Alex Ko

by Alex Ko

Luckily, I’d found something I really did love.

  Chapter 3

  My Return to Dance

  Even though I hadn’t enjoyed my first dance class, I kept making tapes of myself dancing. Soon the tapes began to pile up in my closet. By the time I was five—a year after I’d gone to that first, disastrous dance class—I had quite a collection of them.

  My older brother, John, was ten, and for a couple of years he’d been taking classes with a woman named Michael Kohli, who ran a school called the National Dance Academy. It was the big-deal competition dance school in Iowa City. It had bright, airy studios and these beautiful swooping chandeliers in the lobby. They had thousands of crystals hanging from them. They looked . . . expensive. Every day I’d sit and count the crystals while Mom and I waited for John to finish class. It felt like the most elegant place in the world, like I’d already left Iowa and was sitting in the lobby of a Broadway theater—not that I’d ever even been to Broadway at that point in my life, but I could dream.

  Mom knew I loved dancing. And she knew I needed something to do with all my pent-up energy. And John was already going to this studio, so . . . she decided to do something totally underhanded and unfair.

  Without telling me, she took one of my dancing tapes and gave it to Michael, John’s teacher, who loved it. The next time we dropped John off at the studio, I found myself enrolled in a dance class.

  “He has natural talent,” Michael told my mom.

  I was mortified that she had seen the tape, mainly because of one small detail: I wasn’t wearing a lot in the video. In fact, I was in my underwear! I was so mad at Mom that I refused to talk to her the entire way home.

  But being with John helped me overcome my shyness. Plus Michael was the best teacher a young dancer could have. She had a beautiful smile, and had trained in New York City before opening her studio in Iowa in the early 1980s. She had a huge amount of experience, and she knew how to make class fun.

  I took all kinds of classes from her: jazz, modern, lyrical, improv. Pretty much anything they taught at the National Dance Academy, I studied. (Ironically, the only two classes I didn’t take much of with Michael were tap and ballet—the two things I would need for Billy Elliot!) The studio became my second home. I spent a little more time in the gym doing gymnastics, but that was more competitive. Dance was just . . . joyful.

  You have to look for your joy. To be successful at something like dance takes a huge amount of work. You dedicate your life to it. And if you dedicate your life to something that doesn’t bring you joy, well . . . that sounds pretty miserable, doesn’t it? Dad always said that the only thing to be ashamed of in life is not doing your very best, and it’s easier to do your best when you love what you’re doing.

  Most of what I did with Michael was competition dancing. This meant that we focused more on performance than technique, though we did both. Over the six or seven years I studied with her, I danced in something like fifty competitions, which were held all across the country. At each one, I performed anywhere from one to ten numbers—some solos, some duos, and some big group performances. That’s literally hundreds of dances. And all of those dances were made of moves and combinations that I had to learn first. It took hours and hours of classes and rehearsals in order to be able to compete.

  Mom drove me to everything, and dancing was the way we bonded. She was never a dancer herself, like my auntie Kristin, but my mom could see how much I loved it, and wanted to support me. Without fail, she came to every dance competition and recital.

  Which felt really good, because Dad . . . Dad wasn’t as into me being a dancer. He wanted me to be a surgeon, or a gymnast, or even an actor.

  “Jumping up and down!” he’d huff when he saw me rehearsing at home. “That’s not dance! It’s aerobics.”

  I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt. I wanted Dad to be proud of me, and he was—when it came to everything else. But he didn’t think dance was serious. He was scared I was wasting my talents. He was so against it, he never came to a single competition.

  “Alex, he’s just worried for you,” Mom said, when I’d ask why he didn’t come.

  I knew she was right, but still . . . I always dreamed of the day when he would see me dance and realize that this was the thing I was born to do. That this was my passion. Just like in Billy Elliot, the more Dad disliked my dancing, the more I wanted to make him proud of it. I thought if I just worked hard enough, someday he would see it. But it seemed like he would never understand my passion for dance.

