They call us the “me generation,” but my friend, Susana, is not a member. In our high ponytails Susana, and I stretched after dance class. While I sat reaching for my toes Susana practiced the hula. I watched her reflection. Her dark fingers glazed through the air, and her black hair switched. I jumped up from the hardwood floor and asked her to show me how to dance. We laughed as Susana stood behind me and guided my hips.
Weeks later at lunch, over our lunch sacks, I asked Susana what she thought I could perform at the Miss Spanish Fork pageant. I looked up over my peanut butter sandwich at Susana’s chocolate dimples, and knew I was in for something…
For weeks during lunch we walked with my duffle bag, and a CD player to Susana’s house to practice Tahitian dancing, a form similar to hula. I have been on club volleyball, dance, and track teams but nothing was as physically strenuous as Tahitian dancing. Susana taught me, and her mom, dad, brothers, sisters, and anyone who showed up would sit on the green coach stomping the beat chanting the steps.
At last I stood on stage with the lights melting my caked on makeup in Susana’s gigantic headdress, and her blue lei. At the end of the night I was awarded Miss Scholarship, but Susana received no money for her hard work. This helped me realize people who are not apart of the “me generation” give up their time. I wanted to be like Susana and so I adopted a grandma named Clara I visit once a week at the retirement home. Finally I understand the irony about giving up my time, afterward I never feel like I gave anything up.
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