It was just an ordinary day in Beijing when I got a message from my daughter’s kindergarten about an upcoming school dance performance. At first, I thought, “How delightful, I can’t wait to see her perform!” To my dismay, I discovered it wasn’t just the students, parents were expected to participate as well.
My wife and I briefly stared at each other in silence, wondering which of us would be the brave soul to tackle the dance floor.
We then weighed our options: I listed my notable lack of rhythm, coordination and crippling stage fright. However, my wife trumped all of that by going straight for my weak point – the bonding opportunity this presented. I took solace in the thought that being part of a group performance would provide some sense of safety in numbers. Flying under the radar seemed feasible.
However, that evening my idea was quickly shattered as my daughter came rushing through the door, her excitement spilling over as she explained her vision: “Dad, this is going to be fun. We should wear matching pink T-shirts and stand at the front so everyone can see us.” Needless to say, a low-profile performance was nowhere on her agenda.
And so, with two left feet and an eager daughter, I found myself on the cusp of my dancing debut. The next order of business was mastering the choreography. School performances from my childhood in the UK came to mind, distinct memories of confused kids shuffling around while parents recorded the event on camcorders the size of bazooka rockets. I always imagined that would be me one day, proudly holding up the camcorder, or iPhone; however, fate is a fickle dance teacher. While not what I had envisioned, the chance to share this unique experience with my daughter was quite exciting.
We began with practice in front of the television. My wife had luckily found a past performance from the school on Douyin. At this point, I realized our performance would also end up online and any misstep could potentially be turned into a meme. The pressure had now been officially turned up a notch.
The first at-home practice went as badly as you can imagine. My wife called out directions while we stumbled through the routine. A tweak to our learning approach was clearly essential.
The dance itself, however, was absolutely adorable. Against the beats of the cheesy Chinese song “Green Apple Paradise,” it featured heart formations, twirls and of course the obligatory peace signs that young people in China do when posing for a photo.
Fast forward to Saturday and it was time for a group recital at school. Given the short notice, I expected the other parents to be struggling as much as me. I couldn’t have been more wrong. They moved with precision that would rival that of the Bolshoi Ballet. As I watched on at their choreographic mastery, it was clear that we needed more practice. In the days to come we worked diligently and both our confidence and coordination improved visibly. My daughter moved with the grace of a gazelle, while I still moved like a circus elephant. The night before the performance, there was another shock: it was scheduled for 8:30 am on a Saturday, which meant we had to arrive at the dance hall by 7 am. I was once again faced with my archnemesis: waking up early on the weekend.
The day of the big show had arrived and my nerves had subsided. It turns out that getting nowhere near enough sleep before a big performance is the perfect cure for stage fright. Moreover, my daughter was having the time of her life and that alone powered me through. On reviewing the footage, it wasn’t as dreadful as I’d feared. It’s unlikely we’ll audition for China’s Got Talent anytime soon, but I dare say it was a commendable effort.
Reflecting on the past two weeks, I realized this experience had enriched us both. It marked the first time my daughter and I learned something new together. I find myself looking forward to similar events like this in the future – providing they can be scheduled at a slightly later hour.
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