Responsive Teaching
Part 1: Bruno
Name pronunciation: Em-me Fan-s-ler | Pronouns: she/her
By Emmy Fansler, DWC Ambassador
On the first day of a theater camp for homeless and abused teens, I walked down the line of 40 campers and tried to teach what I had naively considered a “basic” ripple of movement. I stood next to a kid I would later learn was named Bruno, demonstrating and loudly explaining to the room how they should reach and hold each other and told the camper behind him, “now put your hand up on her shoulder like this.”
Bruno flinched at the sudden touch, and then his head snapped around, big brown eyes flitting from straight at me to the ground and back again.
“I’m a boy.”
Dead quiet. But soon after, a snicker came from across the room. And then a, “Say what?!” from somewhere down the line.
After that, the whole room laughed, aside from the 10-12 counselors and volunteers who tried to calm everyone down, a demoralized and humiliated Bruno, and me. The horror struck teaching artist that just publicly misgendered this kid whose trauma had already made it difficult to trust anyone or feel like he belonged anywhere. The activity was over and no one was willing to pick it back up, even before I’d finished teaching the entire ripple.
Talk about a humbling moment. This was not the place for the choreography I had dreamed up. I hadn’t even met these kids or considered their stories. I just assumed they’d be excited to learn what I had to teach them.
From this large group activity, the campers were split into groups and brought through my dance and movement class in 45-minute rotations. I don’t remember how many groups I worked with before Bruno’s, but I remember feeling the palpable anxiety when he came into the room— some of it (or perhaps most of it) being my own.
The goal for that day was to get to know the campers and start generating ideas for the piece they would perform at the end of two weeks. The morning had proven to me that throwing them into my preconceived routines and patterns was not going to work, so I had them stand in a circle and tell me some random things— maybe their name, pronouns, something they wanted me to know about them, something they were good at, a time they felt brave… something like that— so I could determine my next move.
Truth be told, I don’t remember any of their answers— at all. What I remember is the way Bruno nervously moved as he answered the questions— shuffling forward a few steps, then backward, over and over. His eyes everywhere but at me, hands fidgeting first in his pockets, then in his long hair, then with each other. And then when his turn was over, he stopped. I had been mesmerized, and his abrupt stop disarmed me and the “cool” I’d been trying to keep.
He noticed my staring, and I blurted out that the way he moved had sort of hypnotized me. He blushed and people stood around awkwardly, but I was inspired and his nervous movement had given me an inkling of an idea I wanted to play with. I asked him if he realized that he’d been moving, and then showed him with my body what he’d been doing. I asked the entire circle to try the forward and backward steps with me, and reluctantly they did. I added a look over the shoulder when they stepped backward, and then after a few more sets added a sigh and a single fidgeting gesture. They fell into a rhythm and suddenly I realized they were doing it without needing my continuous prompting. They listened to each other’s footfalls and coordinated their breaths organically. Watching it all come together in my head, I asked them to face the same direction instead of into the circle. The whole group trudged forward two steps, stumbled back one, brushed their hands on their pant legs, looked back, and sighed. Starting the process over and over and over.
With Bruno at the front of the formation, I asked him to make it travel, and lead it all the way across the floor. I asked a couple of them if they’d be comfortable trying it while carrying someone on their backs. I asked two more if they’d be willing to be carried. This, it seemed, was the moment they knew there was magic in the making.
The teens were engaged, excited, and enthusiastic at the way the sequence progressed from Bruno’s organic movement into the soul-stirring piece they performed for a packed house the following Friday. They partnered. They rippled. They rolled and reached and leapt and lifted Bruno up to the sky with a blue cyc and remnants of broken furniture hanging from the flies. They started with diagonal trudging and ended with eyes up, chests open, backs arched, hands on shoulders, showing support and care for each other in front of hundreds of strangers. Not one of them having taken a dance class before camp, but all of them KNOWING they had just moved the hearts of every single person witnessing them. There were no pirouettes, no high kicks, no tricks of any kind… maybe four pointed feet, total. Just a bunch of beautiful teens with a story to tell— one that began unfolding out of the anxious movement and emotional responses of one brave and vulnerable student named Bruno.
This was a formative experience, not only for the kids who found a platform to share their stories of resilience, but for me as a teacher and choreographer. It forever shifted the way I choreograph and opened my eyes to the beauty of teaching the non-traditional dancer. You don’t need years of training, the perfect body, or endless financial resources to be a dancer and tell your story through movement. You need a body and space. And… you don’t need dancers with a life of devoted ballet technique, marley floor, and perfectly performed etiquette to choreograph and create a life-changing piece— you need the willingness to see the humans in front of you, an openness to what they’re sharing with you just by existing, curiosity, creativity, and love for the incredible work you get to do.
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