#dancemajor

There is a belief in the world that dance is easy. Dance is an easy major that you get if you don’t know what you want in life or failed out of other classes. It is the degree you get if you plan to starve yourself in New York, to face constant rejection, to dream big and live small. It is the degree for those who wish to fail, alongside other arts, literature, and philosophy degrees…right?

I recently read an article by Camryn Eakes, a dance major from Chapman University, titled “Recognize the complexities of the dance major.” In it, she discussed what these students are so used to hearing from parents, professors, and peers in regards to her studies; in short, that other intellectuals find dance in higher education to be a joke, a major for those who want an easy degree. Many people do not realize the work that goes into a Bachelor’s in dance, and that it is far more than scooting around our tip-toes with our arms over our head. Camryn covered many points about what she does in her studies; not only physically practicing dance, but analyzing the history, understanding anatomy, and studying choreography, to name a few. She lamented the misconceptions and lack of appreciation for the work that goes into dance, as well as the emotional commitment that is involved.

Camryn’s article is not only eloquently written but speaks to the distress and frustration of many students in our field. As a double major, I see two sides of this coin on a regular basis. My peers, though attempting a polite demeanor, never ask about my career or what I plan to do with my dance degree; they assume they know. Just recently I explained my situation to a woman who commented that one of my degrees would be used intellectually while the other was “good exercise.” I even corrected her by saying that dance involves a very deep, intellectual approach, but she was disinterested. The fact of the matter is, most people believe dance is a silly thing that is for those who want to be on Broadway. At times, even other dancers do not understand what being a major implies. However, my experience in higher education has opened my eyes to the deep importance that is the performing art form.

Calling dance “good exercise” is not only insulting, but it is simply not a suitable explanation for what dancers do. “Good exercise” would be running monotonously on a treadmill or going to the gym; something that you can go and do without having to think much about it. If someone went to a dance class without focus, they would fail. Dance requires extreme brainwork; you are constantly imagining shapes, counting music, and scraping your brain to remember the choreography. Additionally, your brain is actively thinking about the people around you, what they look like, how far they are dancing from you, what your teacher is saying, and more. There is so much stimulus happening on a neurological level that a dancer is working out their body and brain constantly.

On a student level, dance majors are usually taking more time for their classes than a traditional student would. For instance, these past few semesters I have been in a ballet class that meets Monday through Friday for an hour and twenty minutes. Most classes at my university meet only Monday, Wednesday, and Friday or Tuesday and Thursday for that long; if not, the class is only fifty minutes. On top of those, dancers are also expected to perform, which means that after classes they spend time (where they do not get paid or earn class credit) to rehearse. During show weeks, students may not leave school until ten or eleven at night. At the end of the day, however, dance majors are still students, correct? This means they have the same expectations of a modern student; they must take basics, do homework, write essays, and likely have a job to pay for all of their schooling. When is there time for so much work? The performing arts community often jokes that they can never go out because there is rehearsal, whether they like it or not. It is for this reason we often only spend time with those we perform alongside of.

My personal study of dance has opened up new opportunities and ways of approaching the industry that goes beyond the traditional view of becoming a starving artist in New York City. While the life of a starving artist is still common and many want to take their chance at auditions, there are others of us who want differently. “Become a dance teacher or own a studio?” you may be thinking. Sure, there are many dancers whose goals are to expand the knowledge of others and introduce the world of dance to willing minds. However, have you ever heard of people who write dance textbooks, or articles in magazines, or critique performances? What about those who research dance, perform experiments, and help expand the world’s scientific understanding of movement? How about those who understand anatomy and can teach about the body? And, of course, who are the ones creating dance that you see in movies, on TV, onstage? There are many ways to apply dance in the “real world” that go far beyond throwing themselves out there in an audition.

"A Trimester Odyssey: My Freshman Year As A Dance Major"

I had no idea what I was about to experience.

All I could remember was that a surge of excitement and anticipation was all I felt when I received an email that read, "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the De La Salle-College of Saint Benilde."

Anticipating the joy of returning to dance after a 4-year break, little did I know that beyond the grace and beauty of the dance floor, a landscape of mental challenges awaited, ready to test the limits of my passion and determination. My freshman year unfolded as a transformative odyssey through the stages of adaptation, self-doubt, and realization. Each trimester was a chapter of growth, a dance of challenges and triumphs that sculpted not only my technical prowess but also my understanding of the artistry within.

My first term was a dance of its own as I grappled with the nuances of transitioning from contemporary dance to the vibrant world of hip-hop. Hip-hop demanded a complete shift in my dance vocabulary; as a dancer accustomed to the graceful lines of ballet, fluidity of movements and emotional storytelling of contemporary, embracing the syncopated rhythms and high-energy attitude of hip-hop was so foreign to my body—a feat that tested my physicality and my artistic versatility.

