From a young age, the world of dance captivated me. My earliest memory in a dance classroom involves me, at the tender age of five, joyfully skipping around, brandishing purple ribbons attached to a chopstick. While the other girls in class were dressed in the traditional pink leotards and tutus, I, for reasons I can only attribute to being the teacher’s pet, was allowed to wear my beloved rainbow swimsuit. This early experience, though unconventional, sparked a lifelong love for movement and expression.
A few years later, at nine years old, my mother enrolled me in more structured dance classes. This wasn’t a focused study in one style, but rather a diverse mix of Chinese ethnic dance, folk dance, ballet, and even tumbling. While I didn’t gain deep expertise in any single discipline, the sheer variety was exhilarating. For me, the simple joy of having dance shoes and music was more than enough. It was during this time that my passion for dance began to truly blossom.
My initial opportunities to perform were at local community events. Weekends were often spent with friends, presenting our repertoire of mini-performances at fairs and parades. We enthusiastically dressed up as flute-playing fairies, playfully battled imaginary foes with collapsible swords, and confidently showcased our (sometimes less than perfect) cartwheels, all while the iconic Wong Fei Hong martial arts theme song played. My mother, beaming with pride, affectionately nicknamed us “馬路天使,” or “The Angels in the Streets.” These experiences, though small, were incredibly formative, building my confidence and solidifying my love for performing.
Dance quickly transitioned from a hobby to a full-blown obsession. It became an irrepressible urge, an itch that constantly needed to be scratched. I found myself subtly incorporating dance movements into my daily life – twirling my hands in the school lunch line, prancing around the living room when math problems became frustrating, and even attempting pirouettes in the quiet aisles of supermarkets, only stopping if an employee gave me a questioning glance. Looking back, it’s almost comical how completely dance consumed me, perhaps even bordering on being diagnosed as some sort of “dance disorder.”
This burgeoning passion soon grew from a simple desire into an insatiable hunger. I pleaded with my mother for more dance classes, but she remained firm. In my youthful frustration, I told myself, “She’s just being a typical Asian parent,” assuming she was prioritizing saving for my future college education.
However, her reasoning was more nuanced. She explained that dabbling in a mix of dance styles wouldn’t lead to significant progress in any one area. Instead, she wanted me to focus on learning classical Chinese Dance – a dance form completely new to me. She was determined to find a professional instructor who could teach me this art form from the very foundations.
“Classical Chinese dance?” I thought skeptically, “What’s so special about that? It probably just looks like Peking Opera… Why does she have to be so particular?”
But my mother was particular, especially when it came to things that clashed with her traditional worldview. A frown would appear on her face whenever she caught me listening to rock music. She held a clear aversion to instant messaging, video games, and modern art. Furthermore, she consistently rejected my pleas to drop out of Chinese school. Our disagreements often culminated in her well-rehearsed lecture about the dangers of becoming a “banana”—yellow on the outside, white on the inside—and losing touch with my Chinese heritage. To me, being “Chinese” was simply a descriptor of my ancestry. But for her, it represented a wealth of cultural values, and she hoped I would grow up embracing the same morals and dignity as our ancestors. She actively sought opportunities to educate me about this heritage, through captivating short stories, wise proverbs, and the beauty of the arts.
I vividly remember the first time she took me to see Shen Yun Performing Arts. It was then that I truly experienced traditional Chinese dance for the first time. The performance captivated me for weeks afterward. My biggest aspiration became to study at Fei Tian Academy of the Arts, the prestigious private school in New York whose exceptionally talented students are selected to tour with Shen Yun. There, I could immerse myself in classical Chinese dance under the guidance of world-class instructors, and perhaps, one day, have the opportunity to perform on stage myself.
Fei Tian was renowned for its dedication to fostering Chinese culture and classical Chinese dance, but my mother knew that sending me there would be a significant challenge. The biggest hurdle was my father, the man who had patiently taught me my ABCs and 123s. He viewed dance as an impractical pursuit, a waste of valuable time, and was naturally reluctant to let his thirteen-year-old daughter move so far away. Countless nights, I lay awake in bed, tears welling up as my parents’ voices echoed from downstairs, locked in intense discussions about my future. Changing my father’s deeply held beliefs seemed almost impossible. Yet, my mother never wavered. I will never forget the determined glint in her eyes as she promised me that, somehow, she would convince my father that pursuing my dream was worth every sacrifice.
And I still recall the moment she asked if I would be homesick, and how quickly I dismissed the idea with a scoff, even though a part of me wished she could come with me. This was the same mother who never allowed me to shop alone and would become anxious if she couldn’t see me in a parking lot. And yet, she was ready to send me thousands of miles away from home to pursue my passion for Chinese dance.
