Foreword

I first met Chasta in 2007, when she was the coach of my dance team during my junior year of high school. We moved around a lot when I was a child, and dance was the one thing that remained my constant. I had a lot of dance teachers, and I can say, without hesitation, that Chasta is the one with whom I connected the most. She was young and enthusiastic, which of course, made her way more relatable to me than my older and more “traditional” dance teachers, but beyond that, she had a spark. At the time, I could not pinpoint it, but there was something about her that made me feel I could accomplish whatever I set my mind to.

As I came to know her, I started to recognize that she was much more than a phenomenal dance educator; she was an incredible human who had a mission to truly leave the world a better place. It didn’t take me long to learn that she could (and would) accomplish literally anything she wanted. As our dance team coach, she would always give us crazy choreography for the skill level of the team (she chose not to cut anyone who auditioned because she wholeheartedly believed in everyone), followed by an inspirational pep talk. One of these pep talks ended with, “Don’t make excuses; make it happen.” While I think that this was something she came up with on the spot, it is something that has stuck with me and is what I think best represents who she is.

Our dance team ended the same year it started, but I’m lucky our friendship didn’t. I so vividly remember the day Chasta called me to tell me she had signed the lease for her own studio—a goal that she had set her mind to and made happen with no excuses. She was still young, I was entering college out of state, and I remember her talking about the studio with such passion to create a happy and magical place of inclusive dance education. I saw the studio being built, was there for some of the very first classes, and although I was out of state in undergrad for the first few seasons, it was my second home in the summer and on breaks. I would always look forward to teaching camps, guest classes, and of course, choreographing for the competition team.

See, I grew up at studios that competed; it was almost like competitive dance studios were equivalent to higher dance training. In other words, if you wanted to dance at a high level, you competed. If you didn’t, you “just danced recreationally.” If the studio was going to be such a happy and magical place that pushed kids to their fullest potential, why wouldn’t we offer competitive teams?

After undergrad, I moved back to Raleigh as the Assistant Director of Stage Door Dance Productions and remained there as I worked my way through graduate school. As part of this job, one of my main responsibilities was to coordinate our competition team. While this started out as something fun and exciting, with parents who were grateful for additional opportunities and more intensive training, it quickly turned into the complete opposite. Shows about the competitive dance industry were being aired on national TV, and the industry started quickly shifting to an environment driven by profits, popularity, trophies, and made-up recognitions for the sake of giving every child an award. With this shift, there were more competitions, more awards, more nationals, more conventions. Every competition became completely subjective and lacked consistency across the scoring and the judging—a concept that was very hard for parents to understand. As teachers, we were on the front end of communication, and it was not easy to explain to a parent why a child may have received the “rising star award,” a platinum adjudication, and second overall at one competition and solely a High Gold adjudication at the next. It became exhausting for us, our staff, and honestly—the children. It was easy for kids to post things on social media, see awards won by other studios, follow other dancers on various social media platforms, and utilize those social media platforms to develop a self-image of what kind of dancer they should be based off the one(s) with the most followers.

Exhausted, burned out, and dreading competition season, Chasta approached me one day with the idea to cut our competition team and switch to a noncompetitive studio. I will be the first to admit that I was apprehensive. After all, 90 percent of my time was devoted to building relationships with our competitive dancers and parents. How would that impact the studio? How many people would leave? If competing was how dancers received more intensive training, what would happen to our clients if we said we were taking this component away?

Then, one thing happened that made me realize this wasn’t such a bad idea after all: burned popcorn.

As part of being a larger, competitive studio, we spent an incredible amount of time planning summer intensives for our students. While we opened them to any dancer wishing to participate, they were mainly attended by our competitive dancers and often coincided with some sort of competition choreography for the upcoming season. We would use these intensives to expose our dancers to a variety of styles and teachers with the idea that it would help them develop well-rounded training. We started with local talent and guest teachers, but eventually, parents would attend conventions, see big names teaching, and request that those teachers guest-teach at our intensives. We also realized that more dancers would attend if we reallocated our budget to bring in these “big names.”

With insane teaching rates came hotel rooms and food stipends, so we often only brought in a few of these artists—but it kept the dancers happy, which kept the parents happy. One summer, we brought in a guest artist who was featured on multiple TV shows, taught at conventions we attended, and was well received by our dancers and parents. This guest artist flew in one evening and was scheduled to fly out the next day after a day of teaching. Since we always provided transportation to and from the studio, we made sure any guest artists who needed overnight accommodations stayed at the same hotel. This night, one of Chasta’s friends was guest-teaching as well and had arranged to carpool with this other person to get to the studio the next morning for classes.

