Joget. Zapin. Orang Asli styles such as Sewang or Inang. Traditional
Indian. Traditional Chinese…
The first time I
had heard these names rattled off to me, I couldn’t quite pin them down. My
only referent was an image of a bunch of my students clad in colorful costumes
dancing merrily at my school’s welcoming ceremony back in February. From the moment I saw
them, I was grinning in a way that only dance can inspire. My feet tappin’, my
hands clappin’—I knew I wanted to learn these Malaysian dances. Who knew that
the next time my students performed, I would be there on the stage dancing with
them in front of the entire school!
This opportunity
came in the guise of Teacher’s Day, a wonderful day dedicated to celebrating
the hard work of Malaysian teachers. (Hey there America, why don’t you have
such things?!) It ends up being a day of grand processions, speeches, games,
fun awards, and most of all performances by teachers and students.
I’d been
unsubtly hinting the past couple months about how much I’d like to learn some Malaysian
dance. Let’s just say it took a lot of self-restraint for me not to screech for
joy when the dance teacher approached me about dancing with the students for
Teacher’s Day. He assigned me to dance Joget, one of the most popular
traditional Malay dances.
My Form 1 boys
were pretty surprised to see me at the first dance rehearsal. What on earth was Teacher Julia doing
shuffling about after them? They were a bit shy at first, but soon got used
to my presence and would laugh every time I turned in the wrong direction or
did some confused flailing. The dance teacher belted instructions in Malay. When
mere gesticulating did not bring comprehension to my features, my students had to
puzzle out ways to explain the moves to me in English. (My English teacher
senses tingled with glee! They are
practicing English without even knowing it! MAHAHAHA.) I often pretended to
be extremely clueless, just to get my students to explain things in more
detail. Plus I think they enjoyed being the teachers for once, and I their
stumbling, bumbling student.
Two weeks passed
in a flurry of long after-school dance rehearsals. During these I discovered a
wonderful new phenomenon. Instead of me having to prowl about after students
accosting them into English conversation, as I had to do during the school day,
during dance practice, students actually approached
me to talk. Now outside of the classroom, many of my students’
personalities exploded into
prisma-color. They were sassy, humorous and… dare I say it? Talkative? I was soon educated in all
the K-pop groups I absolutely must listen to if I was to be anything close to
hip. I learned about many of their hobbies. I was made privy to various tidbits
of high school love gossip (though given the constant giggling, I could make no
sense of it. Then again, reflecting on my own teen years, high school drama
doesn’t ever make much sense.)
I really loved
these after-school practices and the chance to hang out with my students
informally. I found that when walking through school in the coming days, my
dancers, many of whom either weren’t taught by me or were debilitatingly shy in
class would wave enthusiastically in passing. It was our little secret; we were
dancing Malay dance together. They’d pass and with impish grins make cryptic
comments like “Teacha... See you after school…” with a twinkle in their eye.
*
The day of the
performance, I had only just finished my mid-morning meal when some students
rushed into the canteen alarmed. “Teacha! We must go change! You are not
ready!” Other students looked on questioningly as they dragged me toward the Surau to change. My dancers merely
looked smug at the occasion to order Teacher Julia around.
I pulled on a
striking purple baju and bright pink
pants and soon found myself surrounded by students helping tie on a neon green sampin (a sarong wrapped around one’s
hips), a neckpiece, a headpiece, hair flowers, some clunky jewelry, additional
kerchiefs to tie around my fingers… I couldn’t help but thank the heavens that I
didn’t have to dress myself. My girls bossed me about and happily fussed away,
bobby-pinning, retying, shifting layers of fabric… When I had been sufficiently
done up, my girls brushed their hands off with pride. “You! A Malay girl!” they
cried. We all hurrahed with excitement.
The school went
into an absolute uproar when they saw Teacher Julia decked out Malay style and
groovin’ to some Joget beats. While the performance itself was fun and
memorable, a shining moment of the day came while waiting backstage.
I asked a
student I’d been becoming quite friendly with to explain the meaning of one of
the other student performances. In halting English, she searched for the words to explain.
One of the boys nearby sniggered at her and teased her about her bad English. I
came to her aid and very pointedly proclaimed that I was pleased that she was
trying and that she was a wonderful student and that she was doing a very good job!
And indeed she
was, if I compare this present girl to the one from four months ago. I remember
our first interaction, which consisted mainly of her giggling at me and crying “Teacha!
I no speak English!” She’d then babble away in Bahasa Melayu to her friends,
disregarding any attempt to try and understand my basic questions. Now here she
was, fervently trying to speak English with me. To top it off, she glared at the
snarky boy defiantly, “See?! I practice English with Miss Julia! She say I speak good English!” With a feisty flip of her head, she turned back toward me to continue her earnest explanation. You go girl!
Some pictures with my wonderful students:
The performance finale!
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