Tag: dance

To dance with my father again

Many tragedies have already occurred this year – both in my personal realm and out in the larger realms of this country and the world. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring, and I try to celebrate my family every day (even from afar): steeping myself in gratitude for their love and hope for their well-being. This Sunday is Father’s Day, which always falls on or close to my birthday.

* * *

When my sister and I were kids, my mom would give us pots and pans to bang on like drums. In the living room we had free reign to hold big spoons up like microphones and giggle while shaking our little behinds. Mom would laugh, telling us how we were so good at “扭屁股” as toddlers.

My father listened to all the songs you’d expect a dad from his generation to listen to. I remember groaning in the mornings when I’d hear Broadway musical songs start blasting through the thin walls. I’d cover my ears, fully knowing that this was his subtle morning wake up call. He always preferred to have Rodgers and Hammerstein take the heat of a teenager’s wrath at getting up early. As a side effect, I learned all the lyrics to “The King and I,” “Sound of Music,” and “Fiddler on the Roof.” He would put Peter, Paul and Mary cassette tapes on repeat, and he made us attend guitar classes to learn folk songs.

Yet there was always a chasm that I couldn’t cross to get close to him: the stereotypical strict and stoic “Asian dad” that sternly directed me to the collection of World Book Encyclopedias rather than answer my questions himself. Like the way he placed Broadway musical songs in between us and him, I felt that he wedged his career in there too. In lieu of “I love you,” he would declare variations of “Go study harder.” I was terrified of him, not because he was mean, but because he was always the strong, strict silent type. And I wanted to be perfect for him, I never wanted to let him down. I thought that you were supposed to be terrified of your dad. Maybe as a kid that’s the only way you know how to feel when you’re in awe.

He always worked incredibly hard to help the people around him. I didn’t see him as much as I hoped because he’d often leave for work before I woke up and return after I had already gone to bed.

A few years ago I went to a restaurant in Houston’s Chinatown for lunch. The restaurant owner came up to our table and started chatting with me in Mandarin. When he found out the name of my father he bowed to me out of respect. I stood there in shock. Because I rarely interacted with my father outside of his strict requests for me to behave or do better in school, I was unspeakably moved at how revered my father is in his community; like a king, even.

So one of my fondest memories is a big cliché, but it’s a cliché because it matters. Though he often spent more hours at the office than at home, I remember the few occasions during which he would put my tiny toddler feet on his feet to dance around the living room, and sing in a Sinatra-like voice (with a pretty thick Taiwanese accent). Whirling around the room with my handsome dad grinning at me, I felt like a star in a musical.

My parents came to the States knowing almost no English. They met each other here while studying at university in South Carolina. They never had the means or time to take a honeymoon together. I think often with indescribable gratitude about how they have encouraged (or at least silently conceded to) my adventurous curiosity and desire to live my life fully.

Though I’m sure my mom worried endlessly over the years as I went on frequent trips, I have been filled with gratitude that they’ve given me a life that allows me to chase my wanderlust to far corners of the world. My first solo backpacking trip found me in Paris along the Seine, watching people dance the polka to live music. I promised myself I’d learn how to dance it, and my senior year I took a ballroom class and whirled around the room laughing while boys arduously led me into the merry polka steps. I felt determined that one day I’d be able to take my parents to places they were never able to see when they were younger.

In November of last year, I casually texted my mom about where she would like to travel if she had more free time. She loves sitting at home in the living room watching travel shows, and we talked longingly of colorful India. She quickly added, “But first, New York City to see you.” I had to be sneaky because it’s difficult to get my mom to agree for me to do nice things for her. So I covertly booked the plane tickets that night.

My mom (with her well-worn skill of basking in Taiwanese and Texan heat) feared it would be too cold in New York City in December but braved it anyway. My parents’ first time in the city, and luck was on our side as the benevolent sunlight shone down on us. While researching good things to do that weekend, I stumbled upon an incredible coincidence: “The King and I” was playing again in New York City during a Broadway revival tour at the Lincoln Center. We had the amazing opportunity to go together, and I still remember my Dad’s eyes, silently watching in real life this musical he had loved for decades from afar.

