history that they are not aware of and our public schools are not filling the gaps. With- out that crucial context, under-re- sourced teaching artists are left with the herculean task of teaching the content in a way that is engaging enough to bridge the knowledge gap while also providing social, emo- tional, and/or physical wellness. And this was before introducing the myr- iad technological barriers that arose during virtual learning. In the absence of that reciprocal relationship, the pandemic forced me to adapt in order to recreate that space of connection at the intersection of dance practice, art history, and tech- nology. One way that I did this was through teaching about Carnival. Car- nival’s vibrant, multicultural festival of food, music, dance, and pageantry is coded with both joyful liberation and subversive resistance. It inherited the subversiveness from its European roots as a Pre-Lenten festival of excess but gained new meaning as an eman- cipation tradition through the African, Asian, and Indigenous practices that were infused into the parades, perfor- mances, and parties. It is also one of
clear: not only are many of our young students tragically estranged from their cultural and artistic her- itage, but this estrangement nega- tively affects their social, emotional, and intellectual development. More than any other performing art form, Afro-diasporic dances come from traditions built within the safety and power of the drum circle, the roda, the cypher. These dance rituals thrive in spaces of physical contact and connection between performers, musicians, and the audience. Without those spaces, students are left with nowhere to go but social media and video games for connection. The problem is that these cyber- spaces are often unprotected social spaces where concepts of dance as an art form are oversaturated with decontextualized viral dances like Fortnite “emotes” and any number of dance challenges on TikTok. Emotes, short, downloadable inter- actions like taunts, poses, and dances, are based on real dances taken from popular trends and Afro-Diasporic culture and renamed without attribution or context. Nota- ble diasporic dance additions to Fort- nite include the “Conga” of Afro- Cuban origin; the comedic, Carlton Banks-inspired “Fresh” dance; and “Breakneck,” an acrobatic move orig- inally known in Hip-Hop circles as the “Windmill.” Out of the 45 stu- dents that I taught this year between ages 8-15, 75% of them actively use TikTok and 50% of them play Fort- nite. Out of those same 45 students, only 5 of them knew anything about
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the few cultural heritage celebrations that is recognized in some fashion across every part of the African Dias- pora. While the depth and breadth of these experiences transcend dance, by focusing on performance through play and the emotional release that we experience in dance, I was able to help students alleviate the emotional toll of the pandemic. Carnival parades are intensive, orchestrated productions, but they are also very much about the spon- taneity of dancing and playing music in the streets for the pure joy of per- formance. During class, I taught the Trinidadian concept of “pla- yin’ mas,” short for masquerade, to introduce the concept of perfor- mance as play. I then recreated that experience in the virtual classroom through games. The first game was Kahoot, an online learning plat- form where educators can create
programming is still concerning, and many of my students will con- tinue to engage in social media and video games as their primary forms of peer-to-peer interaction. How- ever, I’m grateful to know that my students will return to in-person instruction excited about dance, armed with a foundational knowl- edge of their heritage, greater self- worth, and better tools for self-ad- vocacy and self-expression. I am inspired by my students’ resilience and growth despite the tragic cir- cumstances and I am invigorated by how creativity allowed us to adapt and adopt new means of building connections through dance. Most of all, I am humbled to witness how the traditions of Afro-Diasporic cul- tural arts still carry truth and power through practice, even across the Internet. As a millennial dancer, art- ist, and educator, I believe it is my
to focus on learning the techniques, but to have fun, become familiar with the music, and let go of the pressure to be perfect. By changing the format of my Car- nival dance curriculum to focus on play, I was able to move away from technique toward expression. In doing so, my students were able to at least acknowledge their emotional well- being, if not process and articulate how they felt in a healthy way. This is critical because whether it’s our profes- sional workplaces, our students’ class- rooms, or our intimate, interpersonal relationships, we are constantly told to check our emotions like luggage at the proverbial door of success. During the pandemic, this was no longer sustain- able. Some of my students would sit in the same room for six hours, stress- ing about internet issues, their parents’ job security, their grandparents’ health and safety, while trying to learn Math
MORE THAN ANY OTHER PERFORMING ART FORM, Afro- diasporic dances come from traditions built within the safety and power of the drum circle, the roda, the cypher.
