Basketball player...

Singer...

The teacher points at me. Gulp.

Ummm... ballet dancer...?

Soft snickering ensues as I share my passion with the class.

I remember in third grade when my mom led me to a dance studio. As I entered in my

white shirt and black tights, a crowd of giggly girls in purple leotards stared at me—was
I the only boy? My anxiety soon subsided as the music began. By the end of class, I
belonged. Diving into the dance scene through ballet, I soon took up contemporary and
jazz until I found my calling: hip hop.

Dance is my safe haven. It’s where I unleash both my emotions and creativity, and
where I can drop the act of being an adult and return to being just a kid. It’s my family
and takes me away from the harshness of life into a world where nothing can trouble
me.

My entrance into hip hop wasn’t as smooth as my entrance into ballet. I was already late
to hip hop because of the time I had spent in classical styles; however, having my
teammates brush me off until I was good enough made things even worse. I was
transformed from an outgoing kid into someone who faked stomachaches just to escape
class. This feeling of uselessness and alienation is something no child should ever
experience. Therefore, in grade 10, I began to teach hip hop to children of different skill
levels to provide them the inclusive environment that I never experienced. I’ve also
carried my love for working with children into my school life by starting an all-grades
foosball league. Sharing my passion with younger kids brings challenges such as their
short attention spans and infinite energy, but I cherish the wholesome laughter and
ecstatic spirit in our games and dance routines.

Providing young kids with a sense of belonging and family is pure euphoria.
While dance is essential to my personal development, it has also constructed a wall
between me and my father. When he found out I was taking ballet, he was infuriated
that I was doing something “unmasculine” and yelled at my mom, “Pull him out of class!”
When I switched to hip hop, he shouted that I lagged so far behind that it would be
impossible to catch up. Yet, three years later, I’m the Canadian Hip Hop Champion, I
placed 6th at Hip Hop International, and was a semi-finalist on Jennifer Lopez’ NBC
World of Dance. Behind all of this success was not just hard work, but also a guiding
hand: my mom.

My mom has taught me to break through stereotypes and find acceptance in my

pursuits. Following her uplifting example, I’ve not only volunteered for the Canadian
Federal Green Party, helping to raise awareness about climate change, but I’ve also
performed hip hop routines at retirement homes, jolting everyone awake with energetic
beats after hours of violin music and poetry. I didn’t grow up with a dedicated father
figure, but my mom has always been my biggest fan and that’s all I could’ve asked for.
My mom has spent her life supporting me and my pursuits; from my mom, I’ve learned
how to support others. In grade 11, while dancing six hours a day and balancing my
academics with other interests, I realized that learning isn’t “one size fits all.” I’ve taken
this knowledge into the British Columbia Youth Parliament, to my debate team, as well
as my dance coaching career, where I tailor my teaching approaches to varied
audiences.

Dance is my escape from the expectations of others and where I truly find myself. I’m
able to express my emotions through music and movement, something I sometimes find
difficult to do through words. Dance has allowed me to build inclusive communities
everywhere I go, an ability I would like to bring into university.

Dance is the story of my life.

Playing with fire-no, more accurately risking tetanus, gonorrhea, and E.Coli- I dove in;
immediately I choked on the fetid bitterness of decay radiating from every object:
crushed mango White Claws, a broken pair of Beats by Dre – bingo- a rusty microwave.
As I wrestled the expired appliance from the garbage of my next-door fraternity, I
exhaled a silent thanks for not finding clues into the Fraternal Libido. The microwave?
As the “neighborhood recycling guru” I have been granted unlimited access; plus,
everyone knows what goes in the trash, is trash.
But I don’t think so. Inside the microwave was The Golden Fleece: a wire to resurrect
my keyboard. As I sat on my garage floor desoldering and readjusting the fume
extractor, I reminisced about sophomore year when I first began seeing garbage with a
different lens – a frustrated, angry, how-is-this-possibly-happening lens.
Mentally riffling along to Davis’ So What to kill time, an image in the documentary
unplugged the chord to my imaginary backing track: an industrial-swimming pool-sized-
dumpster filled to the brim with unexpired tubs of hummus. Wait. What? The
documentary kept playing… “reducing food waste by 50% could solve global hunger…
a third of global food production goes to waste… methane released by food waste
accounts for 6% of global greenhouse gas emotions.” I didn’t need to hear the statistics,
the hummus swimming pool was enough. My mental melodies washed away to a
puddle of confusion, disgust, and anger: how can our food systems choose to glut
landfills and worsen climate change over helping the undernourished? I didn’t care, call
me naïve but I needed to do something, anything to relieve the pressure cooker of my
frustration.
My release vent came in the form of action. Researching online for volunteer
opportunities, I became more disappointed with every fruitless Google page. On my 23 rd
“Next”, I cut my losses. But I wasn’t ready to give up. Although I was only 16, I refused
to let my age hold me back. Picking up the phone out of desperation, I dialled every
number listed on the provincial government’s agricultural registration list: “sorry”; “sorry,
but no thanks”; “I can give you a call back if anything comes up.” My lack of credibility,
experience, and an adolescent voice left zero room for success. Naturally, I devised a
plan: registering as a provincial non-profit, I solved my credibility problem (check);
volunteering at local meal centers and farms, I solved my experience problem (check);
and instead of calling, I drove farm to farm to talk face to face (people tend to be nicer to
kids when they’re not hiding behind a phone) and with that, my pre-pubescent voice
was no longer a burden, it became my guilt-tripping golden ticket (check, check, double-
check)! And after a year and a half of driving from farmers’ markets to community meal
centers every Sunday, I’m proud to say that I’ve repurposed over 10,000 pounds of
surplus produce into the free meals for the undernourished.
Yet, I know that I’m still not doing enough: I’ve merely treated the symptoms of food
waste in the support trench; I long to join the front line to extinguish the root cause.
Studying Environmental Science and Sustainability in college, I prepare for battle;
armed with knowledge, backed by scientific comrades, I enlist against our tyrannical
food systems.