  In the meantime, dance was something Mom and I bonded over. There’s a lot of work that goes into making a dance. I wanted to be involved in every aspect. One of my favorite things to do was help make my costumes. Dance costumes are fitted and stretchy so you can move in them, but they’re also bright and beautiful to catch the judges’ attention. They’re like what ice skaters wear in the Olympics. I loved picking out colors and patterns that helped tell the story of my dance.

  Plus it didn’t hurt that I was really into the Power Rangers at the time, who just happened to wear bright, stretchy costumes to battle evil. I’m not saying that was my main reason for wanting to help make the costumes, but it certainly didn’t hurt.

  Once a month or so during the fall, Mom and I would drive to Des Moines, to visit a store called the Theatrical Shop. It was an amazing place, sort of like a mash-up between a Halloween store and a dance shop, all under the awning of an old movie theater. They had fabric, dance clothes, trim, wigs, theatrical makeup, props, shoes . . . everything. I used to love exploring the entire store. Then I’d get some new dance shorts and dance shoes, and pick out fabric for my next costume. We’d bring the fabric to Marina and talk over what I wanted my costume to look like, and then Marina would sketch out the costume and make it for me. Not only did I get great costumes that fit perfectly, but it was also way cheaper, which was good because my family wasn’t rich, and dancing cost a lot of money. So we did anything we could to hold down the costs.

  I know I sound a little OCD, but it’s the details that separate a good performance from a great one. When I’m up on that stage, the only person getting judged is me, so I need to make sure I’m happy with everything. If not, I have no one to blame but myself. Lots of people will tell you what to do, or what’s good, or what’s right. And I’m not saying you should ignore them—they are your mentors, coaches, family, and friends, and they’re trying to help you. But at the end of the day, you’ve got to do what’s right for you, no matter what anyone else says.

  When I was eight years old, I entered a dance competition in Davenport, Iowa. I really wanted to win. It wasn’t the biggest competition in the world, but Davenport was only fifty minutes away, so it was in my home territory. I had to go big. Michael Kohli and I spent months preparing my solo, which was a lyrical dance that we called “Ko Jun Dak.”

  Ko Jun Dak is how you would write my name in Chinese. In China, the family name (“Ko”) comes first. “Jun Dak” is my first name in Chinese. Ko means “tall,” Jun means “smart,” and Dak means “successful.” I was hoping for at least two out of three to come true.

  Lyrical dance has its roots in all kinds of styles: ballet, modern, jazz. It fuses all of them together, and it’s beautiful. The pieces tend to be light, delicate, and very emotional, with lots of intricate footwork. Michael choreographed “Ko Jun Dak” to Bach’s Prelude in C Major to highlight the fluidity of the lyrical style. Lyrical dance came naturally to me because of all the gymnastics I’d done.

  To make “Ko Jun Dak” work, I needed a costume that looked both strong and graceful. The next time we visited the Theatrical Shop, I picked out a metallic gold fabric that would move like the scales on a dragon. Marina used it to make me a tank top with long fitted pants. Wearing them, I knew my routine would look amazing.

  But not everyone agreed with me.

  Immediately after I performed “Ko Jun Dak,” one of the Applause judges signaled Michael over to the judges’ table. That’s never a g
ood sign. I could tell Michael was getting annoyed, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Then she started making big, angry gestures with her hands and called my mom over.

  Uh-oh, I thought. This wasn’t good. What did I do? Could I have broken some rule? Forgotten my choreography? I tried to replay the performance in my head, but I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. Instead, I sat there waiting nervously. Scores aren’t announced until the end of the entire competition, and this was only day one, so I had a long wait ahead of me.

  When Mom and Michael returned, they both tried to pretend everything was fine, but I could see their pursed lips and frowny foreheads. Something was definitely wrong.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Mom said. “You’re fine. Perfect, as a matter of fact.”

  Michael nodded vigorously.

