Every Step You Take

________

Jock Soto

with Leslie Marshall

For Mama Jo and Papa Joe,

for my family all across this beautiful country,

to the love of my life, Luis Fuentes,

and to our two ever-faithful dogs, Tristan and Bandit,

woof
and
arf
back at ya.

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Prelude

C
HAPTER
T
WO

The Sleeping Beauty

Courage and Comfort on the Go

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

Fearful Symmetries

The Sweet Confusion of a Multicultural Identity Crisis

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Papa's Got a Brand-new Name

In Celebration of Finding Fathers

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Saturday Nights and Sunday Picnics in Paradise Valley

The Happy Family Picnic

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Losing Arizona

Ballet-School Banquet in a Bag

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

The Accidental Adult

A Little Hamburger Helper and My Friends

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

First Love, First Job, First Trip, First Tiramisu

Amends for a Terrible Tiramisu

C
HAPTER
N
INE

So You Think You Can Dance?

A Soto Variation on a Balanchine Classic

C
HAPTER
T
EN

The Enigma of Arrival

A Feast for Milestone Moments

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Bright Lights, Dark Passages

Chop till You Drop: A Last-minute Meal for Fifty or More

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Exploring New Country

Christmas Cheer for Orphans and Strays

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Endings Beget Beginnings

Seasoning the Guest List for a Spicy Evening

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

To Everything Turn, Turn, Turn

A New Year's Eve Feast and Dance Party

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Coda

Acknowledgments

Photographic Insert

About the Author

Praise

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

______

The past is part of the present, just as the future is. We exist in time
.

—G
EORGE
B
ALANCHINE

I
will never forget that hot summer day in 2004 when Peter Martins, ballet master in chief for the New York City Ballet, asked me if I would come talk with him about something important. We were in the Saratoga Performing Arts Center, where the NYCB has a visiting performance schedule every summer, and I had just danced a matinee performance of Balanchine's ballet
Stravinsky Violin Concerto
. I was sweaty and tired and had only a few hours before I had to get ready for an evening performance of Balanchine's
Agon
, but I dragged myself upstairs to find Peter in the stuffy little room he uses as his temporary office when the company is in Saratoga Springs.

When I entered the room, Peter—a tall, blond, and very noble Dane—jumped up to greet me with a great big bear hug, as he always does when we meet. For close to a quarter of a century I had been having meetings of this kind with Peter to discuss upcoming performances, and in recent years our respective roles in these meetings had evolved. For the first two decades of my career, Peter had done almost all the talking, strategizing about how I could expand my repertoire and what ballets I might dance, while I listened quietly. But in the last five years I had found myself doing more and more of the talking when we met, updating Peter on the current status of my injuries and ailments and strategizing about what I therefore could
not
dance. I didn't know exactly what Peter wanted to talk about on that particular day, but as I stepped back to take a seat on a sofa in the corner, I could see that Peter was unusually excited about something. As soon as I was seated he delivered his news.

“I have decided on the program for your farewell performance,” Peter announced. “You will dance Balanchine, Robbins, Wheeldon, Martins, and Taylor-Corbett. Five ballets. It will be a first in the history of the NYCB!” he added, waving a finger in the air. “Nobody has ever done this.” My eyes just sort of bulged, and I gave an uneasy giggle. Five ballets? That evening I called my mother in Santa Fe and said, “Mom, I believe Peter wants to kill me when I retire.”

The physical challenges of the program Peter described to me on that summer day in Saratoga were definitely daunting. But what probably hit me harder was the emotional shock of hearing him pronounce the actual ballets and confirm the exact date—June 19, 2005—for the program that would be my very last performance as a principal dancer with the New York City Ballet. The decision to retire had been mine, and I was confident that the time was right. But dancing was all I had ever done in life. I had started at age three when I performed ceremonial dances with my Native American mother on the Navajo Reservation in Arizona, where my family lived. At age five I began my formal ballet training in Phoenix; at age thirteen I moved to New York to attend the School of American Ballet, the famous ballet institution founded in 1934 by the philanthropist Lincoln Kirstein and the legendary dancer and choreographer George Balanchine; when I was sixteen Balanchine invited me to join the New York City Ballet, and I had been dancing there ever since. I was closing in on forty, and the only thing I had ever done—literally for as much as eleven or twelve hours a day, six days a week, for my entire life—was about to end. Just like that, after one last performance, on June 19, 2005.