their own trivia games for students to practice and learn. This allowed me to introduce names, figures, places, and events without the stu- dents feeling like they’re being tested and pressured. The second game was “follow the leader,” a dance activity where I showcase a series of move- ments in sequence and ask the stu- dents to follow along to the best of their ability. These movements focus on both technique and process. I incorporate body isolations and footwork in quick succession to a wide range of Carnival music includ- ing New Orleans Second-Line, Trin- idadian Soca, and Brazilian Samba. The purpose is not for the students
privilege and responsibility to carry forward that knowledge into the 21st century in a way that bridges the gap between the drum circle and the cybersphere. EZRA MYLES is a Choreographer, Illustrator, Poet, Event Producer, and Arts Educator with over a decade of experience performing across the country and internationally. He is cur- rently utilizing his skills as a creative to support local arts organizations in the Bay Area focused on empowering youth and providing community wellness through the arts. He is a Production and Programs Coordinator at East Bay Center for the Performing Arts, one of the principal danc- ers and Co-producers for SambaFunk! Carnaval Explosion, and founder of MylesBeyond Enter- tainment, a production company that provides event, entertainment, and marketing services.
or English. By the time they came to dance, not only were they tired of Zoom, but there was no outlet for their stress. By taking intentional time to express our feelings at the beginning and end of every class, dancing spon- taneously, and removing the pressure to perform, they managed to learn both about the culture and the beauty of connecting through that culture despite being physically separated. As we cautiously return to in-per- son education, events, and experi- ences, I am sobered by the immense burden that the pandemic placed on our students, our systems, and our community. The uncertainty around the future of education and arts
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44 Gough Street, Suite 201 San Francisco, CA 94103 www.dancersgroup.org
BLACK BALLERINAS in Picture Books Rupturing the Color Line in American Children’s Literature BY LASHON DALEY, PHD
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O VER THE PAST FIFTY YEARS as a result of the call for diverse children’s books, there has been a steady trickling in of publications featuring protagonists of color. As a Black girlhood studies scholar, I pay close attention to pic- ture books that portray Black girls. More specifically, I intersect dance studies and children’s literary studies in order to explore the representation of Black ballerinas in autobiograph- ical and biographical children’s pic- ture books. In doing so, I demonstrate how these texts help to define what it means to be young, Black, and female in ballet as this social identity becomes characterized within African American children’s literature. In my larger body of work, I explore books published before the start of 2020, which include Debbie Allen’s Dancing in the Wings (2000), Misty Copeland’s Firebird: Ballerina Misty Copeland Shows a Young Girl How to Dance Like the Firebird (2014), Kristy Dempsey’s A Dance Like Starlight: One Ballerina’s Dream (2014), Michaela DePrince’s Ballerina Dreams: A True Story (2017), and Michelle Meadow’s Brave Ballerina: The Story of Janet Collins (2019). In this article, I focus on Copeland’s Firebird because of its notable influ- ence within the industry. Winner of the 2015 Coretta Scott King Illustrator Award and the 2015 Ezra Jack Keats Book Award New Writer Honor, Copeland’s Firebird tells the story of a young dancer who desires Copeland’s balletic success. However, the protagonist does not have confidence in her abilities as a ballet dancer. She believes that there is a space between her aptitudes and that of Copeland’s that is “longer than forever” (Copeland 2014, 1). At first read, the narrative seems to allude to a young Copeland speaking to her adult self, desiring to know the outcome of her current labor. Will she fulfil her dream and become a prima ballerina?
Illustrated by Christopher Myers, the first image of Firebird features the protagonist dressed in bright-yel- low fitted clothing performing an ara- besque. Upstage of the protagonist is an enlarged image of Copeland also in arabesque. Copeland is dressed in her fiery-red firebird costume—per- haps a foreshadowing of who the girl will someday be. In the next scene, the protagonist stares into her mind’s eye, imagining Copeland in a white costume with an accompanying tiara. The scene depicts a leaping Copeland soaring over the East River against the New York City skyline at night. Here,
Copeland places her downstage arm on the girl’s downstage shoulder. Cope- land then encourages the protagonist to “let the sun shine on your face” before proceeding to tell of her story of becoming a prima ballerina (Copeland 2014, 7). As a Black ballerina in a White bal- let world, Copeland’s life narrative is also one saturated with exclusion, isolation, and marginalization. In her memoir, Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina , Copeland narrates how she not only navigated poverty and hun- ger in her childhood, but moreover, continuously navigated her black-
I demonstrate how these texts help to define what it means to be young, Black, and female in ballet as this social identity becomes characterized within African American children’s literature.