  But if I hadn’t done something wrong, why had they argued with the judge? No matter how much I asked, they wouldn’t say anything. It wasn’t until years later that Mom finally told me the truth.

  The judge had given Michael a note. It read:

  Be careful when you’re costuming him. He’s a boy, and I’m sure he’s embarrassed to be seen in this.

  Even now, it makes me angry.

  I’m really glad Mom and Michael didn’t show me that note. It’s hard enough being a male dancer around people not in the dance world. Other kids could be mean when they found out. The last thing I needed was for another dancer—an adult, even!—to make fun of me in the same way. And it was even worse because I was proud of my costume. Seeing that note would have crushed my confidence, which is the worst thing you can do to a young artist. Or to any kid, for that matter. If we don’t believe in ourselves, how can we ever become the people we want to be?

  For boys who want to be dancers or actors, this kind of thing is all too common. All I can say is this: it’s happened to every male actor or dancer at some point in their lives, so we’re in good company. Theater, dance—all the arts, really—they’re about emotion, and there’s a lot of people out there who think boys shouldn’t show emotion, which sounds sad to me. I ignore them as much as I can.

  Just to be clear: it’s not easy for girls who want to make it as performers either. There will always be haters, and you’ve just got to prove them wrong.

  I won First Place Overall at the competition, and when I accepted that trophy, I wasn’t embarrassed about my outfit at all.

  But even as I was winning trophies and coming into myself as a person, something was on the horizon that would change everything. Soon, I wouldn’t be dancing in competitions anymore. In fact, my whole world was about to change.

  And not for the better.

  Chapter 4

  The Diagnosis

  Ever have one of those days when it feels like you wake up in the morning as yourself, but by the time you go to bed you’re a completely different person? A day that throws everything into chaos, and leaves you scared to wonder what’s going to happen next?

  October 14, 2004, was that day for me.

  If my life were a movie, there would have been a huge thunderstorm that morning, with a lot of lightning across the sky. Or I’d have woken up to some scary omen, like a big black crow sitting on my windowsill. Instead, the morning was cool, crisp, and sunny: a perfect fall day. I loved Iowa City on days like that. Dad and I would grab rakes and make piles of the beautiful multicolored leaves in the yard, or pedal our bikes out to the reservoir, or off to the university, or just aimlessly around the neighborhood enjoying the afternoon.

  But not that day.

  Matt was watching TV and I had spent most of the morning doing homework. Probably math. I loved math. It was neat and easy, and there was always a right answer. If only life were like that.

  I knew something was wrong the moment Mom came home. It wasn’t even dark out. Usually she didn’t leave work until right before dinner. Her skin was pale and her eyes were red, as though she had been crying. She walked right up to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She must be sick, I thought. So I wasn’t surprised when Dad followed her upstairs. I kept doing my homework, and figured that he’d come down and tell me she had the flu or something. We’d probably make her some soup and watch one of her favorite movies after dinner. I was even kind of looking forward to it.

  Little did I know . . .

  It seemed like forever before Dad came back.

  “Your mom needs to talk to you,” he said. His voice was low and dull, like a robot with a busted battery.

  My stomach clenched into one big knot. Even though I didn’t know what was happening, I could tell it was bad. Dad usually joked around and made everyone laugh. He was always smiling. But not today, not now. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently.

  Dad stayed back as Matt and I headed upstairs. My heart was pounding in my chest. I could tell Matt was scared too, because we walked really close to each other. We were so close, in fact, that I nearly knocked him down the steps at one point. Normally, he’d have headlocked me or called me clumsy, but he just steadied himself against the wall and kept walking. Neither of us said a thing.

  When we got to her room, Mom was sitting on the bed with a balled-up wad of Kleenex in her hand. She patted the blanket next to her, and Matt and I climbed up. She looked at us for a while without saying anything. Finally, she let out a long, low breath.

  “Everything is going to be okay,” she said. “You understand? No matter what, everything is going to be okay.”