To make matters even more challenging, I found myself learning to dance within the confines of my room due to the shift to online learning. Dealing with an unreliable internet connection, persistent lags, and the unpredictable backdrop of construction noises made it nearly impossible to maintain focus and establish a clear boundary between my living space and workspace.

Amidst the turmoil, my struggle with adapting to hip-hop was not merely a phase of mastering new steps; it entailed a mental shift, a willingness to unlearn the rigidity of classical training and to embody the free spirit essence of hip-hop. It was a journey marked by trial and error, as I learned to surrender to the unfamiliarity and embrace discomfort. It proved to be a constant work in progress, involving vigilant observation and learning from my fellow dancers, as well as creating tools to help me adapt in each class.

I continuously navigated my way through until the onset of the second term, eagerly anticipating the moment when we would finally set foot in the dance studio. I believed everything was fine as we finally returned to dancing in the studio, but everything started to feel like a blur into my everyday routine. I often experienced a sense of exhaustion without any apparent reason, lacking enthusiasm as I approached the studio everyday. I reached a point where I had exhausted all my tools, and even the "fuck it!" tool failed to help me. The weight of concern about potentially losing my motivation loomed over my thoughts, yet upon witnessing my seniors' dance thesis production, it became clear how much I longed for the thrill of performing on stage again. The repetitiveness of doing the usual combinations inside the familiar studio, left me drained. My body yearned to dance not solely within those studio walls, but also under the spotlight of the stage.

The third term unfolded like a battleground. I would say this term took a significant toll on my mental health, bringing about the most stress and pressure I have ever faced. Surrounded by fellow amazing dancers with unique styles and backgrounds, I couldn't help but feel small. Revealing vulnerability through dance triggered a range of anxieties, as I feared my artistic expression might be overshadowed or overlooked in the crowd of diverse talents. The internal impulse to compare myself to my peers, coupled with my tendency to overthink, was like a relentless choreographer who choreographed its own narrative in my mind. Every pirouette and leaps was accompanied by a mental chorus that echoed in my mind:

"Am I good enough?"

"Do I belong here?"

"Dancer ba talaga ako?"

I frequently dissociated from everything by the sheer weight of pressure. The fear of not measuring up to my peers or the impossibly high standards I set for myself became a constant companion, each dance class pushed me to persistently correct and scrutinize even the tiniest mistakes I made. The need for perfection felt like I was being greedy, this was because I dreaded the potential disappointment of my ballet teachers, who always kept their eyes on me. The desire to meet the expectations of my teachers, peers, and even myself manifested as an internal monologue that often stifled my spirit. I had to constantly shake my head to wake myself up at every breaking point that almost made me lose my "spark." If it weren't for my hip-hop coach, who was the first to recognize this, I would not have regained my passion—the sole reason as to why I even took this course.

Those nonsensical "what ifs" that I was overthinking amounted to nothing, because I received nothing but overwhelmingly positive feedback from my ballet teacher. I'd be lying if I said it didn't boost my confidence, because for once, I finally received praise—which is rare—and such encouraging words that brought me to tears. Gradually, I realized that the biggest critic I faced was often myself. I finally allowed myself to breathe and let go of the baggage that had been weighing on my shoulders. Eventually accepted that I had to embrace my flaw as a dancer, because after all, there's no such thing as perfect dancers.

Things were looking up as I also had the chance to collaborate with students from other courses for our first live performance. I felt that surge of excitement again; the thrill I had been patiently waiting for had finally come my way. It felt as though my silent screams had reached the heights and were heard. I found a reason to wake up early with a cheerful mood and a sense of motivation. Entering the studio without dragging myself out of slump was no longer a struggle; the new environment and faces to work with was a fresh boost of energy, both overwhelming and exhilarating.

Despite the 8:30am call time and hours of rehearsals that led to physical exhaustion and sickness, I'm grateful that this opportunity to collaborate became a gateway to meeting new people. I crossed paths with wonderful beings who blossomed into unexpected friendships (S/O to Will, Erica, and Pia! If you're reading this, I love you all so much 🥺🌼). I'm happy that I was able to share a part of my artistry with fellow talented artists who appreciated what I brought on stage, despite of the mental challenges I went through.

Returning to the stage felt like returning home; it wasn't foreign but rather like reuniting with an old friend. Stepping onto the stage again didn't make me nervous, even with 300 audience members watching my every move; instead, it was overshadowed by joy and a sense of self-fulfillment. That was the moment I knew I had made the right decision, I chose the right path that "felt right."

If I could travel back in time, I would hug my freshman self who experienced numerous breakdowns. Looking back now, I would laugh at how innocent I appeared during those moments when I struggled to execute the choreography. I had to keep reminding myself that there is always room for improvement, there will always be good and bad days, and I'm progressing at a different pace than everyone else. The late-night practice sessions that pushed me beyond my comfort zone, the encouraging words from my teachers who saw potential in me, and the applause from an audience that appreciated my artistry—they were reminders that my dedication and hard work were paying off, and that pursuing my passion was truly worthwhile.