It is crucial now, more than ever, to acknowledge and understand the systemic racism deeply rooted in our world. We must recognize how racism not only deprives people of color of power but also actively contributes to the advantages of white individuals. This isn’t about disregarding white privilege but leveraging it to promote anti-racist ideals. It requires more than just reacting to tragic events; it demands a constant examination of the systems we participate in and an understanding of how prejudice is woven into their very core. For many, this critical examination begins within the Dance Industry.
As a white woman immersed in the dance world, the overrepresentation of dancers who look like me is strikingly evident. My identity is constantly reflected in the narratives presented on stage and in the dancers who bring these stories to life. Statistics reveal a significant disparity: in the United States, approximately 67% of dancers and choreographers are white, while only 16.6% are Black. Dance, as an art form, should be a powerful medium for expressing emotions, transporting audiences, and exploring diverse narratives. However, when the majority of these narratives are shaped and performed by white individuals, people of color can struggle to feel genuinely represented. With white individuals constituting two-thirds of the American dance industry, can we truly expect dance to be a comprehensive art form that resonates with universally shared experiences? Can we expect people of color to feel fully embraced by the dance community when they are underrepresented across various facets of the industry?
Niyah Pratt, a Black dancer with extensive training in the Seattle area since the age of six, embodies this struggle. Her journey includes performances at numerous showcases, attendance at conventions across the West Coast, and a summer program at Debbie Allen Dance Academy. Currently pursuing dance at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, dance is central to Niyah’s life. Yet, her path hasn’t always been marked by acceptance within the dance community. Niyah expresses that “it has always been hard being an African American pursuing dance,” primarily due to the scarcity of people of color in her classes and prominent companies. She recalls, “I didn’t fully know that there were companies other than Alvin Ailey that were started and ran by African Americans until [she] was sixteen.” It wasn’t until her summer intensive at Debbie Allen Dance Academy that she began to discover the rich history of African Americans in dance. Before this pivotal experience, her perception of the dance industry was heavily skewed towards white dancers and their contributions.
Niyah recounts growing up as “one of four African American dancers” at her studio, often leading to feelings of isolation. She has experienced ballet auditions where she was “the only person of color in the whole building.” The feeling of “walking into a room and every girl looking exactly the same except for [her]” is unforgettable. She shares that “having a darker complexion while dancing is mentally challenging.” Being consistently surrounded by predominantly white dancers can foster imposter syndrome among Black dancers, a deep-seated feeling of not belonging. This lack of visibility, acceptance, and representation within the dance industry can discourage people of color from pursuing dance careers, fostering a belief that their race makes them less talented or qualified.
According to Niyah, the challenges of being a Black dancer extend beyond the mental realm to the physical, particularly concerning the limited range of costuming options. Niyah points out that “anything skin-toned or with mesh” often makes Black dancers “feel uncomfortable” because “they are made for someone ‘fair toned.’” The struggle is especially pronounced when shopping for tights, where finding shades that closely match darker skin tones is a persistent issue. Niyah vividly remembers a college faculty show where her ballet teacher pulled her aside to question “why [she] didn’t have skin-colored tights or pointe shoes.” Niyah was perplexed, as she was indeed wearing tights and shoes labeled as “skin tone,” albeit significantly lighter than her own complexion. Her teacher then informed her, “when you have darker skin, you are supposed to wear your tone of tights and shoes when you perform.” Niyah was taken aback, realizing this crucial piece of information had never been shared with her before. This is a conversation that a white dancer would never encounter. As a white dancer, finding “skin toned” tights and shoes that align with my skin tone is effortless. However, for Black dancers, this is not the reality, as “skin tone” in the dance industry and broader society remains overwhelmingly synonymous with “white.”
The dance industry needs to actively dismantle these systemic barriers. True inclusivity requires not only acknowledging the lack of representation but also taking concrete steps to ensure that dancers of color feel seen, valued, and supported at every level. This includes diversifying narratives, providing equitable costuming options, and fostering environments where dancers of all backgrounds can thrive and contribute their unique perspectives to this powerful art form.
