audience of one
a creative nonfiction piece
I wrote and performed this piece as a finalist for ROAR Story Slam Chicago 2022. This was my telling of how my perspective shifted after a recent dance injury.
So… I’m a dancer.
For some reason, a lot of people think that means I work at a strip club, and you know what … I kinda wish I was cuz I’d prolly make the bills to pay the bills. But that’s not what I do. I’m a hip hop dancer who’s trained in choreography.
Before COVID, I took classes where teachers divided us into Select groups. That’s when a teacher places students into groups for us to watch, because these dancers did something special that was worthy of learning from. These groups were usually filmed and posted on social media.
This ritual became a ranking system, a moment of validation and a chance to shine or kiss the teacher’s ass so you could maybe become Select. When I did make Select, I had more friends. When I didn’t, nobody talked to me. It wasn’t always true but it happened a lot. It was mental. I’d get my ego and my soul handed back to me, over and over. Sometimes I’d kill it, sometimes I’d cry, but I definitely posted my select videos on Instagram.
I cross my fingers in hopes that all that I endure would help me book auditions so I can eat.
Despite the ‘challenges’, I love being a dancer, even if it’s for an audience of one. When you’re constantly in front of a mirror, you learn a lot about yourself. Dance is introspective, and the mirror doesn’t lie. What faces do you make when you’re being sexy? If you think you’re ugly, how do you change the way you look at yourself?
Could I be proud of me even if no one clapped?
I worked really hard to get where I am now. Still crying, still tryna pay bills, but on most days, talented. :p
Last year, I was on my grind, working this stupid fancy restaurant, a hair salon, and as choreographer for an artist. I’m on my feet 48 hours a day when I notice pain in my metatarsal–the ball of my right foot. It pulses and burns between my toes, I can’t ignore it any longer.
I stop going to classes. I search for the best podiatrist. First one says, “you can’t dance anymore, you have an incurable neuroma.” I find a second and third doctor, no tears, no broken bones, just inflammation. No one agrees, but no one has solutions. By late summer, I’m limping around until it’s too painful to walk. Steroids. Acupuncture. I quit my jobs. I’m so confused and frustrated. This can’t be fucking real.
Everything just stops.
I just turned 30 and literally can’t walk.. this new decade sucks. The only viable option is a cortisol injection, which could potentially end my dance career. So I do the only logical thing… I fly to Korea. In total, the cost of travel and medical care is cheaper and more effective than going through the American healthcare system.
When someone hears I’m overseas, they’re like “omg I’m so jealous you’re in the motherland”... and I’m so pissed. They have no idea I’m doing ESWT, infrared, 한약, acupuncture, lots of pills and other shit. I’m suffering, crying more tears in my audience of one, in and out of the hospital 16 times in 7 weeks.
When I’m not in the hospital, I’m in bed watching Twilight and Kdramas until I hate myself. I have nowhere to go in my mind except backwards.
You know, I thought I’d get a chance to throw in the towel when I wanted to. The future’s looking dim. So I look back and I ask myself “how did I live my 20s?” I reflect on all the times I “won”, or leveled up, or… whatever, but I never stopped to breathe. Maybe I was tryna exist better and louder than the person next to me, and I wasn’t gonna stop competing until “I” made “select.” I grieve the moments I was moving so fast I was no longer seeing me for me in the mirror. I got lost in the $auce.
I don’t want to get lost again… I’m stuck… What do I do?
I begin to pray, and then breathe, and finally… I find rest.
Everything slows down.
I feel the sweetness of life again. My body and my spirit begin to heal. I walk a little farther. I stop to take pictures of dead cicadas and touch caterpillars on the sidewalk. I notice the rust on bikes piled on top of each other in Ilsan. I count the dragonflies in the Hapjeong sky. I write songs about the loneliness of pain. And I learn to be thankful for the abilities I’ve always had but never knew were gifts unappreciated, heroes unsung.
I come back to Newark in a wheelchair and immediately book a dance commercial. I move a lot slower but I’m still healing. I’m learning to move muscles I didn’t know I had. My dream’s changed from dancing another stadium to walking the George Washington Bridge.
For a long moment, I forgot about dance. Everything’s become much quieter. The silence scares me, especially when the pulsing in my foot comes back.
But if I listen closely, I can hear the cicada’s buzz. I can hear the song about dragonflies. I can hear someone clapping for all the little wins. And when I look in the mirror, I can see myself more clearly again, because I trust in my audience of One.