the protagonist likens Copeland to the “sky and clouds and air” with feet that are as “swift as sunlight” (Cope- land 2014, 3). It is Copeland’s elon- gated leap that the protagonist imag- ines stretching “across the skyline like the daylong sun over the horizon” (Copeland 2014, 3). By the following page, the protagonist’s visualization has ended, and she returns back to reality, where she is alone and down- cast. She is seated on the floor staring at the ground with her knees pulled to her chest. She believes herself to be as “gray as rain/heavy as naptime, low as a storm pressing on rooftops” (Cope- land 2014, 4). It is because of these beliefs, the protagonist doubts that she could ever “hope to leap the space between”—that is the space between her and Copeland (Copeland 2014, 5). On the following pages, the girl’s hope is partially realized as she comes face-to-face with Copeland. Kneel- ing in order to make eye contact with the narrative’s young protagonist,
ness in a classical ballet world that is impoverished of Black dancing bod- ies, and as a result, hungry to con- sume them. Like the young protago- nist she encourages in Firebird , as a young dancer, Copeland also strug- gled to close the gap between who she was—a fatherless mixed-race Black girl without a stable home—and who she imagined herself to be—a prin- cipal ballerina performing the most prestigious classical ballet roles. Dance Scholar Brenda Gottschild acknowledges that there was a par- adigm shift in the twentieth century regarding the Black dancing body. She argues that while “the black dancer remains Other, the black body, through dance, sports, fashion, and everyday lifestyle, become the last word in white desirability” (7). She specifies that what was once seen as “‘coonish’” about the Black body is now seen as “Cool” with a capital C (7). While Gottschild goes on to complicate how the Black dancing body can, in some aspects,
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B lack ballerinas develop not just a Black habi- tus, but a Black balle- rina habitus that is con- structed by the ways their bodies are subdued as a result of the intense training, and in the way their blackness is subdued. Because of their race, Black ballerinas are inherently relegated to the margins of the industry. That marginalization encourages them to seek support and community with other dancers who share the same or similar experiences. Then, on the rare occasion that they are able to move from the margins to the center, they are marked and categorized within the historical lin- eage of their position and promoted (like a saint) to the high ranks of Black history. Their legacy is then used to replicate the same system for the next Black ballerina. Firebird , I argue, is a part of the economic investment of Black ballerinas into other Black ballerinas, which shapes their world view, and the world view for those of us who read about them in picture books. WORKS CITED Copeland, Misty. Firebird: Ballerina Misty Copeland Shows a Young Girl How to Dance Like the Firebird . Illustrated by Christopher Myers, Putnam, 2014. Gottschild, Brenda. The Black Dancing Body: A Geography from Coon to Cool . Springer, 2016. Young, Harvey. Embodying Black Experience: Still- ness, Critical Memory, and the Black Body . University of Michigan Press, 2010. DR. LASHON DALEY is the assistant professor of Black Children’s Literature at San Diego State University. This article is excerpted from her book project, Black Girl Lit: The Coming of (R) age Performances in Contemporary U.S. Black Girlhood Narratives, 1989-2019 , which charts how children’s literature, film, television, and social media has helped shape our cultural understanding of what it means to be young, Black, and female in the U.S. Lashon recently received her PhD in Performance Studies with a Designated Emphasis in New Media from UC Berkeley. She also holds an MFA in Writing from Sarah Lawrence College and an MA in Folklore from UC Berkeley. Her children’s book, Mr. Okra Sells Fresh Fruits and Vegetables , was released in February 2016. LashonDaley.com
possess whiteness when it is trained in “white-based ballet,” it is important to consider how Copeland’s Firebird enacts a kind of spillage that augments the versatility of the Black dancing body, while reifying its otherness (22). Interestingly enough, it is actually the protagonist of the text who continu- ously highlights her own lack despite Copeland’s grand Black female repre- sentation. Most likely spurred on by institutional racism within ballet, the
feels like the space she once longed to close has finally been sealed. Copeland’s picture book creates a public record of her experience as a ballerina integrating ballet and, sub- sequently, diversifying the industry of children’s literature. In 2014, the year Firebird was released, out of 3,500 children’s books that were published that year, only sixty-nine were writ- ten and/or illustrated by an African or African American creator and 179
That marginalization encourages them to seek support and community with other dancers who share the same or similar experiences.