Afterwards, I asked him if he enjoyed the show. “Well, it didn’t put me to sleep,” he responded with a smile. Which, in case it isn’t clear, is a compliment of the highest order with my dad.

After watching the musical, on their final day in New York City, I took my parents to Central Park. We walked past the Shakespeare statue, and I talked about how I would dance tango with friends during the summertime in this part of the park. During the “King and I” song “Shall We Dance?” Anna teaches the King how to dance the polka.

I exclaimed to my dad, “Would you like for me to teach you how to polka?”

Even now, the little girl inside of me is a little bit terrified of him. I steeled myself for my dad’s stoic scoff and possible responses: that we were in public, that he was tired, that he’d be embarrassed. To my amazement, he held out his hands to me. I showed him the step slowly. And we danced around the statue, laughing and shuffling as I hummed a polka beat while breathlessly counting “one two three AND, one two three AND” while the sun shone down on us in New York City in December.

The King, and I.


He wanna pound it like a hashtag.

Lately — what I’m dancing to in my room at night. I mean. Watch that choreography though. Yes, in case you’re wondering, I’m flipping my hair like that. Best when still slightly damp.

“You need a real woman in your life, let me upgrade you, come harder. This won’t be easy.”

    1. Kyle Hanagami KILLING IN choreographing to Nicki Minaj’s Trini Dem Girls (and if you like Hanagami’s style, watch his Yonce choreography)
      *Quick note: If the video isn’t available below, see this link instead
    1. Beyonce’s Upgrade U, choreographed by WilldaBeast Adams

empire state of

The sunlight is seriously my jam. I’m shamelessly taking dance breaks to my Kanye and Jay-Z soundtrack, doing some fall cleaning in more ways than one.

I haven’t slept well for four nights straight. Sometimes I kind of never know when I’m actually awake, but that’s all right, it’s all a dream anyway.

Can I get an encore? What the hell are you waiting for?

Last night I dreamt of someone from a life long past, and he silently took my whole body in his arms like he was protecting me. He did that often when we were together. We were standing on a rooftop, his dark hair covering his eyes, my too-long hair blowing in the wind, and there was no music playing. But we danced slowly. I didn’t have to look, I knew what his eyes looked like from memory. The dance never gave an indication that it would stop. I guess that’s how you know. That’s how you know you’re not actually awake yet. The dance will always stop when you’re awake, but it’s sweet while you find your steps together. Shuffle, shake, shudder. Bow, or kiss, or hug, or make love, and on to the next one. The dream seemed to last forever, and I opened my eyes. It was 4AM.


What I meant to say about this photo, is that this was an entrance to the bridge.

My hair tinged a fiery red behind its blackness. This is that rite of passage, you know. I walked this bridge a decade ago with my best girlfriend from 6th grade when were were in New York together. We don’t talk much anymore, but this is the bridge that makes you feel like you really live in New York City.

This weekend, we decided to walk across the bridge towards home. What day was it? I’m not sure. I guess we’re clinging to this city despite it being ephemeral for everyone. I hazily watched the remnants of a couple’s engagement proposal. And the summer dances by, leaving us in the midst of almost-winter as we walk towards dusk. The sun was setting. I was drunk on too-strong mezcal habanero something-or-other. “That’s just so like you,” they always say about my choosing that kind of drink. “I like my alcohol like I like my men,” I used to retort. No one man should have all that power.

What I meant to say about this photo, is that there are always beginnings waiting when you arrive at endings.


“A thing that is falling apart struggles to hold itself together,” writes Traci. “Water spilling from its copper container, for example.”

Read More

Misty Copeland: “It is possible.”

Last night I had a chance to see Misty Copeland perform. She’s made history as the first African American woman to be promoted to principal dancer in American Ballet Theatre’s 75-year history.

My date and I were astounded by her stage presence and athleticism. We live in a present where dialogue about race (see Misty Copeland’s interview on NPR, “On Broadening ‘Beauty’ And Being Black In Ballet“) is as necessary as ever. Last night I spoke to my roommate, who happens to be black, about the relevance of the fact that Misty Copeland isn’t just “pretty good for being short, black, and female.” Her art transcends any of that, and she is an incredible athlete and dancer — period.

