I'm in college now...

... so I no longer have to keep this hidden away. Voilà, my dears, my college essay~! Raw and exactly how I sent it. It's not Pulitzer Prize winning material, but it is me. Simply for the sake of posterity.

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My dance teacher scares the living daylights out of me sometimes. I mean this in the most literal way possible. You would wet your pants too if while performing abroad, you walked into your hotel room at midnight, only to find your teacher standing zombie-like in the closet, her waist-length hair shrouding her face like Samara from The Ring, staring at you ominously from under a crinkly white facial mask.

I suppose it isn’t fair to leave you with a description of Mimi that likens her to the villain of a perversely corrupted Japanese horror film. “Dictator” is another word we’ve used in jest, for she is the sovereign leader of the tiny kingdom of New Jersey Youth Asian Dance and Drum Troupe. Every Saturday afternoon, we can be found running circles around the studio in minuscule Chinese steps, our calves cramping, with sweat dripping down our backs. Mimi stands there, a four-foot-ten figure in five inch wedges, ebony hair cascading down her back. The music swells to a climax, bamboo flutes and erhu strings showcasing their own intricate dance through and about the notes of the Chinese piano; all of a sudden, the melody of the flute is cut short, interjected with a screech. “Aiyah! You all too stiff! The back of a Chinese girl is soft like a willow branch, not like a mu ban, a wooden board!” Wearily, we wait to hear the words we know are coming, words that we long for, yet despise for the false hope they inspire: “One more time!” All the girls exchange glances, our crooked smiles hinting at an air of familiar acceptance for this false promise. For me, those three little words from Mimi have become a mantra of sorts, the backbone to my own teaching philosophy.

The first time Mimi singled me out to dance for the class, I was terrified that my movements would be labeled as the “do not imitate” model. When she saw me shrink away, she said, “You should be happy if I pick on you, because it means that you have potential.” After stumbling my way through three minutes of pure trepidation, I was hardly surprised when she looked at me evenly and said, “One more time.” Over the years, this repeated conditioning has rendered me immune to the horrors of the stage. Instead of shying away, I welcome my teacher’s scrutiny because I have realized that criticism means that success is within reach.

For almost four years, I have spent my Saturday mornings trying to transform my local Chinese school’s Generation Z into a collective of graceful, fan-wielding, classical Chinese ladies. Alas, the battle has not been easy. Lately, I have noticed that I have been channeling my teacher by saying, “One more time!” quite frequently. I never thought that I would become the one to give out false promises seven times a class, but I can see how my students’ stiffness and hesitation have faded a little more through simple repetition, their smiles slowly losing their forced, fake quality.

Now, when I hear Mimi say, “One more time!”, I bite my lip to keep from laughing (or groaning), and lock eyes with the others in the mirror. Even now, I cannot pretend that hearing this does not inspire me to just plop on a floor and eat cake all day. Despite this natural laziness, I know that with each echo of this recycled phrase, my teacher has helped me fortify my walls of strength and poise until I have become a castle, standing strong in the kingdom over which she presides. As a fellow teacher, I can only pass down what I have learned and hope that one day, a former student will use those same words to encourage another child in the truest eclectic fashion.