Dance Like Everyone's Watching
Last week, my dance teacher’s college was staging a showcase for students and community members to share their pieces and their passion. My class was invited to perform a ballet variation there, and so that Saturday morning we embarked on an hour-long car ride to the college’s performance center. We went through a rehearsal on the stage, warmed up in an empty studio, finished our hair and makeup, and waited for the
show to start. I could tell you all about the magic of performing in front of an eager crowd, about the thrill of having the music flow through your body, about the way your arms become ripples and your feet become roots - because that was all true and all there that day. But the most important thing I took away from that performance was something else entirely.
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Before I started ballet three years ago, I had only ever danced ethnic Chinese styles. Like a number of my friends, I first enrolled in a dance class at my weekend Chinese school and never looked back. I was an energetic 5 year old at the time, and I loved learning new skills every week. Eventually, I went to a more established studio taught by an accomplished dancer from China. Through the years, I learned traditional dances involving fans, ribbons, handkerchiefs, and long sleeves (like, really long sleeves). It’s difficult to describe Chinese dance, as it encompasses a wide range of traditional styles representing the varied ethnic groups within China. The techniques are nuanced for each different type, especially in hand positions, but share common characteristics to many Western styles - pointed feet, straight legs, and square hips, for example, are key to most dances.
Over the years, I always hated when dance came up in conversation, especially with other dancers. Whenever someone discovered that I danced, I would always be asked, “What type of dance do you do?” I always felt like the answer was presumed to be ballet or jazz or contemporary, and my cheeks always warmed when I mumbled out a quiet “Chinese dance.” So when my studio began to expand and opened classes in a couple of other styles, I jumped at the chance. While I continued to take classes in ethnic styles, I branched out into ballet and tumbling as well. These new classes were challenging yet rewarding, and I enjoyed learning different ways to mold my body. But beyond that, there was something within me that was relieved that I was learning the “right” kind of dance, the kind that other people could understand and relate to. Two years later, I had stopped taking Chinese dance classes altogether.
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The college showcase featured styles of all different types, from ballet and hip hop to ballroom and even Zumba. As a mostly recreational dancer, my few performances were usually for school recitals or other predominantly Chinese events, where the majority of dances were ethnic. This was one of the few opportunities I had to watch a breadth of styles in person, as I was allowed to sit in the wings before I was scheduled to go. I was enthralled by the fluidity and musicality of the contemporary dancers as they glided across the stage, and I grooved along to the upbeat jazz numbers. There was one style, however, that I couldn’t seem to connect with: the Chinese ethnic dance. During the first Chinese dance piece, I found myself zoning out at the slow movements backed by traditional instrumentals that sounded vaguely familiar. I was acutely aware of the fact that the majority of the audience for this showcase was not Chinese, like at most of my other performances, and I felt my heart sink as I realized how boring I found the dance to be. When it finished, however, and the dancers aligned for a final bow, the applause rang out loud and clear. I looked out toward the audience, surprised for a moment, and quickly joined in. When the next Chinese dance came onto stage, I watched carefully. I observed the soft, effortless movements and intricate positions, the quick footwork and colorful costumes, and I remembered why I fell in love with dance in the first place.
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I am a Chinese dancer and I always will be, whether or not I currently dance ethnic styles. The technique and skills that Chinese ethnic classes instilled in me have informed who I am as a dancer and even as a person. There is nothing shameful about learning a style unique to one culture. It’s taken me some time to finally realize a truth as simple as this one. Just the other day, a boy sitting at my math table overheard my conversation about the showcase. He asked me if I danced, and then asked me what kind. I smiled and said, “Ballet right now, but I’ve always done ethnic Chinese dance.”
