R.A.M.

[Redacted] Alen Motoki

I despise my first name, Ryotaro. The name my parents gave to me with pride, a name that belonged to one of our distant ancestors, and one that I’m sure derives from the Japanese word for dragon. Everyone should feel pride having a name, right? It’s the first gift you are given second to being born. My name has cursed me since the day I met people, and I hated it for its uniqueness. Every teacher, substitute, friends old or new, had never gotten it right. Rather than spending the time to spell it out, I tell them to call me by my middle name, Alen, that is my real name.

Bon Iver, They’re a Band

I remember the last time I felt alone and at peace. A venue in Ocean City, Maryland that has the capacity to fill more people than the populace of the city itself, and there I stood over a crowd of wandering eyes as their judgment focused on the soloist on stage. I remember the forty-by-sixty foot stage that hid no shadow thanks to the eyes of the spotlight giving life to an otherwise void filled floor, but even the gaze of the spotlight paled in comparison to the pairs of irises that stared at the sole subject on the stage, my shirt. I stepped on that stage two minutes ago, my stomach swallowing itself whole as I go on, and despite doing this for seven years I still feared for my life. As my cut of “I can’t Make You Love Me/Nick of Time” started what followed was second nature. No move went unaccounted for, and no step over stepped; it was in my opinion the best dance I’ve ever danced. When I walked off the stage I tried to catch my breath running faster than I could follow it, my lungs turned medium rare as the acidic pain numbed any feeling of rejoice, the crowd couldn’t hear my pant, but I could hear their cheers chasing after me. I remember this moment as the last time I danced on a stage.

Mo

The first time I told anyone my distaste for my name was in my freshman year honor’s English class with Mrs. H. Like many classes at PHS I hated that just a hair less than my name. Out of the 180 ever-boring classes, there were few spared for students to give a presentation, and on the bible length rubric there’s a question that asks,

What do you (the student), not particularly like about yourself, and hope to improve?

I professed my sin fueled hate to my family given name, and Mrs. H asked, why? I lied and told her I wanted to change the order to Alen being first, and wanting to keep my first as my middle name. The more I thought about it the notion of changing my name started to grow, and the idea to start a new identity at a new school became my prime motive.

It was with my sophomore year English teacher when I came up with the name that stuck with me. There were three Alens in that class, so my teacher called us by our last names but shortened them, thus the name, Alen Mo. It may not have seemed as much of a change, but it made a world of a difference. Every paper I wrote since was authored with Alen Mo, and by senior year that’s all anyone knew me by.

Mark B.

He was for all I care, a second father to me. He taught me my first solo, it was to Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight,” and please don’t ever make me dance that again. He wrote my recommendation letter to all the dance schools I applied to, and he took me out for some pizza every now and then. I did my best to make him proud; placing at regionals, nailing a triple turn, and so on. He scolded me like any mentor would, my temperament was a problem, and my attitude was what he called “bitchy” at times, yet a good part of my personality now is thanks to him. March 12th, 2014. It was a Wednesday, he taught his very last ballet class, and right after that, he left. Last I heard he’s teaching at Point Park University. Maybe someone there looks up to him the way I used to.

Spring School

Ever since first grade I was notorious for attaining the title of slacker. People scolded me for being so naïve and taking advantage of a private Montessori school in all the wrong ways. But if you had to send home a report card on a weekly basis would you not have done the same? The mindset of a child doesn’t work well if you’re forced to show your failures and lack of success to your wannabe Asian parents, and not that they care all too much once they figured it’s too late for their white-washed Japanese son being nothing short of a stereotypical emotion-fueled teenager.

A Dancer’s Daydream

I’m sitting on a floor, one leg bent the other straight. The first thing I do is hold up my right leg, and on the third count of the piano, my leg drops like a bird flying out of their nest for the first time. As I let go and before my heels knocks an echo in an overcrowded and silent room my back wins the race to the floor by a beat. The slow rise introduces my torso facing straight into the audience down stage, but my nose follows my eyes staring down the exit sign in the far right corner of the hall filled with awing sighs. Bon Iver goes silent and the only thing I hear is the never-ending critiques slipping between the cracks of the judges’ mouth and the mics pressed to their lips. I’m sitting up on my knees now, my body falls to my right as I let my weight guide me back down to the black marley floor covered with scuff marks from all the other feet that danced here . From a handstand on my elbows halfway through I straighten one hand, still upside down. What was that? I tell myself three steps, aiming my head to the back corner off stage, I leap as if a trigger went off. Three steps, that’s all I need to fly eight feet up, and in between the glimmer of a second where gravity can’t pull me down, my body tilts to its side with both legs split out and up to the point my ears can hear the muscle of my feet stretch to trying to turn out one more inch. A tour is when your body spins as you hold your arms closer to you than your breath in the hopes of nailing multiple rotations midair, but I only manage two. I take an extra second to slide closer towards center stage, I tell myself criss cross, Bob Ross, how that man can stay calm. A little push from the abdomen helped my legs find their place on the floor. Prep with the left foot, don’t forget it. A quadruple pirouettes, four full turns hinged on my unbent left leg. One down, two, three, oh.

Harold and Kumar

Maybe it was junior year, I don’t know. It was a few minutes before they closed; I walk into the Starbucks on route four, just a two-minute drive from my school. I ask for my usual drink, a venti mocha latte, the man who took my order apologizes for not having anymore venti cups in stock, and gave me a grande version of my drink. As he wrote my drink down on the cup he asks me for my name, and at this point in my life I’m hardwired to say Alen, but before I told him he asks to guess it. Harold, is what he says, like in Harold and Kumar, is what he says after. That’s how I met Ernesto, and since then I’ve forgotten how much a venti drink costs.

