Small, controlled, precise

In my early years as an instructor for Ateneo’s Physical Education program, one of my belly dance students approached me after class and asked me to coach her. She wanted to do a surprise solo at her debut party. Someone would design her costume and she already had a song. Could I help her choreograph the song, practice, and refine her performance?

She was on the heavy side, soft-spoken, obviously scared that her body didn’t fit what the Internet had forced her to believe was ideal for belly dance.

The thing is: there is no ideal body for belly dance. I wanted her to feel that power and believe in herself. So: I said yes.

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We worked together for several weeks. I advanced her lessons, coached her on her stage presence, and corrected her posture and technique with strictness reserved for intermediate students.

Two weeks before the event, her designer came to our practice to see how the costume looked. It was a fitted aquamarine dress, sequined and frilled, and flattered my student’s body. When she danced, it accentuated her movements and showed off her posture.

The designer looked unconvinced, “Your movements are too small and your arms aren’t moving,” she turned to me, seeking confirmation of her assessment, “She should make her movements bigger and her arms have to move more! That’s what bellydance is, right?”

My student looked defeated after weeks of practice and building up her confidence.

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I shook my head at the designer, “Belly dance isn’t big; it’s controlled. The costume will show off her movements.”

I had been trained by a teacher who knew both the dance and its culture. She was strict about our arm placements and posture. She made us work on our technique so that we knew which muscle drove which movement with what texture. We had workshops on stage presence so that we could use the dance to tell a story.

“Our big moves are small moves,” she would always tell us, “Nothing is random. The music is your partner: it has to look like it’s coming from your body.”

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The best belly dancers don’t always do dizzying spins or hip-breaking splits. They move in ways that show off the music. They weave emotions and technique seamlessly. They control their muscles to create specific movements.

Small, not big. Control, not explosion. Love what your body can do, and everything else flows from that.

It was a lesson that I would teach every semester, and one that I keep teaching to this day. It was also a lesson that I saw repeated over the years in other contexts. In Senate hearings, where the softest voices are the most sobering and illuminating (and the loudest ones are the most annoying). In the recent World Cup, where the little country Cabo Verde outlasted football giants before exiting with a well-fought match against Argentina. In a recent homily by our resident guest priest, Fr. Bridge Casas, where he said, “God does not ask for big faith. He asks for real faith.”

It was a lesson that came back last week, when Alex Eala competed in yet another tennis Open. She doesn’t have a powerful serve, something that people have been pointing out for years, and that made many skeptical of her success in the big leagues. What chance, indeed, could a slow, curved, left-handed serve have in a game that prizes speed?

Oh, but what the little serve could do! It was not Eala’s weakness. It was a baby monster that sent the ball spinning, confused right-handed opponents, forced players to run across the court in pursuit of a ball whose direction they had not anticipated. Sometimes it didn’t work; but when it did, the small serve turned into a big problem.

She won the Mubadala Open and more fans. She had beaten top-ranked players, including Zheng Qinwen, the Olympic gold medalist from China. That win prompted a frustrated tennis fan to post: “She isn’t tall, isn’t fast, lacks power, and comes from an obscure Asian island nation.” The South China Morning Post amplified the comment, which earned it backlash online.

Oh, well–the triumph might be bewildering for a country that has only ever confused size with might. Control and restraint can be soft-spoken superpowers in a world that conflates the gigantic with the awe-inspiring. Technique and precision can be pleasant surprises, almost gifts, in a world too easily impressed with antics and distraction.

A week after her debut party, my student sent me a video of her performance. She had retained the choreography, kept her moves small and controlled, and her arms stable.

She was still on the heavy side, but there was no sign of the girl so afraid of herself. She glowed with the joy of a dancer who had made the music her own. She shone the way one can shine only when they are true to their abilities and harness them, instead of destroying their identities in the name of conformity.

In tennis, as in dance, there is space for control, not explosion. Restraint, not randomness. Love for what one can offer, and in what one can become; not hatred for one’s limits. And from that, confidence–and all good things–truly flow.

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iponcedeleon@ateneo.edu