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, 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 who 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.

The performing arts world I knew growing up was an isolating one. I believed I was always going to be the one that 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. Both my parents grew up in the Philippines. My mom and dad immigrated to America to give their children a better life. They come from a culture where a career in the arts is virtually unheard of and essentially impossible. To them, the idea that their child might grow up to be an artist was so far-fetched it was almost absurd.

I was sixteen when I was accepted to the summer program at the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre 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 that 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 story-tellers, 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 that 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 both put into raising me. Even in a well-developed country with a vibrant arts scene, the arts are 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’ve 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 impacted 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 that 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.    

This is an article that I didn’t want to write. Perhaps it was some lingering sense of shame. Probably because it felt all too natural to me and abhorrent to everyone else. But most of all, I didn’t want to write something about myself. To explain oneself, after all, is an impossibility. Getting even half of my meaning across without nervousness or embarrassment trapping the words in my throat is a miracle. It’s a good thing that I am writing this, then. Now I have approximately five hundred words to get my point across. Which after a meandering one hundred words is that, I like to be alone. That is not the world-consuming revelation that you came here for. It is not even the mildly-interesting tidbit that you may have glanced for. But it is what you are going to get (if you stay, of course). The best part of being alone is that you have the chance to get away from the endless hubbub, the meaningless chitchat. Not that I don’t appreciate the more-than-occasional bout of jibber jabber. I can certainly jabber on with the best of them, especially if it concerns my current obsession on television. Sometimes though, after a day, or a week, of being talked at by professors or buzzing around with friends, it is nice to simply be in a room without anyone else. To sit, unobserved and unneeded. To move, unencumbered by the personal needs of someone else. To have the environment around you, the sights, the sounds, be entirely your own. Maybe it’s selfish. But it’s a ‘mine’ that I need to have. To be alone, at least to me, is also resisting the allure of the GroupMe notification, the newest Facebook update. These are unnecessary connections to the outside world, at least temporarily. They are the nagging voices, urging me to return to the loud place, but given digital shape as birthday reminders and life updates. They are distractions posing as something meaningful. I know that. But they are also act as admonitions. The smiling friends and memes show me lives where being alone does not exist. Instead, there appears to be constant social entanglements happening all around me, even as I sit in a room, alone. The pressure permeates through every aspect of the college experience. This expectation of having the best years of your life, right here, on campus drives students to late-night parties and dinner with friends. One feels the need to spend every second of those four, short years in the company of others. Others that may soon be lost to new jobs in new places. But lost in the deafening, striving progress is the need to not be needed.  I am free to pursue my own creativity only when I no longer have to fulfill any outside demands. In these moments, completely alone, I don’t need to answer to anyone or anything else other than that strange, instinctive hunger to write. I can explain myself without having to get the words out in time or even express the words semi-cleverly. Perhaps that is why I found this article so difficult to write. Perhaps that is why I needed to write it.