I stand in the front of the room and tell people what to do. I’m rarely impressed. And then I star in performances I co-direct. I must seem so full of myself — like I just show up and do my thing, without putting in the grit and mundanity that I supervise.
It’s my own fault. How I bust my butt throughout the week is a closely guarded secret. The ongoing dance classes (ballet, contemporary, sometimes hip hop when I’m feeling brave), the daily (128) kicks and (200-ish) sit-ups at the stroke of midnight (just kidding, but not really — actually, more like 12:30am), the anal self-practice sessions in my basement (“fan shens” with long Chinese silk ribbons for a straight hour, because there’s got to be a way to make it better!)… I can’t bring myself to talk about it in class. Tooting your own your horn is really tacky.
But deep down inside, my heart is screaming to share my pain. Not the physical pain, though there’s that. I’m talking about all the heartache I’ve gone through to be the dancer I am today. (Remember I said I’m rarely impressed? That “dancer I am today” doesn’t impress me either, by the way — a constant source of said heartache.)
I’ve lost out on parts — and jobs — because I’m short. I’ve been told to lose weight. I’ve been told that I’m a slow learner (yes, I went to Stanford but apparently engineering < dance). I wish I could say that I was like pshhhh… And stared stoically ahead. Or laughed it off. (When someone tells you to lose weight and you weigh less than 100 pounds, perhaps that would be the appropriate response.) Or just worked harder like a little soldier. But that would be a big fat lie. The truth? I’ve cried more rivers than I care to admit.
Why am I telling you all of this? Because dance (like life), my friends, is tough. And when I see people slacking off in my class, I wonder if they know what this person, who is always trying to tell them what to do, has gone through to just to be half the dancer I wish I could be. Or if they just assume it’s “talent.” (There’s that, of course. But honestly not much, especially compared to what I see in my students.)
How did I become a professional dancer then? By eating cold dinner in the car after ballet class every night to save time so that I could keep my grades up for my full load of AP/IB classes during high school (my parents’ demand). By spending almost every waking hour not needed for studying in the dance studio while at Stanford. By speed-walking through Times Square while eating a hot dog from a tourist food stand several nights a week to make it to ballet class on time after crunching numbers in a cubicle all day long. By spending my vacation days auditioning for dance companies (thank God for three weeks of paid vacation, my reward for choosing a “practical” major at Stanford!). By basically stalking my dream dance company after I almost got the job — until I actually got the job a year later.
If you talk to any other professional dancer, they’ll almost certainly tell you that the above is nothing. At worst, my ballet school was maybe an hour away with traffic. My Stanford classmate’s ballet school during high school was two hours away, so she not only ate dinner but also did her homework in the car every night. She even stayed over at a friend’s house on Friday nights so that her parents didn’t have to drive her all the way back to ballet early Saturday mornings. If she didn’t keep straight As, her parents would have made her quit. (On the bright side, at least we both had parents who were willing and able to drive us. First world problems!) Most of my NYC dance friends hustled harder than I ever did, waiting tables every night (on their feet after a full day of dancing) while auditioning and taking dance classes (which, until they found a full-time dance job, they had to pay for) throughout the day. I don’t know if I could’ve lived like that, and luckily I never had to try.
But that’s not the worst of it. As dancers, we’re taught to work hard from a young age. I fully expected that to intensify as I transitioned from student to professional. But can you imagine waiting in line for hours at an audition only to dance for a few minutes before being cut — in front of all of your fellow job seekers (who, by the way, as you can see in the mirror, are taller, skinnier, and prettier than you are, and oh…actually majored in Dance)? Can you imagine this scenario repeating itself over and over and over again? I’m fortunate enough to be one who works well under pressure, but the emotional toll of getting lost in a herd of incredible dancers time and time again (they’re called cattle call auditions for a reason) is really, really tough — especially if you really, really, in the deepest of your heart, really want the job.