protagonist figuratively projects her body as one labeled as “coon,” while labelling Copeland’s body as “Cool.” Gottschild argues that it is not the Black dancing body that has changed, it is rather our perception of it that has changed. For the young protag- onist whose dismay is a result of the space between herself and Copeland— that space between coon and Cool— she must first change her perception in order to begin closing the space. Firebird seemingly ends with both Copeland and the protagonist dressed in that same white ballet costume from the text’s earlier pages stand- ing in sous-sus. Copeland gazes stage right, while the protagonist gazes stage left. However, it is not until upon seeing the back cover that the reader is made privy to how this story ultimately ends. On the back cover, the protagonist is centered, dressed in that same white costume she was dressed in at the end of the narrative. She is now an adult. No longer stand- ing on demi-pointe like in her child- hood balletic practice, but en pointe. Her leg is in a low arabesque with a deep cambré back. Although she is alone again, this time her aloneness does not feel like loneliness. Rather, it
books were about Africans or Afri- can Americans. Copeland’s Firebird intersected both of those categories (a Black author and a Black illustrator), and in addition, diversified the indus- try by not only featuring two Afri- can American female lead characters, but two African American balleri- nas. Firebird exemplifies the growing desire to make Black dancing bodies more visible, more legible, and conse- quently more consumable. It also exemplifies the experience and provides language for what it means to live out a Black ballerina habitus. Black performance studies scholar Harvey Young (2010) explains that the “theory of habitus—thought in terms of a black habitus—allows us to read the black body as socially con- structed and continually constructing its own self. If we identify blackness as an idea projected across a body, the projection not only gets incorporated within the body but also influences the ways that it views other bodies (20). Young goes on to detail how “black habitus has been shaped by the legacy of black captivity and other manifesta- tions of discrimination within society: racial profiling and employment dis- crimination, among others” (21).
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BY PREETHI RAMAPRASAD
BHARATANATYAM , a form of dance originating in South India, has rapidly gained a global reputation. With roots in temple ritual and salons passed from generation to generation through the hereditary dance and music community of Tamil Nadu, in post-colonial India, the practice began to attract students and performers from various backgrounds around the world as a performing art. While Bharatanatyam practitioners continue to navigate this history of shifts in performative practice, the art has now gained a serious fan following. With intricate movements, elaborate costuming, and intense training, its spheres of influence have grown to include everything from solo dancers to scholars to global touring ensembles. I’ve loved Bharatanatyam from the moment my tiny feet set foot in my teacher’s studio in Chennai, India. It demands utmost focus from its students and performers, and as a barely seven-year-old girl visiting my grandparents, I was drawn to this commitment. In my early twenties, I was able to move to AN OLD NEW LIGHT FRIEND IN A REFLECTIONS ON COLLABORATION IN BHARATANATYAM
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Sitting across from each other at the famous NICK’S TACOS, my friends and I began to ask , HOW CAN WE IMAGINE BHARATANATYAM as having space for discussion and debate on POLITICS, CLASS, CASTE, GENDER, AND SEXUALITY?
Chennai to pursue a career as a Bharantanatyam soloist, working intimately with many colleagues and choreographers, but focusing largely on my individual practice. Chennai seemed like the place to be, laden with historical remnants of Indian dance and music history. During the city’s famous “December Performance Season,” ensemble and solo artists of various genres come together in large performance auditoriums. But noth- ing enraptured me more than the Bharatanatyam soloists. During solo concerts, dancers perform up to seven compositions with varied themes and almost no breaks, for as long as an hour and a half. Some works of choreography are physically dynamic with catchy rhythmic sequences, while others require dancers to be more solitary using abhinaya , an expressive tech- nique similar to miming. I rehearsed several hours a day and, after so much physical and emotional exer- tion, some performances would leave me with splitting headaches. Still, I embraced the solo Bharatanatyam dance as a career trajectory, covering up all evidence of effort—panting, sweat, pain—like all the dancers I admired. I didn’t think about dancing as labor, instead visualizing myself moving in glittering costumes for a rapt audience, pounding my feet on shiny wooden stages. Several years later, when I moved back to the United States to be with my partner, I maintained the goal of being a soloist, but didn’t understand how to be a Bharatanatyam dancer here. While it has a vast audience
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in the United States, Bharatanatyam transmission and performance in this country is somewhat different from India. While India has more sabhas , performance organizations that pro- vide spaces for dancers to perform, the United States offers avenues for artists to self-produce shows through grants and fellowship programs. India has a niche population of concert attendees for Indian dance, but sell- ing tickets in the United States varies based on the population of Indian arts students and connoisseurs. When I arrived in San Francisco, the local Bharatanatyam community opened up a new world for me, shifting my practice and perspective in the process. Sitting across from each other at the famous Nick’s Tacos, my friends and I began to ask, how can we imagine Bharatanatyam as having space for discussion and debate on
performance sessions online. I was worried about how the pandemic would shift the impact of live shows, but have been pleasantly surprised to see friends hanging onto Zoom calls until the very end. We have taken mas- ter classes, practiced technique, and watched online concerts together. As COVID-19 cases rose in India, we raised funds for organizations that we knew on the ground. I have shared new work online, bouncing ideas off colleagues on Whatsapp before turning to my infamous ring-light- tripod-and-smart-phone arrangement. This community has kept me sane for the past 14 months, and it has also grown. While there is a sufficient amount of care that I take with social media, I find comfort in my friends’ worlds, watching and sharing their work on my page, as we try to build our own critical dance worlds.
