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RADIO COMMENTARIES THE sepia-color photograph of my grandmother Rose on the stage of the RKO Orpheum Theater reminds me of the dream: I wanted to be a dancer. Rose and my Aunt Laurita were part of a chorusline. But I wanted to be a ballerina. At six years old, I would tuck the tail of my skirt inside my panties and tiptoe around the room or leap across the floor. I moved to the music inside my head. It was a foolish dream. That may have been why my friends Marilyn and her sister Darlene took up tap dancing. We all knew colored girls weren't accepted in the corps de ballet to dance Swan Lake or The Nutcracker. At 12 years old, I fully embraced the reality of my segreated life. I abandoned my love affair with tutus, piourettes, and images of myself in a pas de deux. By the time Arthur Mitchel opened the Dance Theater of Harlem's Ballet School in 1969, I had already graduated high school. It didn't matter to me that I wouldn't benefit from his efforts to rearrange the thinking of white--and black--America about who could and couldn't perform the timeless art of ballet. I was content to know other young girls would not have to endure the heartache I did. For generations, young black and brown girls would have their chance to be prima ballerinas or dance the lead role in, say, Sleeping Beauty. But in October, Mitchell was forced to close his school. It had been having financial problems. Dozens of young girls and boys were turned away at the door when they came to class, leaving they and their parents wondering where to go. Fortunately, Mitchell created generations of talented dancers, like Fabian Barnes who more than a decade ago opened his Dance Institute of Washington in the nation's capital. Still, there aren't nearly enough programs reaching out to young black and brown children to teach them the discipline, the sacrifice, and the pleasures of ballet. And so, some little girl is likely to be left as I was: wanting to dance, but finding no place at the barre.
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