A Personal Narrative: Girl, Unfurling
Dust plumed around me as I darted through the triangular-roofed, imperial hanoks of Gyeongbok Palace. To gain speed, I lifted my ballerina-pink hanbok skirt, revealing my not-so-dainty tennis shoes. I arrived in the main square, shaking beads of sweat off my face, as a distinctly off-tune drum beat began. Five girls with feathered fans hanging beneath the folds of their silky magenta hanboks floated into the center. Vibrant and tangy notes rang loudly from the nearby gayageum as the dancers flared their fans like peacocks prancing and preening. My eyes widened in awe as each girl snapped their fans open and closed in whip-like motions. The crowd gathered closer, flinching at the quickness of their wrists.
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The air vents in the dance studio whistled as sweat dripped down my neck and my hands, red and blistered from repetitive motion. Seonsaengnim, can you show me again? Waltzing across the room of fledgling fan dancers, her stern gaze sharpened as she effortlessly whipped her fans open and closed just like the dancers at Gyeongbok Palace in magenta. She nodded her head, signaling me to demonstrate; slowly, I lifted my fans from the folds of my practice skirt, preparing to imitate the five dancers’ powerful wrists. With a quick, weak snap, my fans unfolded partially, revealing a quarter of the feathers hot-glued onto the fabric. My instructor sighed. Command the audience with your fans. Demand their attention with your intent. Once again, she held up her fans, unfurling her wings and flying to the next student. Command. My fingers screamed, numb from the wooden panels. Demand. My wrists cried, sore from my pursuit of that crisp, clean, crack that echoed like thousands of nanta drums declaring war.
Every day, I practiced. During harp lessons, I flicked my wrists excessively after gesturing. While sipping my mother’s kimchi jjigae, I balanced the weight of the fan in my unoccupied hand. At school, I habitually hopscotched the choreography from class to class—twirling down hallways, pivoting on squeaky floors, and my sneakers scuffing rhythmically. My fans, hidden in my backpack, felt like an extended limb, a foreign object on my third-generation Korean-American body who answered in English when her grandmother spoke to her in Korean. With every ache, I felt closer to their grace. But, on Sunday, when I attempted to mirror the motion of the dancers in magenta, I failed to unfurl my wings with the same regal authority. When my instructor gestured for a second try, I raised my fans once more, my wrists aching as my mind traveled back to Gyeongbok Palace.
I envisioned my choreography beyond the movement of my wrists, focusing on all elements of buchaechum: the pointed, ivory shoes padding gracefully across the floor, skirts fanning ethereally, and crowns beaded with kaleidoscopic color. Every swish, step, and flick brimmed with desire and overflowed with power as I defied the thundering drums and conducted the vibrato of strings. Command. Stepping forward, I lifted the layers of my skirt, revealing my white tennis shoes as I joined the flock of five. Demand. I searched beyond the simplicity of going through the motions of the routine, unfolding an intent behind my twirling, flicking, and gliding. I danced for my heritage, to spread my culture with every fold of my fan. As I twirled through the steps, my pink hanbok ballooned into a rich magenta as I outstretched my wings, unfurling with a mighty snap.