Festival alongside Sri Thina and Shruti Abhishek. We called it When Eyes Speak in reference to the ways Indian dance engages the eyes to communicate narrative and emo- tional content. Our goal was to high- light the vastness of Indian chore- ography in its myriad forms, from Odissi to contemporary, for San Francisco audiences. Then, in May 2018, Shruti, Nadhi Thekkek, and I created Varnam Salons, facilitated intimate gatherings for dancers to share their work-in-progress ver- sions of challenging compositions in the Bharatanatyam repertoire. With these spaces, we aim to eradicate the barriers between audience and per- former in Indian dance, barriers that are strictly maintained on formal pro- scenium stages. We prioritize panel discussions, where the events run into lobby-talk and excited happy hours
Labor has always been intrinsic to BHARATANATYAM PRACTICE , but what makes these COLLABORATIONS meaningful is the acknowledgement of L ABOR BY WAY OF ARTIST, SCHOLARLY , and AUDIENCE. SUPPORT.
politics, class, caste, gender, and sexu- ality? In critiquing one another during open rehearsals, we started to discuss the efforts, costs, and travel involved with Bharatanatyam and asked, how can we question these structures and support one another? Meaningful col- laboration helped me to understand that Indian dance functions not just as performative practice but also as a form of labor. These questions have now imbued my creative process, encouraging me to reflect on what I want to be dancing about right now, and how my work can respond to our fraught political world. In late 2017, inspired by the SF Black Choreographers Festival, and at the urging of Joe Landini, I curated the first Indian Choreography
Collaboration has offered a sub- versive response to frustrating events ranging from COVID-19 to state- sanctioned violence. It has opened doors for me to see Bharatanatyam not from the perspective of individ- ual career development, but rather the collective development of an artis- tic community. While I long to be on the stage again, I treasure these moments that have allowed me to see Bharatanatyam like an old friend in a new light for the very first time. PREETHI RAMAPRASAD is a Bharatanatyam practitioner and a Ph.D. student in Critical Dance Studies at UC Riverside. 1 I am greatly impacted by and draw on Priya Srinivasan’s text, Sweating Saris: Indian Dance as Transnational Labor (2011).
filled with chatter. Most importantly, we acknowledge the daily labor of artists, with compensation and tech- nical support. Instead of stealth- ily wiping the sweat off to preserve layers of make-up for the stage, the salons feature dancers flushed with energy after sharing a challenging sec- tion of choreography with our inti- mate audience. Labor has always been intrinsic to Bharatanatyam prac- tice, but what makes these collabo- rations meaningful is the acknowl- edgement of labor by way of artist, scholarly, and audience support. In the middle of the global pan- demic, many events moved to online platforms. With precise “tech rehears- als,” my collaborators and I held meeting after meeting to set up
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TRANSCENDING
IN THE DANCE WORLD BY JOSLYNN MATHIS REED
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R ight after I completed my MFA in 2014, I landed my first dance at a community college, and I was super excited for the opportunity to teach at the college level. I felt that this college would be a place where I could grow and collaborate with my colleagues. The students were driven and willing to put in the work of learning Hip Hop culture as well as movement, and I saw a future in which I could achieve my goals as a professor and mentor my students. During my first week on the job, a professor job. I was hired to teach a Hip Hop class
colleague asked if I thought I had been hired because I was Black, or because of my skills and expertise. Reeling from how explicitly racist the question was, I didn’t address it, and instead explained that my skill set included training and experience teaching multiple styles of dance as well as an MFA in Choreography and Performance. After several years teaching Hip Hop dance at that college, I realized that expanding to teach other tech- niques was not in the cards. There were always different reasons—everything from not enough studio space to sched- uling challenges. It became increasingly
clear that as the Black Hip Hop teacher, my opportunities would be limited. My presence there conveniently served to diversify the program, but only on superficial terms. Even though I was qualified and professionally trained to teach other styles of dance, my col- leagues continually referred to me as “the Hip Hop teacher.” I love teaching Hip Hop, but I resent the assumption that it’s the only dance form I can teach because I’m Black. I have had to deal with racist micro- aggressions and attempts to put me in a box as a Black dance professor and choreographer my entire career. The cumulative effect of having students
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