“Do you like to dance?” Bold-to-Offer-Friendship stunned Ari for a moment, who was expecting a flood of incomprehensible Chinese, not English. Snapping her tongue back into use, Ari spurted: “YES! I LOVE to dance!” Accompanying Ari—who lives, breathes, and teaches dance—is how Leah and I first got involved in an evening of jazz and hip hop classes at the dance studio, and her new friendship is why Ari and I came back for this second round. We’re waiting for tonight’s mystery class in the second classroom, sitting crosslegged at the foot of a meticulously and sparsely planted forest of poles. 7:00 p.m.—we switch to the other classroom and warm-ups start.
My feet plod into class in wannabe Tom’s with orthopedic memory foam, smashed from folding into the slightest air pockets in my hiking pack; they’re a gosling amongst the flock of chrome stilettos pole dancing next door, like a rusty blue tuk-tuk parked in a Mercedes sales lot. I check out the footwear in this class to see if I’ll get kicked out: Nike, Adidas, Converse all-star sneakers, hip hop ready. Sigh of relief! Double-take—those cute Coca-Cola socks are actually inscribed with “Cocaine;” they could flirt with the marijuana socks stretching under 80’s ripped-off jean shorts across the room. (How do these girls find their identity in this collectivist culture? Is this their way of silently screaming that they are unique and special individuals, or is that just my western interpretation? Whatever the case, girl, I’d say I see you, but your hoops, fiery hair, red lipstick, and orange eyeshadow are not you, and I don’t even know your name, yet, but I want to.)
Warmups. So serious! Our teacher scours the class with steady and intense eyes, a tiger, waiting to pounce on one wrong move in a game of chess. She sees all. Shriveling my height is impossible, but at least I’m in the back row. We shrink into a squat and I’m finally head-level with the girls in front of me. One song ends and another begins—still squatting, my thighs burn, so I stand up briefly to relieve them and discover my head is above the crowd and vulnerable again. The squat goes on; the burning threatens to be eternal.
Hot. Only two steamy windows lined with cellular devices and purses open to let the concrete floor, mirrors, and ceiling pipes breathe in the faint beeps and barks from the streets below. We sweat in our sweatshirts, flannels, and sequined crop tops—I almost wish I were in one of those. Some girls’ pants breathe for them, slits from the hips to the ankles flapping open and closed like gills as they move with the waves of music.
“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, EIGHT! Yi èr san sì wu liù qi ba!” Ari’s flowing in her kinesthetic genius, already memorizing the moves and infusing them with her huge smile and expressive soul. Fast then slow, slow then fast, always on beat—I can’t keep up. “Yi èr san sì wu liù qi ba! 1, 2,” {ummmm… I think my right ankle moves forward and my right toes move up or back and what am I supposed to do with my left hand?} “7, EIGHT!” {Ahhhh! I’m so behind!} My eyes scan the room to see if anyone notices or if I’m the only one fumbling over my feet.
A girl peeks out from a pile of gray sweats on the windowsill, droplets beading at the fringe of her bangs and shimmering on her flushed cheeks like flecks of silver on elves’ skin. I match her smile with a nod, shyly acknowledging our shared secret: we suck—at least, at dance. I step back to join her in watching the real crew bob and weave, duck and shimmy, all fluidly bearing the image of their teacher. I’m awestruck; yet even more than I ache to to move like these dancers, I ache to increasingly bear the image of the One I admire: “And just as we have borne the image of the earthly man, so shall we bear the image of the heavenly man” (1 Corinthians 15:49). Eyes eager, Peekaboo jumps back into the practice and smoothly blends in with the school. I’m alone again, with cooling off by the window my only excuse for not trying. I feel so embarrassed—why did I even come tonight? Because I like dance and asked God for an opportunity to dance and He provided it, and to support Ari, and to share the love of Jesus with all I meet… which brings forgiveness, power, and honor.
What would honor Tigress more: acknowledging I’m slaughtering her choreography and sitting down in the back to observe the glory of those who are mastering it, or donning the goofiest grin and bravely continuing to make a fool of myself while believing that—somehow—my toes will touch down in the right spot at the right time at least once during the routine? I once heard that giving up says more about my belief in God than it does about my belief in myself. So, do I believe my teacher is able to help me improve? I would want my students to give their all with gusto regardless of the slop because slouching into defeat and refusing to get up again is heartbreaking when I’ve poured my heart into helping them. “In everything, therefore, treat people the same way you want them to treat you, for this is the Law and the Prophets” (Matthew 7:12). Tigress breaks into my reverie, shouting in Chinglish, “Okay, ma?” Some students ask her to repeat part of the routine and she helps them improve. Then I see her heart: she is a mother tiger, fierce yet gentle with the cubs lifted between her teeth. Am I okay? Is it safe to try? Yes, yes.
And here comes another chance… “Yi èr san sì”—Three, four. San sì. Sounds like Thai, a phrase we would sing in my village church years ago. Reminds me of worshiping God, and the rhythm speaks a new message to me: “1, 2, wor-, -ship, 5, 6, 7, 8. Yi èr WOR- SHIP wu liù qi ba!” I leave where I’ve landed on the wall and step back into the waves, to be tousled like a frog in the ocean. “Whether, then, you eat or drink or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God” (1 Corinthians 10:31). I waffle over my feet, my heart smiling while my face scrunches into focus.
Class ends and we move to the seating area overlooking the city to chat. Tigress is laughing and joking with her friends—the same people who are her students. Another girl fixes my sloppy ponytail and tells me she loves me and I’m beautiful—possibly the only English she knows? She runs away giggling before I can pull up Google translate on my phone. Bold-to-Offer-Friendship is making plans with Ari to cook or play games together, and I’m praying that we may have more opportunities to continue pouring love into our new friends, to point them to the One who gives each woman an identity she doesn’t have to fight for with sultry moves. Ari and I step towards home, musing over how perfect it is that these girls can see us both dance and be inspired: Ari, because she embodies the beauty of the Lord in purity and excellence as she moves, and me, because I look downright clumsy yet I am not giving up. (Lord, help me persevere with harder and longer challenges!) “Let us not lose heart in doing good, for in due time we will reap if we do not grow weary” (Galatians 6:9).