Standing at just about 5’0″, I’m quite short (petite, if someone’s attempting to euphemize), I have plenty of curves, and I’m Asian — therefore I’ve been treated with reactions of incredulity if I speak about being a dancer. Misty’s performance was powerful, and artists like her make me believe that we can break the boundaries of the assumptions of “beauty” in this world. That art doesn’t need to have much to do with “perfection” or someone else’s standard of prettiness.

From the video, Misty Copeland on being an artist:

What makes an artist an artist… is feeling like you can relate to them but at the same time they are otherworldly.

My experience has been that it’s not [just] about seeing a pretty line or an insanely arched foot. I think that most of my favorite dancers artists that I truly respect as artists don’t even have all that.

They’ve taken what they have and made it into this incredible thing. and it makes them a dancer overall and not about their body parts, because that’s so easy to come by. You can take a pretty body anywhere and put them in a position.

What makes an artist an artist, a true dancer, is what they make of all of that on stage and bring to the audience.

You can do anything you want. Even if you’re being told negative things. Stay strong and find motivation. I’m 5’2″. I started [dancing ballet] when I was 13. I’m black. There are so many things, but I’ve made it happen. I’m very lucky to be where I am.

It’s possible.

  • Also, if you have not yet watched the powerful Under Armour ad featuring Misty that went viral, here it is: I Will What I Want.
  • See Maria Popova’s multi-part series, A Rap on Race

mezcal reunion & a dose of whimsy

Hello, fall!

Today, a humid daytime filled with a sudden but explicable melancholy, then a lecture from a friend about why I should show my melancholy side more often to people who don’t know me as well.

Then, ceviche with avocado.

Then, first day reunited. We have an on-again-off-again relationship.

I mean, with the mezcal margaritas he made, that is.

I skipped the pictures of us using a big stick to mash chickpeas in a big pot between our legs while sitting barelegged on the ground because the angle made it look… unsuitable for publishing, but it was rather appropriate for my first day back for other things.

I mean, for making hummus, that is. And eating way too much of it.


A dose of whimsy, to save you from painful midnight double entendres!

    • Obsessively detailed map of American literature’s most epic road trips(!!)
    • Favorite snacks of favorite writers, illustrated
    • Interactive timeline of why time seems to pass faster as we age
    • “For sometimes you can’t help but crave some ruin in what you love.” ― Chang-Rae Lee
    • Mikio Hasui talks about his photography in an interview with FvF.

      Words, they’re difficult. I’m not a good writer. When I write, I feel like my thoughts get whittled down, smaller and smaller. With a photograph that I think is beautiful, eight out of ten people will also think it’s beautiful. The other two people may think it’s sad, and that’s okay by me. With words, beautiful is beautiful. You don’t read the word ‘beautiful’ as ‘sad’. The reaction people have to my photos can be unexpected, and I like that.


      When I went to shoot these images, it just happened to be foggy. I was thinking, I can’t shoot today. I couldn’t see anything, so I waited a bit for the fog to clear. When the fog lifted for one moment, I saw the mountain, covered with trees in bright autumnal colors. But I was thinking that if the fog wasn’t there, and it was just a mountain covered in autumnal leaves, the experience and shot would’ve been pretty boring. It was beautiful because it was hidden, and because it was only revealed for that one moment, just that one part of the mountain.

      I felt like it was a metaphor for my life. I’m living in a fog. Even though I’m facing forward, I’m not sure which direction that is. I don’t belong to or work at a company, and I live life day by day. Sometimes I’m like, is this all right? Is this okay? But that’s the kind of thing everyone thinks about. I wonder what’s ahead. Work, marriage, kids – everyone has those questions. But when you’re inside the fog, when everything is foggy, you can’t see (what’s ahead of you). When that fog lifts and you can see even a bit of something, you’ve got to believe in what you just saw, right? When the fog lifts, there’s that mountain covered in trees with beautiful leaves and colors – you can’t see it right now, but it’s there. You’ve got to believe in that.

  • Finally, I leave you with the best birthday party invitation footer (complete with three Fresh Prince dancing GIFs) from an invitation I received today:she don't like to dance tho

Yep. My friends are the best. Happy September!