Excerpt from Dances by Nicole Cuffy, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Kaz, NYCB's artistic director, took an interest in me early. He would slip into a class of young dancers, study us with his trademark stare. And he'd stop in front of me, watching me up close, very rarely offering a correction—only looking. To have Kaz's eye on you was like an anointment, his very gaze material, an investiture. His fascination with me was unnerving, terrifying. His visits to classes were unpredictable. I never knew when he would be watching me, and so I had to constantly be perfect, beautiful. I was the only Black face in a sea of white and tan; I could not be anything but visible.

The pressure was enormous. I couldn't have a bad turn day, or a fat day, when, no matter which clothes I wore, which mirror I checked, which angle I viewed myself from, all I saw was my body taking up too much space. When my knee started to ache, I couldn't sit out for the big jumps at the end of class. I was a brick-brown kid from Brooklyn. There were people around me—students and faculty alike—waiting for proof that I couldn't be graceful, that I was too heavy, too muscular, that my feet were too big, too flat, that I wasn't classical. Ballet has always been about the body. The white body, specifically. So they watched my Black body, waited for it to confirm their prejudices, grew ever more anxious as it failed to do so, again and again.

I mark the little flourishes, the movement phases with my hands and feet, and then my body knows what to do. This has always been a skill of mine, remembering. I have been doing this routine—or variations thereof—every day for seventeen years. It is as ingrained in me as the movements required for tying my ribbons. I don't have to think about it. Instead, I return to a favorite daydream of mine: I see the curtains rising, and the violin concerto is inflating, an orchestral bubble, and I can never work out whether it is I who appears first or my brother. Dwelling on Paul is a precious and carefully rationed indulgence. I just want him to see me now.

Excerpted from Dances by Nicole Cuffy. Copyright © 2023 by Nicole Cuffy. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.