Into a Malleable Flame

I started flamenco classes when I was 28, but my experience quickly soured. It wasn’t until I found Esmeralda Enrique’s academy that the spark within me fully ignited

I started flamenco classes when I was 28, but my spark didn't fully ignite until I found Esmeralda Enrique

At three years old, I began having a recurring vision. I vividly saw myself dancing in a big red dress with dust from unpaved roads spiralling up around a male figure sitting, playing guitar on a cajon. Only ever a threesecond vision, it was powerful enough to remain a sacred fire in my soul. When I was 28, my vision started to grow dancing feet.

I was 23 when my father passed. Since then I’ve noticed that every year around his death anniversary, I’ve had a random but profound encounter with an older gentleman. When I was 28, around that anniversary, I was walking towards the long corridor of Spadina subway station in Toronto to watch a busker play Spanish guitar. An older man approached me with anticipation. “Excuse me,” he said. “I mean no harm but I feel called to ask you this: is there something you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t yet? Something big, something burning?”

“Flamenco,” I said with no hesitation. “I dream of dancing flamenco, perhaps one day in Spain.” After an enchanted conversation, he ended up buying the Spanish guitarist’s CD for me and sponsored my first flamenco classes. I was elated.

I found a school near my home. The classes were structured and intense, which I liked. The dance studio was small but the depth of the music broke me open in manifold ways. I gradually felt permission to take up space and breathe again after battling postpartum depression while in an unhealthy relationship. It was a brave and healing leap for me, showing up to class with a toddler in stroll and showing up in my new body. The classes and teacher encouraged both. Then it happened.

My teacher said in front of the class, “You’re a beautifully talented flamenco dancer. You move like you dance with Alvin Ailey and in such a short time.” I was shocked. I felt accepted, like I belonged. But it was the last time I would feel that way.

I became targeted by a bully who felt threatened by me. I felt my confidence start to wane while I prepared for my first performance and endured side glances and remarks from my bully. The other dancers grew uncomfortable witnessing the intentional malice but did not speak up, and our instructor overlooked every instance. Perhaps I handled the residuals of fear too well? Maybe it seemed I didn’t need assistance?

As the performance date drew near, tensions rose. Our instructor frequently yelled at us, stomping her cane and exclaiming we were going to ruin her by not performing the way she envisioned. In the thick of her disdain, she once singled me out for not executing a dance move completely. I explained that I was too close to the mirror, and every time I asked my classmate (the bully) to shift right, I was met with harsh words and insults. She further encroached on my space, so I tried to make due.

My teacher claimed I was spoiled, ungrateful and vying to have a chance to be in the front row. She told me to learn to be humble or leave. I saw classmates holding my pain. I was embarrassed to have my son witness me being broken by what I loved. Again.

Muffled conversations before and after class revealed that this was the norm. I asked some classmates why they accepted it. A few expressed that their love for the scarcely taught art form made it worth it. The same voices expressed they had never danced with another flamenco school and had been there for more than five years, some more than 10. Was it time for me to be less expressive? Was it my skin colour? The bullying and emotional attacks never stopped.

On performance day, the verbal onslaught escalated; I was even physically pushed in the dressing room. Trembling and in tears, I remember saying “Reach” to myself behind the curtain, trusting that stretching and breathing deeply would quell the anxiety. I found dignity by stepping onstage.

I walked out from the wing and heard my twoyear-old son exclaim, “Wow, that’s Mommy!” with a joy I had never seen before. I reached into my most painful parts and left my emotions onstage. The older gentleman from the train station witnessed me perform my personal best.

A woman approached me and said, “My dear, you were amazing! You should be at the Spanish academy! Have you heard of Esmeralda Enrique?” She made me promise that I would seek out the academy.

During my audition, Esmeralda was kind and humble. Tenderhearted, she told me that my moves were “not quite flamenco.” She was glad I didn’t have too much to unlearn. From there, she moulded me, not into her idea of a moving body but into a malleable flame.

I knew I was home because she cared about not only my body but also what it housed. She instilled flamenco as a way of life. It manifested in how I flowed through my days and confronted obstacles. Her adjuration came from her cadence and not her tongue. Respect and reverence filled the studio, and our (the students’) love for Esmeralda runs as deep as her love of the complex and mysterious art form.

When she gifted my son flamenco shoes, I understood that a dance instructor held the distinct power to spark or dim a burgeoning light. My son now has a cajon and has fallen in love with guitar from watching me take flamenco canté (singing) classes at the academy alongside a guitarist.

Perhaps, my son is the man in my vision.

I knew I was home because she cared about not only my body but also what it housed.