“Dear, Wonderful Zack” is what he’d call me. I'd never had such an affectionate nominative before. I was thrilled each time he said it.
I was nineteen and had been in New York for six months. I was on scholarship at the David Howard School of Ballet dancing daily along side such legends as Gelsey Kirkland, Peter Martins, Helgi Tomasson, and even Mikhail Baryshnikov. I had a serious call-back for the Eliot Feld Ballet, but was asked to come back the following season. I had two promising call-backs for “A Chorus Line” on Broadway but was eventually told I was too young for the role (“are you sure you’re only nineteen?”). I rented a disgusting corpse of an apartment in the projects just behind Lincoln Center. It had a detached front door, an inch or two of dirt on the floors, and over-painted cabinets that would no longer close. Money was low and I was depressed. I tried bussing tables at the Lincoln Center Café but could not return for the second day. Prostitution never occurred to me. I needed a job in my profession.
If I hadn’t been feeling desperate, I probably would not have auditioned for the all-male, satirical dance troupe as it did not seem to me a legitimate ballet company. Now, in retrospect, I see Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo was an ideal company for me. It demanded a strong ballet technique, but also theatrical and comedic skills. It toured to more cities and countries than most other ballet companies of that era did. We performed in numerous TV shows, including the Dick Cavett Show, A Shirley MacLaine Special, Real People, That’s Incredible. We danced on Broadway at The Palace. The company’s repertoire included original choreography by Petipa, Fokine, and Nijinsky, so we were perpetuating the bloodline of the Ballets Russes (we were, perhaps, it’s queer little half-sister). And, certainly, the Trocks plays some role in gay history.
Sanson Candelaria was the prima ballerina. He was in his late 30s or early 40s (though he never confided his exact age, not even to me). Sanson’s personal shyness defined him as much as his professional brilliance. He had many stories to illustrate his timidity. One told of how the first time he got applause from his peers in rehearsal with his then Canadian company he ran into the bathroom stall, locked the door, and could not be coaxed out for hours. He came from a crowded Mexican catholic household with eleven siblings. He got little love or positive attention from his busy mother and harsh, unaffectionate father and so he had left home at an early age to dance and live his life as a gay man. He’d danced in several companies, though his opportunities were limited due to his lack of height until he found his place as the Prima Ballerina of the Trockaderos. He blossomed as the mournful Giselle, Princess Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, and his favorite role as the enigmatic creature, Odette, the White Swan in Swan Lake. He bore an uncanny resemblance to the famous Cuban ballerina, Alicia Alonza, with whom he had worked at some point. He captured her pathos, her prowess, and her near-sightedness.
Being shy and easily intimidated myself, it took us a few weeks to start talking to one another. And then, he quickly became the one I wanted to sit next to on planes or buses. We’d laugh about little things. He supported my dreams. He said whatever it was I needed to hear. We nurtured one another. We both loathed confrontation, and found respite and total acceptance in one another. He said he felt safe with me and enjoyed feeling like his protector.
Sometimes we’d go eat rice and beans at a dive on 14th Street, or on sunny afternoons, to La Cantina, a Mexican restaurant on Columbus Avenue at 71st Street. There we’d sit outside sharing a pitcher of Sangria, watching passersby, giddily dishing others in our company, and mocking our own detailed observations. He’d recite personal stories he’d kept bottled up in him and I’d listen and smile in encouragement, delighted to be spoken to by an elder so confidentially. He’d say “My Dear, Wonderful Zack”. At first I thought he was just being glib. But as time went on, as we toured the world, I realized he was quite sincere. We strolled through Central Park arm and arm, while he reminisced and I listened hungrily to his experiences and regrets. After a spell, he’s say, “You can’t really be so interested in my ramblings”, and I would assure him I was. “My Dear, Wonderful Zack”, he’d say.
Eventually he allowed me into his sanctuary, his cozy Cancerian nest of a room in a shared apartment. It was lined with tchotchkes, memorabilia from lands and eras far away. I thought him rather like Laura in the Glass Menagerie (only she had never traveled and he had never stopped). It was after using his toilet once that he taught me about The Courtesy Flush, and to light a match after a good bowel movement. Why had no one ever taught me these things before?
He tweezed his eyebrows, waxed or plucked his sparse facial hair, and always shone of moisturizer. He curled his long lashes and coated them with Vaseline. His hair was naturally curly (I think) and he’d tousle it artfully or put on a cap before going out into his day to avoid the sun’s rays. Sometimes people were not sure if he was a male or female. I, of course, knew that he was a sublime mixture of both. I wished every stranger who sneered at Sanson’s ambiguous appearance could see him on stage in his proper setting!
He showed me where he’d venture in Central Park, an area called the Brambles, one of the most frequented outdoor gay cruising sites in Manhattan. He told me he’d douche, pre-lube, and enter the maze of trees and paths to satisfy his predilection for well -endowed black men. He said he seldom spoke and wanted it kind of rough. I was shocked - but I was impressed with his courage in going after what he knew he wanted!
When we’d finished our tour in Holland, I resigned from the Trocks to dance with the Netherlands Dans Theatre for the summer, but then returned to the company that fall. I quit the Trocks again following our tour in South Africa to join the Cape Town Ballet (then called the CAPAB Ballet). Each choice I made Sanson supported without judgment, never chastising nor ridiculing me. Whenever I’d return to New York, Sanson and I would meet and we’d stroll or drink, catch up and reminisce. At each greeting or parting, or on any card he’d send, he’d reiterate, “My Dear, Wonderful Zack”.
He was a sublime artist - a skilled, unique being that truly brought to life the pathos of the White Swan. And whether a trapped swan, a sickly peasant girl, a Hungarian princess, or a small boy from Mexico, he deserved great respect.
Sanson battled pneumonia on several occasions until it took his breath away. I learned he was forty-seven years old.
His legacy to me is that I love myself more. I can say “Dear, Wonderful Zack”, and I am nurtured.
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