Remembering Sydney King, a pioneering dance teacher who helped Black girls reach their ballet dreams

As a child growing up in the 1940s, I was mesmerized by dance. So one day, when a ballet company performed at my mostly white elementary school in Philadelphia, it was like a dream come true.

I was fascinated by these young dancers, up on their toes, spinning, leaping, and gliding across the stage. Instantly, I knew ballet was something I yearned to partake in, but — and there was a big but — none of the dancers looked like me.

They were pink. Their toe shoes were pink, their tights were pink, their tutus were pink, and, of course, their skin was pink.

That evening, I told my mother about the incredible performance I had seen. She picked up on my disappointment that not one of the dancers was “a colored child,” which was the term most Americans used to describe Black people then. My mother sensed I had found my passion, but didn’t know how to navigate what I thought was the “pink” barrier.

Within a few weeks, my mother, who was trained as a classical pianist, took me to a recital of the Sydney King School of Dance at the old Town Hall performance venue on North Broad Street. I remember walking into the darkened theater and seeing a stage full of “unpink” people who were spinning, leaping, and gliding — and some even had toe shoes on their brown feet. Suddenly, I realized I didn’t have to be pink to be part of this seemingly magical art form.

Within a relatively short time, I was enrolled at the Sydney King School of Dance, located at 711 S. Broad St. As a child, I didn’t realize Black people were barred from attending white dancing schools in Philadelphia at that time.

Nor could I know then that my time with Mrs. King — who died earlier this month at the age of 104 — would allow me and scores of other Black girls to pursue our ballet dreams in a segregated world. What we learned from Mrs. King was much more than ballet. She helped us cultivate an appreciation of Black arts, Black culture, and the unlimited potential of our beautiful Black selves.

Sydney King was born in Jamaica; when she was 6, her family moved to Southwest Philadelphia. She was introduced to ballet by Essie Marie Dorsey, a Black woman who had studied with ballet masters but never had the opportunity to join a white ballet company.

Dorsey had opened a dance studio in her home and was handing out flyers in the neighborhood that offered dance instruction for 50 cents a class. Mrs. King’s mother enrolled her in the Dorsey studio, and there she met fellow students Marion Cuyjet and John Hines — each of whom would become dance luminaries in Philadelphia and beyond.

As Mrs. King told me in a series of conversations and interviews over the years, she continued at the Dorsey school and, while she was a student at West Philadelphia High School, she was accepted into the school’s all-white ballet club, which was rehearsing for a performance as part of the Philadelphia School District’s Schools on Parade event. She was selected because she had been trained by Dorsey to dance en pointe — on the tips of her toes.

What we learned from Mrs. King was much more than ballet.

Mrs. King’s school opened in 1946 and helped collaborate and produce sophisticated ballet performances at the annual Philadelphia Cotillion Society galas. It offered ballet, tap, acrobatics, jazz, and interpretive dance.

Mrs. King and a few of her teachers periodically traveled to New York to take classes at the school of dance pioneer Katherine Dunham. They then offered their interpretation of the Dunham technique, which infused African, Caribbean, and modern dance movements and rhythms. Mrs. King showed her students that they could excel at both mainstream Eurocentric dance and in the rhythms rooted in the richness of our African American ancestors.

I remember one Saturday waiting in the dance studio for my mother to pick me up after my ballet class when I saw a group of Black men coming in carrying huge bags. They sat down, took huge drums from the bags, and started playing rhythms in preparation for an interpretive dance class. In that moment, I realized I was no longer “a colored girl.” I had roots that extended far beyond America.

The exposure to non-European dance opened my path to cultural self-discovery. Possibly because of Mrs. King’s Jamaican heritage, she dared to step beyond the cultural parameters that had effectively severed the connection between Black people in America and their African roots, traditions, and aesthetics.

When I started taking African/Caribbean dance instruction at the school, I was forever changed. Working with Mrs. King fostered my love for the motherland’s culture. I began studying everyday phrases in African languages like Yoruba: pẹlẹ o bawo ni (hello, how are you?), o dabọ (goodbye), and mo dúpé (thank you).

Mrs. King helped her students see that they could excel at both mainstream Eurocentric dance and in the rhythms rooted in the richness of our ancestors. Pioneering dancer and choreographer Arthur Hall found his artistic footing at the school and founded the Afro-American Dance Ensemble while he was a teacher at the school. Scores of former King students are recognized as nationally and internationally celebrated artists, including the late Billy Wilson, a soloist with the Dutch National Ballet and an award-winning Broadway director and choreographer; Carole Johnson, a former lead dancer with the Eleo Pomare Dance Co. and a cofounder of Bangarra, an Australian Aboriginal dance company; Joan Myers Brown, the founder of Philadanco, an internationally respected dance company; Betsy Ann Dickerson, one of the first African American dancers in Radio City Ballet; actress and singer Lola Falana; and dancer and choreographer Richard Moten.

Mrs. King was progressive. She hired instructors from New York to teach advanced classes, and she also offered classes in labanotation — a system for analyzing and recording human movement, invented by choreographer and dancer Rudolf Laban in the 1920s.

At the age of 90, “Miss Sydney” — as we called her — could still be found at the school’s front desk, often clad in a leotard and ballet slippers, signing in students and sharing words of encouragement.

» READ MORE: At 90, dance master still en pointe | Opinion

After a lifetime in the U.S., Mrs. King remained a Jamaican citizen — until 2008, that is, when she decided to apply for U.S. citizenship in order to vote for Barack Obama, who was campaigning to be the nation’s first African American president.

The school closed in 2010, after a series of struggles. Not one to rely on grants, the King school was tuition-based and suffered as the economy tightened in 2008; it had suffered over the years as a result of major renovations of SEPTA’s Market-Frankford El, which reduced access to the school and enrollment. Eventually, changing times, the economy, and Mrs. King’s advanced age overtook the school.

Even without the dance studio, Mrs. King’s passion for dance and arts persisted until she breathed her last breath on Feb. 3.

In her embrace of dance traditions beyond European ballet, Mrs. King made an incalculable artistic and cultural impact on the city — and beyond. She also made an impact on so many little Black girls like me, because — as much as she taught us pliés and pique turns — Mrs. King also put us on a path of cultural self-discovery. Mo dúpé, Miss Sydney.

Karen Warrington, a broadcast journalist and veteran communications professional, is a former lead dancer and choreographer with the Arthur Hall Afro-American Dance Ensemble.