INTRODUCTION
Adrenaline
Adrenaline is a great fucking drug. It was the perfect top-off to the full range of emotions I had clawed my way through during the past twenty-four hours. I rode the 1 train downtown to the David H. Koch Theater in silence, believing my next performance as a dancer with the New York City Ballet would also be my last.
Two weeks earlier Peter and I had a yelling match of epic proportions. It ended with me screaming as I ran down the hallway, easily within earshot of anyone in the dressing rooms and the administrative offices. One of my stagehand buddies came running to my rescue to see what was up and make sure I was okay. Now Peter had requested to meet with me. I was sure I was getting fired. I was burning inside as I walked into the office, bracing myself for whatever unjustifiable abuse I was sure was going to be thrown my way: Fat shaming? Maybe I’d be accused of not being fully committed to the company I had danced with since I was a teenager? I was ready to defend myself this time, and my last words to Peter would be as sharp as daggers. I walked into the office, and Peter gestured toward the couch, where Rosemary, the ballet mistress, was seated. I had really grown to love her over all these years. Her passion and wisdom brought its own form of comfort, strictly unique to Rosemary. She was more stern stepmom than warm nurturer, but my feelings for her were solid despite her devotion to the man who continually caused me pain. I was glad she was in the room for this moment, even if just to witness whatever happened next.
The couch was absurdly low. Peter had positioned his six-feet-four-inch frame in a tall chair right across from me. It felt like he had me exactly where he wanted me, at his feet, prone before his throne. Like I was paying homage. I was weighed down by dread but still picked up on a feeling of calm in the room. This is exactly the kind of fuckery that drove my anxiety through the roof.
Peter finally spoke: “Georgina, I don’t see us ever agreeing or seeing eye to eye.”
His emphasis on the word “ever” was like a quick but sharp jab to my gut. A clear and painful reminder that he seemed to know exactly which buttons to push, and to remind me that not agreeing with him brought consequences.
He continued casually, as if we were roommates who disagreed about who washed the dishes last and weren’t talking about the end of my life as a ballerina.
“We have differences of opinion.”
The sadness rushed at me like a wave. I was twenty-nine years old, and my career was about to be over in a snap. This man, whose mere presence in the rehearsal studio loomed over us like a threatening storm cloud—who could take a dancer down with one sharp look or cutting comment—had the supreme power to cut me loose. And it was going to happen right now. I was struck silent, immobile.
“You have danced so strongly over this season. That is undeniable.” Peter took a deep, concerning breath before he said, “I’ve decided to promote you.”
His words did not compute. What did that fucker just say? He repeated it, “Gina, I’m promoting you.” My rage starts to dissipate, and I am flushed with euphoria. Wait, I’m a soloist? I’m a fucking soloist? Part of me was in disbelief; did this just happen? Tears of gratitude were about to spill. I didn’t really care if he saw me cry, but I wasn’t going to reward him with a display of emotion. After our last blowout, I promised I’d never let him see me get emotional again.
Rosemary stood up and gave me a look of approval. I had earned some mutual respect over the years from this woman, who was a very tough nut to crack. Rosemary’s career as a ballet mistress began under Balanchine and continued with Peter—in other words, she’s dealt with some shit. It was like a strong woman who had been beaten down extending a hand to another strong-willed woman who had been freshly killed. Peter was standing now, towering over me, looking expectant. Oh, Jesus. C’mon … he wants me to hug him? I tried to find the will to push aside the disgust I felt from this weird peace offering, to just do it. To hug my boss—my abuser.1
I blurted out, “Thank you, Peter, for this recognition.”
I stuck my arms stiffly out to the side and went in for a hug, but at the last second my body betrayed me. It’s like as I got closer to my boss, I was confronted with an imaginary force field. The attempted hug between us became more like a chest bump between two rivals who were reluctantly attempting a truce. I kind of ricocheted off Peter’s chest and instantly checked myself from laughing at this mutual fail. Taking in Peter’s stiff body language and strained expression of approval, I thought, Yeah, for a guy in his sixties, you are still solidly classified in the “brawny-brute” category, especially when standing directly next to my five-foot-five frame. It was the best I could manage without cracking up in his face. I had won this battle of wills, and he knew it.
“Gina. One more thing.” I stopped cold. Oh, so here comes the axe. Was this a cruel joke? I slowly turned toward him. “Your Carabosse,” he continued. I played the role of the evil fairy in Peter’s version of The Sleeping Beauty, the first in a growing number of character roles that allowed me to channel my complicated emotions into wickedness. “She just seems a little too mean.”
The irony of his statement was not lost on me. At least he got the message. That’s one thing I gotta hand him: Peter is not stupid. For the last two weeks I had been channeling every ounce of anger and angst into my role.
“Okay, I can tone it down.”
The conversation was over; I was reeling from the unexpected twist. I walked out of the office, no longer a member of the corps de ballet but the first Asian American woman soloist in the history of the company. And I had also just agreed to dial back my rage. I headed up to the dressing room to get ready. I had a show in an hour.
Tchaikovsky’s score was swelling grandly, sounding like a celebration. In thirty seconds, I’d be performing for the very first time as a soloist for the New York City Ballet. I rotated roles in this run of Sleeping Beauty, and by a stroke of fate, instead of acting Carabosse, I’d grace the stage tonight dancing the Fairy of Courage. This role was a pleasant departure from my usual rep at City Ballet. I often danced the strong female roles, but this time I was playing a strong female that would require classical ballet technique while wearing a very classical tutu. It was the kind of role I knew I could nail if only given the chance, and finally, my advocacy for myself had come through. Waiting in the wings to go on, Canary Fairy’s theme had started—each tinkling note of her song was like a piece of glass shattering in the ceiling I had been trying to break for years. Now I had my title—I was about to grace that stage as a motherfucking soloist. Canary Fairy hit her last pose and disappeared off into the wings. The orchestra transitioned into Fairy of Courage’s vamp—my energy pulsing, my body ready to soar with each BOMP BOMP. I flew like I had been released from a cage—the conductor and I sharing one heart. I was completely in sync with the rhythm and energy of the orchestra. The same tenacity and grit that freed me from the fist of my boss transformed into power and technical precision … the ultimate badass ballerina combo. The audience was with me for every point and turn, grand jeté, chaîné, and battu. There were a few parts of this variation that had always been a pain in the ass to execute well. Peter’s choreography here was crazy-fast, a by-product of the time-honored tradition of men who choreograph things never taking into account what it would be like to execute the movements en pointe. Female ballerinas always rising to the breakneck challenge for fear of saying, “Hey, can we take it down a notch?” Imagine telling Jesus that while it’s great he turned water into wine, you’d prefer your water be a Syrah blend, not a cabernet. You have a solo, lady. Shut up and twirl. But today those struggles didn’t exist. I was lit. This was my victory dance. The high-octane ninety-second variation was choreographed to impress—it ended with a set of diagonal piqué turns and sauts de basque. This is the kind of shit that seriously wears a ballerina out, but today I had a turbo boost in the form of vindication.
Copyright © 2021 by Georgina Pazcoguin
