Part 2: An Open Letter to the Stage

Unpacking My Relationship with Dance (a series)

To all the stages I've danced on:

Hello. We've had a rather tumultuous relationship throughout these twelve years, but I'm finally starting to like you a little bit. I never thought we'd get to the point where I missed being around you or when I was comfortable enough to be my truest, rawest self with you, but I suppose people change. I changed.

I have a video of us when I was five years old, and I'm prancing around to some upbeat Chinese song that, to this day, I don't understand. There's a part where I quickly brush my hair away from my face as I run to the next formation, and I can't help but laugh at the informality and utter indifference I had towards you. I wish I could remember that five-year-old mindset where performing for my parents in the studio and performing under blinding spotlights felt the same, but my memory fails me in that respect.

Instead, I most strongly remember our relationship when I started to compete in competitions. In specific, when I competed en pointe. No matter how much I practiced during open stage, we always clashed when it mattered. I could do eight pirouettes in front of a mirror, but doing a triple with you somehow took all the strength out of my feet. When I waited in the wings before my number was called, I could hear the thudding of my heartbeat, the shallow breaths that were going in and out far too quickly.

We had a toxic relationship back then, you and me. There are so many reasons to perform onstage: to display the efforts of all your time and practice, to hear the applause from the audience, simply to enjoy the feeling of dancing. I didn't dance for any of those reasons. I had much different ones, and they tore away at the strings of mental and emotional sanity that tied me together (more on that in a different article). I desperately willed every second we spent together to pass by faster, and the attention I should've given to you was delegated to scanning the audience. I still remember the pink beret atop a judge's head at YAGP that occupied my thoughts while muscle memory mechanically moved my limbs.

Of course, we had some good memories during that period too. The first pas de deux I performed (Esmeralda, what else?) was one of the few times I've felt at ease around you. Admittedly, not for the right reasons, but it was a step in the right direction. It was my first time dancing with a professional dancer, a company member from Houston Ballet at the time.

Baby me and Zecheng Liang (current principal with Pennsylvania Ballet) 4 years ago!

Before stepping onstage, I felt oddly relaxed. If I messed up, I reasoned, it would be much less disastrous than if he did, since he danced for a living. There were lower stakes for me, and because of that, I didn't mess up at all.

For the next few years, our relationship went back to normal, or as normal as "toxic" could be. I came to expect at least one mistake in every performance and the frustrated look in my teacher's eyes. It frustrated both of us to no end, the way my quality of dancing shrunk in the spotlight. Even if no obvious mistakes were made, it was obvious to those who knew me that every step seemed smaller and that the stage overshadowed my presence in a way the studio never did.

I finally cut things off between us after my last competition, the Beijing International Ballet and Choreography Competition. My final round went, well...horribly, for lack of a better term. It was a combination of things that left me tired and impatient before going onstage: practicing all day until 10 PM, accidentally falling asleep and not warming up properly, and spending all my time in the company of others. But in all honesty, the indifference and dislike I had towards you during those two minutes was strongest it's ever been, and that was the main reason I knew we needed a break.

...oops.

Since then, I've only performed for my own enjoyment. My high school's international night, a small concert at Georgia Tech where I choreographed an excerpt to Carmen, my dance school's performances at the Infinite Energy Center. In the beginning, I only ever came to class when I wanted to. My technique fell behind and my stamina slackened, but inevitably, the choice brought back a passion that'd been missing for years.

Performing for my high school friends was something I hadn't done since my 5th grade talent show, and I had long stopped choreographing in summer camps once actual choreographers came to teach contemporary pieces for competitions. These opportunities gave me a reason to go to class again, and I had a new willpower – no, a why-power – to bring my inactive muscles back into shape.

Last weekend, I finally came back to you. The Coppelia performance had all the potential to turn out like a disastrous competition, but it didn't. The twelve hours, although grueling, felt somewhat like a mindfulness ritual. My 9 AM barre class provided a sense of normalcy to start off the whole day, and I savored the silence that accompanied it. On a normal competition day, I listen to music to tune out the other competitors and coaches, but I wanted to tune in to myself this time.

I carefully managed my time between the cheerful, loud room where my friends and I shared makeup supplies and the quiet male dressing room occupied only by one or two people. We all have different ways of preparing for a performance, and I've finally come to realize that mine doesn't need to involve jamming out to upbeat pop music. What I did do was spend time talking to my partner, asking about stage fright and nerves. I told him about my chronic, irrational fear of doing turns onstage, but all he said was:

"Steps are just steps. They're not the whole performance."

I was baffled. Yes, I've made giant strides in artistry and character portrayal, but I've always considered technique the main obstacle to overcome onstage. Without nailing the iconic pirouettes I was so famous for in my studio, how could my performance be anything to remember?

He told me how everyone has nerves, whether they're introverted or not, but competitions are, and always have been, about mental strength. He told me how, at 26 years old, he treats every performance as if it were his last. An injury can happen in a split second, but they can irrevocably alter the course of one's life. For me, these performances with Morningstar Dance Academy were most likely my last.

But over this week, I've realized that every performance is its "last" in its own unique manner. There will be no other performance where ten of my high school friends sit in those exact seats, no other time that Swanhilda will pierce Franz with such a disgusted glare as he dances with another girl. The balance I held in Act III, it happened for a singular moment in history, and it will never happen again at that time, on that stage.

*Note: A picture of that balance would've been put here, but Chunwai didn't like how he looked. Sad. :(

I can say without a doubt that performing this weekend was the most fun it's ever been. The memories of my partner cheekily whispering "nice chassée" to me onstage (a step that was certainly not meant to be a chassée), running around to take selfies in our costumes, and running back and forth between backstage and dressing room to get rosin will always be treasured in my heart.

Here's a pic of one of those backstage selfies though!

I really do need to thank my partner, Chun Wai Chan, for infusing me with such giddiness and positivity that day. It was a change to not be pacing nervously backstage before an entrance, but I can say without a doubt that the backstage fun made the onstage portions so much more carefree and enjoyable.

After all, he said, "Have fun!" right before our pas de deux, and I truly, truly did.