Dirty Desires: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

“How long did you do this?”

“For a week, and then I passed out and my roommate found me. They had to take me to the hospital. I had a rash all over my back and shoulders. My skin peeled all along my legs and ankles.” My hands trembled. “I began losing my skin—my own lovely dark brown skin. It was in that moment, when I became brokenhearted. That’s when I loved the color the most, right when I was going to lose it all.”

Mrs. Anderson jotted down everything I said, giving me a sad look every few words that she wrote. “And no more skin bleaching?”

The head of the academy had called my grandmother and let her know about the skin bleaching and hospital trip. I’d been mortified. She’d cried on the phone and begged me to come home.

“Don’t you let those white people make you think you’re ugly.”

“I know grandma.”

“They’re jealous of you, baby.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t hurt me, Ava. You hurt yourself and it breaks my heart. I should’ve been there.”

“No, grandma.”

“I should be there. I thought this was a good thing—”

“It is.”

“They’re hurting you.”

“I let them. I won’t anymore.”

I raised my hand to the diamond Misha had given me and twisted it between my finger.

“Will I bleach my skin again?” I repeated her question. “Never. I would rather go out in the sun and tan. Get as dark as I can. There’s no secret that when most think, historically, about ballet, it’s not a slew of black and brown faces on the stage.” I smiled. “But that doesn’t mean black girls haven’t dreamed of tying up powder pink slippers and stretching their little bodies into graceful angles. I’m here for me, and I’m here for them.”

And everyone else can go suck it.

Once I got over resenting my skin color, things began to look up. I focused on my talent, verses my looks. I gave them my all, instead of trying to give them what they thought I should be. I stayed real to who I was and let them know that they could take or leave it.

Granted, through all that stuff, I was truly a coward. I never made an official complaint, unsure if it would do any good. And I didn’t want to be the one weak, whining person in such a competitive environment. I stayed quiet, but in some ways I believed I remained strong too.

I worked my ass off.

Years later in St. Petersburg, the company and choreographers had given me their respect, whether they wanted to or not. They took a chance, starting me off with tiny roles to not cause dismay among the audience or investors.

What did they think would happen? Did they believe people would stand up, and run out of the theater if they saw a black woman on stage?

The ballet world and casting process was full of politics, including the perception that one couldn’t have a black dancer on stage because it changed the look, the scenery, and even the costumes that were chosen to create a specific visual effect. Only God knew if any of that was true, or if those things only existed among ignorant minds.

But they let me dance on that stage, and I put every last bit of my soul into every moment. I didn’t care if all I did, was two leaps and a turn for just thirty seconds. I made sure those thirty seconds were the best moment of the entire ballet. Instead of leaping in the air a few feet, I practiced every night to lift up a foot higher.

If they wanted me to turn, I did it better than anyone else could in the world.

Once, O had woken up at three in the morning. She’d come into the living room as I twirled over and over.

Yawning, O rubbed her eyes. “What are you doing?”

I got on my toes and turned. “Practicing.”

“You’ll barely be on stage.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I turned again. “Everyone will remember me no matter how short it is.”

Shaking her head, O went back to sleep.

I continued to

turn

and turn

and turn

until the sun came up

and my toes were sore

and my calves ached.

And I went on stage and did my best.

I danced for me.

I turned for my grandmother.

I leaped for all the future black and brown girls who would put on ballet shoes.

And unlike what the company thought, no one ever complained. A few times, the crowds roared when I came out with the others. A few St. Petersburg entertainment reporters began writing about me, begging the company to keep me on stage longer.

I even gained a little fan group. They’d started a Facebook page. I joined. During off days, I would come on to talk to them, loving that some people had noticed me.

And so, the directors put me out a little more and a little more with each show. And still they waited for complaints to come or money to be withdrawn from the company. Instead, more seats began to fill, and patrons like Misha came on board, praising me.