Every Step You Take (29 page)

Jock Soto

Searching for Stories, Will Travel

T
here is no way that I would have ever considered writing this book at the time that it was suggested. I received a letter proposing a book shortly after my mother had passed away. It had been only a few months since her death, and the only thing on my mind was how I could possibly live without her.

Out of curiosity, I agreed to a meeting at Gelfman Schneider. It was a hot day, and I regrettably decided to ride my bicycle to their Midtown offices from Lincoln Center, where I was between teaching classes. I arrived soaked, wearing bicycle shorts, a tank top, and, consequently, a bad mood.

Someone there had seen the documentary about me and decided there might be more to tell. I wasn't sure I agreed. After some prodding, I politely said I would think about it. And besides, if I felt like writing anything, it would only be as a tribute to my mother.

On my way back to the school, I found myself remembering so much of my past, perhaps exhilarated by the prospect of this project or maybe delirious from the scorching sun. I had a few hours to spare before my next class and was surprised when I had already written thirty pages in the faculty's dressing room. There was more to tell, after all.

A thank-you to my beautiful love and partner and to our hounds, Tristan and Bandit. When you think that love is lost, a miracle can come. I look at him as my true love and my partner in a pas de deux about understanding how you get to share something with someone who is also your best friend. Luis, my love for life, my love for love, thank you for understanding and having the patience to come into my life and loving me through all the hardships and being there to hold me up whenever I need your strength.

When we feel that everything has gone bad, we look at our dogs and think what they could be thinking. It's usually, “Where is my food?” I'm sure. So we cook them a morsel of something that is as great as what we are eating. Why can't a special beast eat what we have the pleasure of having? Dogs only cock their heads and wait for you to give them love or praise. Think about what they do for us: we can't wait to come home to them, and they can't wait to eat and poop. Still, they are the most loyal. My loyalty is to my little family and friends in New York, and I cherish it. It is what I have, and it is what I do.

To my mother and father, Mama Jo and Papa Joe, for the faith and belief in taking a child to ballet class and not thinking it was a waste of time. My beautiful and powerful mother will always be my strength, and my love for her will never die. To my father for driving me for countless hours even when we weren't speaking and for supporting me when I thought I couldn't dance anymore. And now, for taking care of the house that Luis and I built and watching over my mother's fenced-in chosen burial site in New Mexico. To my brother, Kiko, for being the rock when I was growing up—and being my rock to this day—when I needed a bodyguard as I was walked to school, and not being embarrassed when I danced around in parking lots, and letting me put his legs in ballet positions while our family laughed. To Kiko's wife, Deb, for being my mother's strength and helping her through some of the hardest times at the end of her life and for being the sister I never had.

To the Fuentes family for being my extended relatives, and to Mrs. Fuentes for saying that she is my mother, too, and will be always. To my early and inspiring teachers: Kelly Brown, Isabel Brown, Irina Kosmovska, Yvonne Mounsey, and Rosemary Valaire. To my teacher Brian Buckley at the Institute of Culinary Education here in New York after I retired. Going back to school at age forty was a hoot, and I made some great friends out of it. To my teachers at the School of American Ballet, the wonderful and amazing teacher Stanley Williams, Richard Rapp, and Andrei Kramarevsky, who still teaches to this day.

Of course, colossal and undying gratitude to George Balanchine, who invited me to join his company and paved my future. I will always be in awe of his ballets. Every time I see his ballets, something new happens, and that's what keeps anyone who loves ballet inspired. That is enough to keep any teacher going—to pass on what you learn is best. Thanks to Jerome Robbins. He was a perfectionist, and if you didn't deliver it was difficult. That's where patience became even more of a challenge, but when you got it right, it was worth it. Both are geniuses along with Peter Martins, my guide and surrogate father, my friend, my director, and my boss. I was raised in the New York City Ballet, and the trust he and I have for each other will never fade. He gave me so much, and in return I am faithful and grateful. Peter introduced me to so many new ways of partnering and dancing, and we continue to teach, share, and learn. What could be better? So many ballets, so many memories. I teach at the school because of Peter, and I thank him every day for that. My love for him will never die: thank you! His beautiful wife, the last Balanchine ballerina, my colleague Darci Kistler, with whom I teach now and had the pleasure of sharing so many wonderful works. Lots of great moments onstage together, lots of great meals to come. To Wendy Whelan for being Wendy—I loves ya! What an inspiring being and what a treasure to a great company. To Heather Watts for everything you can possibly imagine. To all of the beautiful ballerinas with whom I had the pleasure of dancing! To Kay Mazzo and the School of American Ballet, with which I have made a full circle and where I enjoy teaching every day.

I never would have even considered writing this book if my literary agent, Heather Mitchell, at Gelfman Schneider hadn't talked me into it that hot day. I trust her and respect her opinion. She's also sexy as hell! To Erin Arbuckle, for her generous help with research. To Bob Miller, who at the time planted the seed for the book. To Rakesh Satyal, who is my editor and believed in this book from the first day he read it, and I especially love that he moonlights as a performer!

Finally, I have to thank Leslie Marshall, whose writing and organizational skills surpass everything. She is my best friend, and Luis and I are proud to be godparents to her beautiful children; there are not enough thank-yous for what she had to do as I threw pages her way that I couldn't even read. The endless texts and e-mails that, if I look back on them, make me sound like a lunatic. She knows me better than I know myself. When I said yes to this book, I couldn't think of anyone else who could help me do this. The blood, sweat, and tears she had to endure, listen to, and read must have been enough for a call to a psychiatrist. When making dinner side by side in Bellport we would talk about stories of my past and she would remember every word I said. Meanwhile, I can't remember what I ate yesterday for lunch.

She became me, and at one point when we were all getting ready for bed in Bellport I remember I ran to her bedroom and saw that we were wearing the same turquoise Calvin Klein underwear. I know—weird but true. Leslie, my godsend. My mother would have loved sitting and talking with you. My dreams see the two of you doing what you and I do now. Standing at a counter preparing meals for our families, having a gorgeous glass of wine from one of the bottles Luis has brought. Listening to the crackling of the perfect fire in the fireplace that your husband, Billy, has made. Watching all of our dogs lying around the fire waiting for a treat. The godchildren, Jo, Bea, and Marshall, laughing and playing some board game. Then we go to the beach and have a bonfire while everyone sings along to songs from our past while staring at the stars and the ocean. What could be better than that? Thank you, Leslie. I love you.

Papa Joe with Baby Jock (left) and Kiko (in hat) at the Goldfield Ghost Town in Apache Junction, Arizona. Picture taken by Mama Jo.
(Courtesy of Josephine Towne Soto)

Mama Jo in full regalia, ready to perform the traditional Navajo hoop dance at a powwow. Mama Jo made her costume, and her father, Grandpa Bud, made the hoops.
(Courtesy of the Soto family)

Executing a passé as a student at the Phoenix School of Ballet.
(Courtesy of Josephine Towne Soto)

Performing with a fellow student at the Phoenix School of Ballet in the annual Christmas show.
(Courtesy of the Soto family)

With Papa Joe and Mama Jo on one of our rodeo tours.
(Courtesy of the Soto family)