American Panda(8)

Even though a sliver of me felt that these children should be kept in the dark about their often-harsh culture, every time I saw the flyer, I couldn’t help thinking, Yes, I know a Chinese dance instructor who just miiight be interested. I pictured what styles I would teach. Picked out music. Choreographed combinations. And then, two days before the workshop, I finally called. I had reasoned that by then they had probably already found someone, so I wasn’t really disobeying my parents. And the fact that they hadn’t and begged me to help . . . well, I was being a good person by offering my assistance. So how could my parents be mad about that?

A little Chinese girl age five or six dressed in a pale-pink leotard and matching tights walked into the studio. Her steps were shy and she was holding her mother’s hand, but she was eager enough to lead the way. With each step, her leather ballet shoes crinkled with newness.

I breathed a sigh of relief. The studio owner had told me over the phone that she wasn’t sure anyone would show up given the late notice.

“Sweetie, can you introduce yourself?” the mother said.

“I’m Rose. Like the flower.” She pointed to a plastic rose charm on her bracelet.

“I’m Mei,” I said, but she wasn’t paying attention.

She reached out a hesitant finger and touched my purple ballet skirt as if it were Cinderella’s slipper. As she gazed up at me with huge watery eyes, she asked, “Are you a princess?”

I’d never felt like a princess before—just the ugly stepsister. I shook my head no.

She touched my skirt again. “You look like a princess.”

“If I’m a princess, you’re a princess.” I grabbed an extra skirt from my bag, made a mental note to wash it as soon as I returned home, then wrapped it around Rose’s waist, five times instead of the usual three.

Rose twirled right, then left, watching with unbelieving eyes as the billowy fabric danced with her. Her mother took this as a sign to leave.

I lowered myself to the floor and extended my legs to both sides. “We have to warm up so we don’t get hurt.”

Rose joined me, her flexible young legs shooting into a perfect split. She lay forward on her belly, her head toward me, and said, “You’re Chinese, like me.” She pointed a stubby finger at herself.

Except you’re really American, I couldn’t help but think. I hated the touch of envy that shot into my throat like bile. She would never have to deal with child-of-immigrant guilt.

I managed a smile. “We’re going to learn some Chinese dance today. Are you ready?”

Rose sat up and bobbed her head. A hair loosened from her bun.

I started my playlist, and the studio exploded with the crashing of cymbals and the twanging of the Chinese lute. Something inside me shifted, and my fingertips tingled with the need to dance. It was as if a key had been turned, and my alter ego switched off.

This was home.

I grinned at Rose genuinely and lost myself in the music, timing my head shakes and wrist turns to each bell chime and drum beat. The Dunhuang style was my favorite because of the rich history, the movements originating from paintings of gods discovered in ancient caves in the Gansu province.

I raised my arms in a U shape, my hands forming tails like a serif font. Rose imitated, keeping pace with me as I quickened my head bobbles to match the beat. As the music crescendoed to its climax, I spun and Rose followed, twirling in a tornado of giggles.

Next a Dai song flowed from the speakers: smooth, sultry, and slow. I started to show Rose the peacock hands that the Yùe Nán aboriginal tribe was known for, but she was too busy galloping around the studio to notice me. Her Dunhuang head shakes were accompanied by a few creations of her own—kung-fu kicks, jelly legs, even some air slaps—and my instinct was to rein her in. But why? Wasn’t she just being creative?

My old dance teacher popped into my head. That old flamingo—all legs, pointy mouth, and always too much pink rouge. I hated her and the castanets that would click her disapproval, just like my mother’s tongue. I used to try to add hip-hop to Chinese dance until she clacked it out of me.

I held back and watched Rose stomp, clap, and sway, only periodically following the music. My innocent little rule breaker. She wasn’t straddling two cultures, stuck; she was a smooth blend.

I joined her, dancing Dai, Xinjiang, hip-hop, whatever I was inspired to do. And for that brief stretch of time, I felt as carefree as Rose looked. I already knew that from then on I would forever be mixing styles and music in the Porter Room—only smooth blends.

When class ended, Rose’s mother ran in from her seat by the window, clapping frantically. With tears in her eyes, she covered her daughter in hugs and kisses.

“Thank you, Mei,” she said between pecks.

“Thanks, Mei!” Rose echoed from underneath her mother’s arms.

She pulled at her bow until the skirt came loose, but I held my hand out in protest. “No, Rose. You keep it. You’re a princess, remember?”

Her mother pushed it into my hand. “Oh no, we really couldn’t. Rose, sweetie, we’ll get you one for your birthday. Any color you want!”

“Red! Like a rose! Like me!”

She ran to me and wrapped her chubby little arms halfway around my waist, and I let her. I wanted to scoop her up and waltz her around the room. Swing her in the air and hear her laugh. When she danced, I didn’t care what germs she harbored.