At some point every professional dancer has to make the difficult decision to stop performing, and for me this decision had come after nearly a decade of the escalating injuries and joint pain that inevitably come with advancing age. A few months before my meeting with Peter in Saratoga Springs, I had plunked myself down on the red leather sofa in Peter's office at Lincoln Center and announced my decision to retire. I wanted to step offstage voluntarily while I was still strong, with a positive plan for the next phase of my life. I didn't want someone to have to tell me it was time to go—or, even worse, read about it in the newspaper, or overhear someone whispering about it in the hallways. I had picked the age of forty as my deadline, and I was going to stick to it. I knew it was time. But as Peter rattled off those names on that hot summer day—Balanchine, Robbins, Wheeldon, Martins, and Taylor-Corbett—everything suddenly seemed so real and so final. Five beautiful ballets—and then nothing. The process seemed as sudden and irreversible as a violent death.

The good news was that I had almost a full year to get used to the idea of retirement and to condition and strengthen my body for the marathon dance feat Peter had described. The bad news was that this gave me a nice long time to be anxious and worried about everything. What if an injury knocked me out and there was no farewell performance? What if I collapsed halfway through? What if nobody came?

Something else had begun weighing heavily on me that same year. In 2003 my mother had been diagnosed with colon cancer, and her treatment was not going well. She had had two operations already, and new tumors kept being discovered. The realization that she might not necessarily live forever had shocked me, and for the first time I was thinking back over the choices I had made thus far in my life, wondering if I might have made some mistakes.

I started life on the same reservation in Arizona where my mother—a full-blooded Native American—had been born and raised, and I spent the first twelve years of my life in the Southwest with my parents and my older brother, Kiko. But by the age of fourteen I was living on my own in New York City, pursuing my dream to become a great dancer. I had a full scholarship as a student at the School of American Ballet (SAB)—and nothing else. Housing, food, education—the basic foundations of a normal teenager's life—had not been put in place for me, but I didn't care. I was happy to improvise on these fronts. All I wanted in life was to dance.

I never did live with my parents and older brother again. In fact, for almost three decades I rarely saw them. After learning about my mother's illness in 2003, haunted by the thought of the many years I had missed being with my family, I began spending any vacation time I had with my parents. At the time, they were living outside Santa Fe, in a trailer situated on the grounds of the fenced-in A-1 Self Storage facility that they were managing. Whenever I was visiting we would close the gates at 5:00 p.m., locking ourselves inside the storage facility for the night, and then our evening ritual would begin. My father, who is a full-blooded,
muy
macho Puerto Rican, would watch his television (at very high volume, almost always tuned to either a war movie or a news segment about war); I would make myself an evening cocktail and begin to cook our dinner; and my beautiful Navajo princess of a mother would regale me with stories about my Native American heritage.

“The most important thing in life is family,” Mom kept saying to me, over and over during the course of my visits. I would nod, and do my best to listen and absorb what she was saying as I continued to cook. At a certain point—and in large part to reassure my mother that I was doing my best to preserve these stories about our heritage—I began working with a filmmaker named Gwendolen Cates on a documentary that would trace our family background and my career in dance.

Making the documentary proved to be engaging in ways I hadn't expected—for the first time I was pausing to look backward at my childhood and my family history. But the project also added to my anxieties during the final days with the NYCB in ways I hadn't anticipated. For starters, making a film is time-consuming, complicated, and expensive. And then there was this other troubling obstacle the process of making the film had unearthed: a huge wall of resistance inside me. The truth was, I wasn't sure I really wanted to examine my Navajo
or
my Puerto Rican “roots.” I had worked so hard to leave those worlds behind, and I didn't want to go back. I wanted to move forward into a future for which I was already making very specific plans. In 2003 I had met a dashing sommelier and chef, Luis Fuentes, and I was excited about our life together. I have always loved to cook, and Luis and I had dreams of starting a catering business or a restaurant someday. I was determined to hit the ground running when I retired, and at Luis's suggestion I enrolled at the Institute of Culinary Education for classes that started the day after my final performance. I wasn't going to miss a beat. I was going to orchestrate every detail of my retirement methodically, as I might rehearse the intricate movements of the most complex ballet, reviewing every step, over and over, until the process of transition from principal dancer to ex-dancer had been loaded right into my flesh and bones—a fluid series of movements internalized by my body, no longer thought about but simply performed. One day dancer, next day not. No big deal. Pass the salt.