My journey to confidence as a black dancer in an art dominated by white women

Opinion piece by Kathrine Braseth
Photos by Jhomarie Sadang

The first day at the studio was a tough one. The cold brick walls were littered with posters of beautiful ballerinas in pink tights, their hair slicked back into perfect buns.

In a class of 15 girls all around the age of four, many of us found community in our similar names starting with the letter “K.” Although several of us related to each other through our names, something else divided me from the group.

On that first day, I sat in front of the class on a carpet square while the other girls placed themselves on the worn-down strips of tape marking where to stand. I didn’t do this because I had to, but because I didn’t feel comfortable just yet. It took me a few classes to join in on the fun, but soon I was running through the ballet combinations in the small dance studio, leaping and jumping in unison with my peers. But still, I was shy. I wasn’t ready to dance without a care like the other girls.

Through my entire dance career I knew I was different from the other dancers in a way I could never change. Standing in a line in front of the long mirrored wall of my dance studio, my brown arms stuck out of the crowd of dancers. I tried to shrink myself and be small so my differences were less noticeable. I wasn’t secure with myself yet.

I was one of three dancers with brown skin and curly hair. In the back of my mind, I was always aware of this fact even if my peers didn’t acknowledge our differences. In an art form where the need to stand tall is drilled into your head week by week by dance instructors, my yearning to shrink away was just as great.

Ballet is extraordinarily beautiful. The skill be considered talented is hard to come by and technique takes years to perfect. This looming standard is known to most dancers, even to those just dancing for pleasure like I was.

Ballet is not just the correct movements of your feet and arms, but the overall look of the dancer. Do they fit the mood of the dance? Do they fit the era of the dance? Everything from how tall you are to the length of your hair is critiqued. Obviously, Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker from 1892 isn’t set in America’s “melting pot,” but we still use this to base the cast of every ballet. Even though this is not verbally expressed, nor was I ever told I couldn’t get a role because of my skin color, or the fact my hair required more gel than everyone else to slick back my curls, I still felt I didn’t fit the “look” of ballet.

Ballet originated in Europe, where the majority of the population is white. Today, a prominent leader in the ballet community is Misty Copeland, an African-American ballerina at the American Ballet Theatre. Copeland is the first black dancer promoted to principal ballerina at this prestigious dance company. She broke barriers and is celebrated for her breakthrough in creating a more diverse dance world.

Representation is critical, and those who find representation through television shows, classrooms, media and more should feel blessed. The absence of people who looked like me in institutions meant to embody images of the world shaped how I valued myself in society. Take, for example, a television program that portrays a teacher. If you never see a teacher who looks like you, it’s harder to imagine yourself being a teacher.

By only seeing negative images of black people in the media, there was nothing to remind me that I, too, was capable of being a teacher, a doctor, a dancer or win “Actor of the Year.” Seeing leaders and professionals played by white actors, while people of color are given the roles of criminals and welfare recipients, was subconsciously affecting how I viewed myself and what I thought I was capable of. These negative images are internalized. Only rarely is black excellence covered by a mainstream news outlet.

I never realized I was letting negative portrayals of people of color affect me and my confidence. Looking back years later, as I am able to share stories with friends who had similar experiences in their journey of accepting their blackness; it’s an obvious and sad observation.

It’s human nature to feel the need to belong and be accepted. Loving my blackness is something I’m proud to do. Being embraced by friends and family who don’t allow negative images influence how they view themselves is inspirational. They welcome critical discussion and resilience through self-love. Moments of self-growth and self-love come through looking for inspiration from the many powerful black women around me, whether that be my family, or dancers like Misty Copeland.

From my first day of ballet at 4 years old to waltzing on the stage for my last dance performance at 18, I was always the same brown-skinned, curly-headed girl. But now I stood taller and took up as much space as I pleased, because I was no longer struggling with accepting who I am.