  She sniffed, and I could tell she was trying to be strong for Matt and me. Whatever she said next, I promised myself that I would be strong for her too.

  “Your father has been diagnosed with liver cancer.”

  I froze.

  Mom tried to keep talking, but her lip quivered and a sob broke through. She pushed her hand against her mouth, as though that would keep all the sadness from pouring out.

  I had no idea what to do. I felt like I was stuck inside a big glass box, able to see everyone but unable to move. Mom’s voice seemed to come from very far away, and there was a ringing in my ears, as though I’d stood too close to a loud noise. I couldn’t make sense of the words she was saying. Cancer? Dad? That was impossible.

  Mom said something about how they had caught it early, and that Dad was going to be fine, but Matt and I just stared at her with our mouths hanging open.

  Your father has been diagnosed with liver cancer. Your father has been diagnosed with liver cancer. Your father has been diagnosed with liver cancer. Your father has been diagnosed with liver cancer. . . .

  The words kept repeating in my mind on a loop going faster and faster.

  Suddenly I realized Mom wasn’t talking anymore. Instead, she was looking right at me, waiting for an answer.

  “Sure,” I said, even though I had no idea what she’d asked. Matt nodded too.

  Mom smiled and wiped a hand across her forehead.

  “I knew I could count on you boys,” she said. She took a deep breath and blinked her eyes. When she opened them again, she was the energetic, no-nonsense Mom I knew.

  “So!” she said, hopping off the bed. “It’s decided. We’ll go out for sushi tonight. Now I have to pick up John. Will you boys be okay?”

  I nodded, even though it no longer felt like a yes-or-no question. But Mom didn’t seem to notice. She grabbed Matt and me in a tight hug.

  “Everything’s going to be all right,” she whispered into my hair. “I love you.”

  Then she let us go.

  Matt and I ran to our bedroom. I was shocked to see that the sun was still shining. Cars were driving by our window and people were going about their day, just like normal. But I felt as if years had passed in the last few minutes. I was older somehow: not in terms of days or months, but in experience. All of my life would now be divided up—before and after this moment.

  Neither Matt nor I said a word. We were both lost in our own thoughts. I guess we’re kind of typically midwestern in
that way. My family doesn’t make big displays of emotion. And we definitely don’t dwell on things. When something bad happens, we absorb it and move on, always looking for the bright side and dealing with the dark.

  But how were we supposed to move on from this? Dad had cancer. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter 5

  The Transplant

  Of course, life went on as we continued with our normal routine. Mom was still working at ACT, and Dad still took care of us. We didn’t talk much about his being sick. After that first big conversation with Mom, it became something we lived with but didn’t focus on. My parents didn’t hide it—I knew that it was serious enough that Dad had been put on a list for an emergency liver transplant—but since being sad couldn’t fix anything, we just continued on as usual and hoped for the best. Every night I prayed for the cancer to go away. Every day I acted like nothing was wrong.

  Maybe, more than anything else, this is what it takes to be a successful performer: you keep going. Hurt yourself in a rehearsal? Keep going. Lose a competition? Keep going. Get turned down for a part? Keep going. Someone you love gets sick? Keep. Going.

  Dad’s having cancer was, in a weird way, a lot like auditioning for a show. I was constantly hoping to hear news, good or bad.

  Over the next few months, things changed gradually, so that it’s hard for me to pinpoint exactly what happened when. Day by day, Dad had to take things more slowly. He started getting up later in the morning and going to bed earlier. He lost weight. The cancer was hard on his body. He had no energy and couldn’t eat. He didn’t lose his hair, but it became gray and thin. Some days he got up from bed just to sit on the couch until it was time to go to sleep again.

  “I’m going to be fine,” Dad said, whenever he caught me looking at him. “Alex, everything is going to be okay.”

  Then he’d grab a magazine and pretend to chase me around the house, like he had when I was little. But it was impossible to deny that he was sick, and that meant there were things he just couldn’t do anymore.