The Withered Jasmine

In my early years, I eagerly signed up for a weekend dance class. The dance instructor, a formidable woman in her forties or fifties, had a knack for distributing scoldings with impartiality - students and parents alike were fair game. Curiously, she seemed to show me some leniency. Despite my glaring lack of natural dance talent, I earned her favor by being the most obedient pupil, diligently mimicking her every step without uttering a word. While her demeanor could be quite severe, I always felt I could weather her stern teaching. In retrospect, her words were laced with sharpness. She'd criticize with statements like, "How did you even manage to braid your hair like that? Straighten your posture; you look as though you've aged prematurely." However, her harshest critiques were typically reserved for those who displayed disobedience or slower learning. But the most disheartening moment in her class occurred during auditions for a grand school-wide talent show. The performance in question required mastering the intricate dance routine set to the tune of "Jasmine Flower." Out of our class of over twenty hopefuls, only one student would earn the coveted spot-on stage. I prepared diligently and brimming with confidence, I stepped up to audition. Yet, my dreams were shattered when I wasn't chosen to perform. What stung the most wasn't the rejection itself, but the bewildering reason she provided. She said, "You danced quite admirably, but your stature, my dear, is the issue. You stand out awkwardly in the lineup." It was as if I had been blindsided by an unexpected gust of wind on a sunny day. The problem was that this particular criterion hadn't been shared with us beforehand. I had poured hours of effort into mastering the "Jasmine Flower" dance, only to be disqualified based on this unforeseen twist of fate. In the aftermath of that audition, my enthusiasm for dance classes waned, like a wilting flower deprived of sunlight.