Interview by Eldee Eyimife, AGMA Communications Coordinator
One of Isichel J. Peréz Rivero’s earliest memories is running across the street to his neighbor’s house to dance. As a six-year-old growing up in Cuba, dancing to Elvis and Celia Cruz on his neighbor’s stereo became a core memory, cementing dance’s role in his life.
“Dance has always been such a part of me and my culture, to the point that it felt spiritual. In Cuba, I even studied many Yoruba Orisha dances, an Afro-Cuban dance style where you dance as an offering to your god. I never have the words to describe what dance means to me, but it always feels like something beyond me,” Isichel explains. “Dance has also been my safe place, a safe bubble no matter what was going on in my world. It has shown me so much of the world, and I don’t know how I would have seen it without dance.”
Isichel’s love and drive for dance have always pushed him to go the extra mile. At seven, he begged his grandparents to let him take ballet lessons, and when his grandfather insisted on enrolling him in Taekwondo, he forged his grandmother’s signature so he could attend ballet classes without them knowing. Life and circumstances moved him around a bit, from Cuba to Mexico, then to the U.S., but ballet found him again during his senior year of high school, when he arrived 30 minutes early for Flamenco practice and caught the last half of the ballet class at the studio.
“The teacher noticed me looking through the window with wide eyes and asked if I wanted to take the class, mentioning that it was free. I was so excited to take ballet classes again that I responded before she finished talking,” he says with a laugh.
As he approached his high school graduation, he still had no idea what career to pursue; all he knew was he wanted to continue dancing. Knowing it was his passion, a teacher talked to him about auditioning for a ballet school, an option he hadn’t considered until she gave him the push.
“Coming from an immigrant family, I had no money for ballet school or to move across the country. But I was encouraged; I kept going, adding more hours of training to perfect my technique. I made an audition video for Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet (CPYB) and graduated not knowing if I’d get in,” he notes. “I was 17, and I told my mom, ‘If I pass this audition, you have to let me go. If not, I will leave once I turn 18 and you will never see me again.’ Those were the lengths I was willing to go to. Thankfully, when I got accepted, my mom agreed, and I moved to Carlisle, Pennsylvania, with nothing but a suitcase, a backpack, and a lot of passion.”
Isichel’s resolve was tested from time to time, but he knew a career in dance required hard work and sacrifice. He trained and pushed his physical limits nearly 10 hours a day, went home, and fell asleep. In between, he worked as a cashier at Walmart, then biked back to the studio. That was his routine for 3 years.
“Starting later in life felt like trying to catch a full-speed train, but the resilience of my culture has pushed me forward in moments when life feels like it’s testing me or my career. On painful days, when there wasn’t enough money for food, I told myself it was fine; I’d had my training, I’d had rice and beans, and I could push on. My Cuban heritage has always been a wind beneath my wings, telling me to keep going,” he shares.
Early in his career, Isichel often found himself the only Cuban in the room, and he felt that carried a responsibility. As an immigrant, he saw himself as someone who could open the door for whoever came next, and he wanted to be an example that made space for people like him in the company or school after him. But as the years went on, he realized he was trying to blend in and adjust to industry standards, which, in a way, meant diminishing his heritage. He watched how the people around him acted, and in rooms full of people who were not like him, he found himself tucking away the parts of himself that felt most Cuban. He knows how strong that pull can be; his advice to other immigrants tempted to make themselves smaller is to do the opposite:
“Being on stage is our own way of protest. We’re in these spaces, we’re on stage, and that’s how we say we belong as people. It’s the most beautiful way to protest what’s happening around us. You have to represent your culture up there and show that there are many sides to a person, not just the color of their skin and where they come from.”
Now a dancer with Ballet Idaho, Isichel is in his fifth year as an AGMA member and still leans on the philosophy of showing up authentically on stage and fighting for your seat at the table.
“That’s part of my culture too…fighting for what you want, not being okay with what’s going on, and doing something about it. My culture has taught me how to move forward, be brave, and enjoy life… because we don’t know how short it’s going to be.”