Wednesday, November 29, 2017 // The Statement

7B

Personal Statement: Someone in the crowd

by Micky Esteban, SMTD junior

I

grew up in a small town in Connecticut
where it was impossible for me to get
lost. In a place where 95.7 percent of the
population is Caucasian, an Asian stands

out in a crowd. My school, my dance studio, my
friends all reflected that demographic. As a
result, I was my differences. My black hair, my
dark skin, my almond-shaped eyes
defined me. And from a young age,
they defined whom I portrayed
onstage. The first featured role
I ever got was in “The King and
I.” I played the Spanish dancer in
my dance studio’s “Nutcracker.”
The next year, I was an Arabian
princess. When we did “Swan
Lake,” I played the black swan,
not the white one. The list goes
on.

I felt a little more at home in

the music world. My piano studio
was fairly diverse, and my teacher
of nine years was Taiwanese. But
because I only saw the other kids
in my studio at holiday or end-of-
year recitals, they were nothing
more than familiar faces, and the
community we formed could only
be described as politely obligatory.
Most of my music life was spent in a
tiny practice room at the University
of Hartford, where I would sit every
week for lessons — or by myself in
front of the piano in my living room.

The performing arts world I knew

growing up was an isolating one. I
believed I was always going to
be the one who was not like the
others. I was always going to play
“exotic,” or I was going to be at the keyboard by
myself. On top of that, there was a belief in my
house that the arts were not a career. My parents
grew up in the Philippines. My mom and dad
immigrated to the United States to give their
children better lives. They come from a culture
where a career in the arts is virtually unheard
of and essentially impossible. To them, the idea
of their child growing up to be an artist was so
far-fetched it was almost absurd.

I was 16 when I was accepted to the summer

program at the Alvin Ailey American Dance
Theater in New York City. My life changed
entirely. It was my first experience living
entirely on my own. My first experience living
in a big city. My first experience immersed in

an arts community made up primarily of people
of color. For the first time, I was surrounded by
other artists who looked like me — artists who
were my peers, my teachers, my mentors. I was
actually a bit invisible. I had to work to be seen
in a sea of brilliant artists, amazing storytellers,
incredible humans. For the first time, I felt what

it meant to really be lost in a crowd of people.
That freed me.

I was going to be a dancer. I craved my parent’s

approval. I wanted to excel at everything I
did because I didn’t want to let them down.
I imagined myself as a doctor, a lawyer, a
diplomat, a marine biologist, because I knew
my mom and dad had moved across the world,
away from their moms and their dads and their
sisters and brothers and cousins so I could have
a better life. I have always wanted to make their
hard work worth it. I have always wanted to
make them proud.

Comprehension is the key to pride. My

parents could not comprehend why I would want
to be a dancer when I could be something else

that pays better and more consistently. They could
not comprehend how being a dancer could be
sustainable, how being a dancer required using my
brain, how I was not throwing away those years of
hard work they put into raising me. Even in a well-
developed country with a vibrant arts scene, the
arts is treated like a frivolity. It’s the only mindset

my family has really known. My
parents could not be proud of me
because they could not comprehend
the arts. They could not comprehend
me.

I wanted to become a dancer for

selfish reasons. My life was already
a performing art. For most of my
life, I didn’t need to be on a stage for
people to stare. But I wanted people
to look at me the way I looked at
those dancers at the Ailey School — I
wanted to command space and time
and respect because of what I did,
not because of what I was. I wanted
to be strong and fierce. Elegant.
Sensual. Beautiful. Intensely smart
and incredibly generous.

I have come to realize, however,

the pursuit of dance or any art form
cannot be a selfish one, especially
for a person of color. There’s a
responsibility that comes with
inviting people to look at you, to
look at your body. At its simplest,
that’s what watching dance is.
Watching bodies. What they do,
what they create, what they say. As
dancers, we are inextricably tied
to our bodies. We are what we do,
what we create, what we say. We are
what makes us different.

I can list every time a person of color has affected

my dance career, a timeline of every time I’ve seen or
heard someone who looked like me. A little notch in the
line every time my life has taken a different direction.
Every time my views on dance and art and life have
changed. I can list those moments because they stick
with me, they define me. Pursuing dance means I might
define other people’s timelines, other young Filipino
girls and boys who grew up knowing themselves only
as the kid with dark eyes and jet-black hair.

There’s an importance, then, that’s inherent in the

way I move now and in the future. I would be lying
if I said I could even begin to comprehend what that
responsibility might mean. But the beauty in art is
that comprehension isn’t the goal. It’s just the
beginning.

PHOTO COURTESY OF MICKY ESTEBAN