Covin Washington (BFA '27) | Photo by Matt de la Pena

Covin Washington ’27 on Black identity, representation, and finding strength through community in dance.

By Covin Washington ’27

Walking into the studio as a young child, all I felt was love for the form: the structure of class, the beauty and sensation of épaulement rolling gently off my fingertips. Ballet filled my soul with joy, lifting me into the air as I soared alongside my peers. Yet, as soon as my feet returned to the ground, I realized that something set me apart from those who shared the space with me. I was often the only Black dancer in the room, feeling less like the White Swan and more like the Ugly Duckling. As I grew older, the studio became a place of politics, losing the innocence that had drawn me to the barre. 

I began seeking out those in whom I could see myself reflected, allowing them to become mirrors Around the age of twelve, while scrolling through Netflix, I came across the documentary First Position. I was beginning to immerse myself more deeply in the ballet world, searching for any medium that could draw me closer to an art that felt distant. As the minutes passed, I saw what I had come to expect: pink tights, white ballet shoes, dancers molded into an ideal that was never made for me. 

Claiming identity, reclaiming hope

Then, a glimmer of hope appeared in the form of Michaela DePrince. A beautiful Black ballerina who commanded and demanded space that had long been denied her. Her story—emerging as a refugee from Sierra Leone and becoming a dancer, both graceful and powerful—spoke volumes. She transcended boundaries designed to keep Black dancers at bay. Through her journey, the documentary revealed what it truly meant to be a Black ballerina. I learned about pancaking dance wear, dipping tights into tea, and layering coats of foundation to be seen onstage. This representation shifted my understanding of who I could become, not who I was expected to be. Instead of shrinking myself to fit within suffocating confines, I chose to expand, just as Michaela had. 

While I learned to soar onstage, I still found myself tiptoeing through life. Afraid to live fully, afraid to embrace my identity. The spaces I occupied beyond the stage mirrored the studio itself: pale, polished, and never quite meant for me. I carried discomfort with me, once again reaching for something unattainable. Then came a moment that washed away my insecurity and replaced it with confidence.

My grandmother was preparing for a church banquet, and the house pulsed with the sound of Kirk Franklin. She sang freely as she slipped into a sequin gown. She clipped her high ponytail in seconds and stepped into matching heels. Strutting down the hallway, she sang of Franklin’s revolution, entirely unapologetic. She embraced every inch of herself with pride. In that moment, I understood how I must live: boldly, without apology, never shrinking away from who I am. To be myself always, and no one else.

Strength in Black community

Dancing has long brought joy into my life, yet I spent much of that time in spaces where I didn’t feel fully seen. As I walked the halls of the USC Glorya Kaufman School of Dance, it felt like entering an alternate universe. I had never been in a dance space where I could see myself reflected—not only in the people around me, but also in the people instilling knowledge into me. Leaning into the Black community at Kaufman, I found comfort in people like Quincy Wilson, finding a best friend who understood every aspect of me. I leaned into my professors, Ebony Haswell Fraizer and d. Sabela grimes, feeling truly seen for the first time. 

Knowledge as empowerment

This moment came during my sophomore year. I had the privilege of taking African American Dance with Professor grimes, a class that has continued to stimulate my critical thinking skills. When I was introduced to writings by Brenda Dixon Gottschild, such as The Black Dancing Body, I finally found the language I needed to make sense of my position in this field.

For so long, I had wondered what was wrong with me. Why did I feel so isolated from my peers? Why did opportunities continue to pass me by when I had worked so hard? Professor grimes gave me the space to understand that it was never me; it was the structure of the form I participated in. It was not my body that failed ballet, but ballet that failed to expand its imagination. I had been trying to fit in, playing Hole in the Wall, with something that was made in opposition to me. This African American Dance course quieted the voices that told me I was never good enough, the ones that led me away from the thing I loved so deeply. 

Amplifying Black voices

Even through rifts and tension, I am secure in knowing that I have people who truly support my big Black personality. Rather than silencing, they amplify. Each and every one of them is a source of inspiration, drawing me closer to the person I aspire to be. I hold these memories close, allowing them to soften the harsh reality that dancers of color face.

From rooftop cookouts on Hub Figueroa to late-night affairs filled with laughter and pure joy, I am thankful for the space the Black community at Kaufman has created—and for how it continues to radiate through each of us. As I navigate the fleeting time I have at Kaufman, I strive to continue strengthening our voices, to take up more space, and never dwindle in the face of adversity. I am able to do this because of those who came before me, and I will continue to do so for those who will come after.