It was that morning that Chasta received a call from her friend that our “star” guest artist’s room was completely engulfed in lingering marijuana smoke. Chasta called me to ask what our best course of action would be. Fortunately, this person did not seem under the influence at the studio.

Our first course of action was to immediately place another studio staff member in the room during this guest artist’s class to ensure the instruction was quality. The guest artist was leaving immediately after classes, so they were not going to be returning to the hotel. We had the keys to the room, as we generally handled checkout. We hopped in the car and headed over to check things out. After all, if it was as bad as it was reported, we didn’t know if authorities would be involved (remember: this was in the early years of the studio when marijuana was still criminalized in North Carolina), or if at the very least, we would be charged for smoking in a nonsmoking hotel.

Well, we get there and notice the McDonald’s trash from the previous night and the unmistakable smell. We did the only thing two stumped problem solvers know how to do and jumped on Google. We were quickly informed of the one thing readily known to cover up the smell of marijuana: burned popcorn. Who knew? We sure didn’t, but it makes sense.

So, while our dancers and staff were learning from this well-established and respected artist, feeling as if they were receiving the best training out there because of this person’s resume, Chasta and I were in the recently vacated hotel room burning popcorn to cover up the smell of stale marijuana to avoid receiving a smoking charge on top of all of the other fees we had paid to bring this person to the studio. This was the turning point for me.

It wasn’t the hundreds of parent emails I received expressing concerns over artistic choices we made that season, awards ceremonies that lasted until well past 1:00 a.m., eighteen- to twenty-hour days at competitions/conventions without seeing the light of day, or sleepless nights wondering if what we were doing was good enough. It was the burned popcorn that made me realize we didn’t need the competitive industry to be successful, and that our dancers would be better off if we channeled our time and energy into providing both excellent dance education and skills that our dancers could use to thrive beyond the studio.

It’s been a few years since we transitioned out of the competitive industry, and I can honestly say that walking away was one of the best decisions that we could have made. I eventually went on to receive my master’s in counseling, PreK-12th Grade Educator’s License, and accreditation from the National Board of Certified Counselors. I worked as an elementary school counselor and served as a director for a local nonprofit, but I somehow manage to always find my way back to the studio. I truly believe that this is because it is now finally that happy, magical place that Chasta dreamed of so many years ago.

Our dancers are happy, our parents are happy, our staff is happy. We are giving our students skills that they need to be successful in life and preparing them for the world outside of high school. Children as young as eight are coming into the studio with ideas on how to support local community organizations, people (children and adults) are kind to one another, and there isn’t jealousy sparked by meaningless competition adjudications or resentment fueled by the outcome of awards ceremonies. Our dancers are hosting shows/events and raising funds that are truly making a difference in the world. Children are starting to see that you don’t need an award to be rewarded—rewards come when you become your best self and positively impact the lives of others.

So, am I anti-competition now? No, I’m not. In fact, from my professional experience working with children, I believe that healthy competition is necessary for developing basic life skills, such as sportsmanship, perseverance, and goal setting. Yet, the dance competition industry’s environment is not healthy. Over-rewarding children with participation trophies, made-up awards, and defining success based off of the subjective opinions of a few select judges is ultimately doing a huge disservice to our future generation.

As educators, we have the privilege of working with and shaping children every day. So why not take advantage of this opportunity and teach all children how to set goals that will truly better themselves and make a difference in the community? It’s time for us to stand together and use our time, energy, and resources to teach the importance of setting meaningful goals and being good people.

It’s time that we model how to use our skills, passions, and talents inside and outside the studio to positively impact the lives of others. It’s time that we trash the trophies. After all, a diamond or crystal award has never determined one person’s ability to succeed, and one’s self-worth is defined by way more than the number of followers they have on social media.

Oh, and if you can relate to anything that I’ve said or if you truly feel that this is what you need to do to improve your studio culture, your quality of life, and the dance education your students are receiving, then I leave you with words from one of the smartest and most credible women I know: ”Don’t make excuses; make it happen!” You CAN do this, and I guarantee you will feel so much better once you do.

—Sara Thames, MA, NCC