That I ever got a full-time professional dance job is nothing short of a miracle — or maybe just a testament to my insanity and desperation. The company I eventually got into, Nai-Ni Chen Dance Company (a modern dance company with an Asian flair, led by a former Cloud Gate dancer from Taiwan), has employed many Juilliard Dance graduates and former members of Alvin Ailey and Martha Graham‘s second companies. Nai-Ni once told us that she turned down a dancer only to find out later that the internationally acclaimed Parsons Dance Company hired her just days later. When I auditioned, there were over 80 women competing for 2 spots. This was New York City, so there were dancers from all over the world. One was a member of Paul Taylor‘s second company (I auditioned there too, twice actually — 300-400 women going for one spot, and this girl was the one!). And then there was me, the short, stocky, not-pretty one who majored in engineering and was on “vacation” from her economic consulting job. Mmmhmm. Yours truly!
I didn’t get one of the 2 spots that day. Not even after spending a week of vacation time taking the company’s workshop, or after inviting Nai-Ni to watch me perform Chinese dance. Neither did the girl from Paul Taylor’s second company. We were both invited to the callback audition the following week and made it past all the cuts. At the end of the long day, we were among the final 11 dancers standing. But the dreaded “thanks, but no thanks” email landed in our inboxes a few (agonizing) days later.
There are few things in my life that broke me in the way that this rejection did. There’s nothing like coming inches from your dream but just falling short. I’m too embarrassed to tell you how many teary phone calls I made, how many city blocks I angry-walked, how many hours I spent staring at the East River before I could function like a normal human being again. It was rough. But amazingly, I was not deterred.
Looking back, what I went on to do probably qualifies me as clinically insane and/or a professional stalker. Fortunately, no one ever filed a restraining order against me. Yet. (Just kidding…) When I finally got a job offer from the company almost a year later, one of the dancers told me that Nai-Ni was moved by the great lengths I made to, errr, stalk her company. I googled everything possible. I asked the company dancers endless questions. I went to basically every single show that I could reasonably commute to. And by reasonably commute to, I mean that I traveled from New York City to South Orange, NJ for the company’s annual Chinese New Year show. When I said hi afterwards (as I always did), Nai-Ni’s response was “How did you get here?!” (New Jersey Transit!) I also remember walking over a creepy bridge by myself late at night after watching a performance in Long Island City. It may or may not have been safe, but luckily I didn’t die.
When I first started dancing for the company, I was only offered a part-time position. (Thanks to the lack of income, I can add proctoring practice SAT exams to my list of accomplishments. You should try it sometime. The hardest part was finding the nearest FedEx to mail the completed exams.) Like many of the dancers I read about growing up, I got my big break when one of the senior dancers went down with injury. A little over a week before we left on tour, I was thrown into three dances (i.e. almost half of a two hour program). It was absolutely crazy. I tried to teach myself the choreography in my apartment but was only marginally successful, because much of it had changed since the recording I was given. I was scared out of my mind, knowing that I wouldn’t feel fully prepared and that I was being tested. But somehow it all worked out, and I finally received my first full-time professional dance contract after the senior dancer did not return.
The thing is… Nothing changes when you “make it.” Ok, you get to do what you love for a living. That much changes and is freakin awesome. But sadly, I didn’t magically become a better dancer overnight. (Well, duh… But my naive self sure wish I did!) The same weaknesses and insecurities that I had all along were still there — if anything, they only intensified because my new colleagues were better than any group of people I’d ever danced with and I now had the added pressure of delivering or losing my rice bowl. Literally. And just as I was knocking on the door and ready to pounce when the opportunity arose, I knew there’d always be a steady stream of hungry dancers ready to take my place if I ever were to falter.
So the grit and mundanity — doing things over and over and over again, trying to make them better each time — that has stayed with me for life. There’s just no other way to stay in the game. And as I’ve discovered over the years, it’s actually what keeps dance interesting for me. If everything came easily, what would be the point?
My young dancers, if you were thinking of slacking off today because it’s all about talent, I hope I’ve convinced you to reconsider. Though it may seem like I just stand in front of the room and shout, I feel your pain. I’ve been in your shoes. Hear me out. Dance like every step you take matters, because it absolutely does.
ABOUT THE PHOTO – On tour with the Nai-Ni Chen Dance Company in 2010 at The Baths, Virgin Gorda, British Virgin Islands.