The Annex

We rehearse and train six days a week for hours on end. The last partitioned storefront on Washington Ave. is the run down studio twenty three girls and I invest our efforts in. The chipped off-white walls, the crooked row of mirrors that paralled the equally straight barrés, the marble grey marley floors, and our stereo system we call Judy–her temperament only matched by the infamous judge herself– became my second home. There were times the Asian lady running the salon next door would come and yell at us for our industrious level tapping, but that studio is a crossfit gym now, and I bet lunch at the bagel shop two doors down that Asian lady misses our clamoring feet.

Happy Feet

There was only one time when I’d rather have been called by my first name. In senior year we had a substitute for my AP Physics class, as with any substitute day we had work assigned, but gave more care to what we want for lunch. As my friends and I attempt to decipher the electromagnetic field of a compass was, I started tapping the floor. Perhaps a count of eight worth of time passed before the substitute sneered at me demanding,

“Keep it down Happy Feet.”

To which I swiftly replied with, “I have a name.” Yes, I got sent to the office.

Soloist

The top 10th through 6th soloists were called to the center of the stage to receive their medals, and soon after were asked to walk back to their respective studios. As the honorable mentions bowed everywhere you looked on that line there were shades of bitter disappointment, stares of disapproval, and twitching eyelids hiding tears. Then 5th was announced, I still wasn’t called. 3rd, still nothing. There’s about hundred dancers there aiming for the top. Despite my attempt to look anywhere but the emcee, eyes of awe-inspired and vengeful dancers were aimed my way. Then 2nd place was called. I froze.

Dear Mr. Motoki,

Six schools I auditioned for, and you’d think it’d mean something. SUNY Purchase, UCLA, UC Irvine, NYU Tisch, FSU, and Juilliard. When I got the last notification, I told myself it was fun while it lasted. At least I tried, and the only kind of affirmation I got from those schools was a proctor who complimented my feet during an audition. I never thanked him.

Alen Mo

The girl I once loved called me by that name, my best friend turned enemy after a brawl over who had the winning poker hand called me by something less pleasant, yet not as bad as my first name. I grew up as Alen, the security guard at the mall where my parent’s old shop was located at called me Alex, but the slant rhyme was enough to not correct her. The first day of classes are the worst, it’s like that one notification that finds itself to the front of your phone no matter how many times you dismiss it.

“Just call me Alen. It’s my middle name.” has become the first words I say in a class. I don’t hate it, but it does get tiring repeating the same phrase. I wonder how long I’ll restate the obvious to those who are oblivious to my petite struggle.

Ken, the tutor

I had a tutor in fifth grade, and he was there to help me study for Japanese weekend school. From literature and math to history he taught me. What he really taught me was the robot. He showed me how to move my arms up and down, and swivel my body left and right. Maybe something else sparked it, but that moment is what I recognize as the start of my dancing career.

Dr. B., Mr. D.

Okay, I lied. There are two people in this world who call me by my first name. One of them is my pediatrician, who found my heart murmur the day after I was born. We both have an interest in music, but his taste in music is a bit slow-paced. The other is my high school photography teacher, Mr. D. If one were to combine a lumberjack and a hipster you’d get Mr. D., not that they’re any different. He wore the plaid shirt, the tan pants, and I swear to god he definitely came into class high in more than one occasion, so I’ve heard. Despite my retaliation towards him calling me by my first name, he refused to call me anything but Ryo, and it grew on me.

What I hated about my name was that if you pronounce it wrong, it comes close to sounding like “Retardo.” Mr. D., did to my first name what my sophomore year English teacher did to my last, he shortened it, and just like that it made a world of a difference, again.

From Mr. Postman to Vampire

I was ten when I took my first Hip Hop class at my younger sister’s studio, and I never feared girls more than that first day. But it was the teacher who opened the world of dance to me and it was because of her I said, “why not,” and tried dancing the following year.

The first year was fun, my go to move for freestyle was the limp robot arm, but in the second year I added Musical Theatre and I realized I was good at it, the acting and flirting with other girls in a dance was what got me. The third, I joined their competitive team dancing with girls four years younger than me, and I took another role as the big brother. My first jazz dance I was a postman; duffel, hat, and all. I started learning ballet and lyrical that year too, but neither of those I was any good at. By my freshman year I was dancing with people close to my age and I achieved a sense of familiarity.

Dance gave way to me a world of movement and to a world of music unbeknownst to others. I acted as a; womanizer, a lover, a gay man, the phantom of the opera, Ren McCormack, and a vampire to name a few. I’ve worn masks, had a fake bird perched on my shoulder, made a dead flower come to life, and danced in neon yellow blue rhinestone studded high heels. It was the most vibrant journey.

First Name, M.I. Last Name

The thought ran through my head once, but legally changing my name would be pushing it too far. I’m not that detached from my own self.

My Name is

It was a surreal moment. The cheers that echoed from a moment before became clearer, it felt like the lights decided to beam down even brighter, and the plaque with the words 1st Place rested on my slow moving chest.

I’m sure I have a dumbfound smile plastered on my face, my teammates waving their hands in excitement and the noise of others cheering fill the hall.

The emcee walks up to me. He congratulates me on my placement and asks,

“Who choreographed this piece?”

“I did” and by the sound of audience, people were impressed.

He gave a try-hard motivational speech about making one’s own dance, and I thanked him, but then came the moment,

“and your name is?”