Learning Hula as an Alien

Yesterday was my fifth hula class. As I wrote in my previous post, as a beginner, I was placed in a class for children aged 5 to 12. The relaxed, child-friendly atmosphere is fun.

When the teacher asks the children, "Wait until the bathroom break to go to the bathroom, okay?" I answer "Okay!" along with the kids. We also learn a little Hawaiian, so when the teacher asks, "What do you call wind in Hawaiian?" I ponder "Hmm" along with the children.

Sometimes, when I give the right answer and the teacher says, "Good job, Lilikoi!" I feel pretty good about it. Since everyone is bad at dancing, there is no pressure at all. And it is fun to improve little by little with everyone else. It is all good.

However, I was looking forward to becoming friends with the children, but that was a miscalculation. There is an invisible wall between us adult participants and the children. I tried to break it down by saying hello, telling them they were good, or asking their names, but I felt a sense of bewilderment from the children—not so much "Who is this lady?" but more like "Who is this alien?"

That is only natural. If someone my age, who could easily be their grandmother, talks to them in a friendly way as a classmate rather than a teacher, it is only natural that they would not know how to react.

Actually, this feeling of being an "alien" is not bad. There is a freedom that is not bound by age, gender, or nationality. I enjoyed my fifth class as a mysterious alien.

By the way, yesterday was also the sixth birthday of the girl who often dances next to me. I was very quiet as a child, so I felt a sense of kinship with this shy girl and tried to approach her, but I was shot down.

But when we all sang Happy Birthday, I sang with all my heart. I sincerely wished for a happy life for that child, who was listening to the song shyly but with a smile. This kind of unrequited love from an alien is not bad either.