Dance Steps of Philippine Folk Dance

Fundamental Dance Steps of Philippine Folk Dance

The lucky accident Probably every Zumba fan knows this story: Alberto ‘Beto’ Pérez invented Zumba by accident. He was an aerobics instructor in his home town of Cali, Colombia. One day he forgot the music for his class. He had some cassettes of Latin dance music in his bag. He played them and improvised the exercises: a mix of dance steps and aerobic movements. His class loved it. The music was different, the moves looked attractive and the workout was fun. That’s how this ultra-energetic new fitness programme was born. Before, things were not easy for Beto. As a child, he loved dancing: he watched and imitated John Travolta, but his mother had no money for dance lessons. At the age of fourteen Beto already worked to help support his family. Still, he danced when he could. In the late 1980s, a dance called the lambada became very popular. Beto won a national lambada competition when he was nineteen. After that, a dance academy in Cali contacted him with an offer: he could study dance and teach aerobics. It was then, as an aerobics instructor, that he created Zumba. He decided to take his idea to the USA. He went to Miami, Florida with little money and almost no English. Fitness centre managers were not interested in his videos at first. Then one day a gym owner said, ‘OK, teach me.’ It was early afternoon, the gym was empty. But soon people started coming in. When they saw Beto dancing, they immediately wanted to join this new class. And so he got his first job in America. Breaking the world record for the largest Zumba class (Mandaluyong City, The Philippines). In Miami, he met Alberto Perlman and Alberto Aghion, who became his business partners. Together, the ‘three Albertos’ built up Zumba to the global business it is today. The company trains thousands of certified instructors, runs classes for all age groups, sells music, training videos and clothes. According to the official website, fifteen million people around the world take part in Zumba classes to keep fit and have fun. And it all started by accident!

Basic Steps of Folk Dance

Maria Celebrates Brazil Maria and her family are in their bright, hot kitchen. "Please, Mãe, por favor!" Maria begs. Mãe speaks Portuguese. This is the language of Brazil. "No matter how much you beg or plead, you must go to practice. The parade is next week." "It's not fair," says Maria in English. Mãe does not know a lot of English. Maria is surprised when she asks, "What is not fair about going to practice? You must do the right thing." "Ana invited me to her house," Maria answers. "I want to go!" Pai says, "Maria, the parade is important. People from around the world come to see it. They try our food, see how we dress, and how we live. It is a chance for us to share our culture." "I know but I really want to see Ana," says Maria. Pai says, "Maria, you can see Ana another time. They are giving out costumes at practice today." Maria thinks about her father's words. Pai is right. She and the other children have worked hard for a year. They practiced their dance steps over and over. They even made their own bright colorful costumes. "You're right," Maria says to her father. "I'll go to practice. I'll tell Ana I cannot visit her." One week passes. Lots of people line the streets. The children in Maria's group are wearing their sparkling costumes. They know each dance step. They dance to the beat. The crowd moves aside as they make their way down the street. When the crowd moves away, Maria sees a woman with a camera. She is hurrying. The woman scurries by Maria. She puts her camera to her eye. Maria smiles from ear to ear. She is excited to be in the parade. Click! The woman takes a picture of Maria. Maria is proud of her hard work!

It's Cinco de Mayo, Carlos! Carlos and Maria walked past the city park after the baseball game. "It's almost Cinco de Mayo," Carlos said. "The festival is only a month away." "Miss Lopez is teaching us a special dance for the festival," said Maria. "We need one more boy." "Will you dance with us?" asked Maria. "Are you dancing in front of people?" asked Carlos. "Miss Lopez will help you," said Maria, smiling. That evening, Carlos asked Abuela about Cinco de Mayo. "There was a big battle on May 5th, in 1862," said Abuela. "A big army came to attack the small town of Puebla." "Only a small group of young soldiers lived in Puebla. They were scared, but they didn't give up," said Abuela. "The big army didn't think the young soldiers would fight," said Abuela. "But the young soldiers won!" she said. "So, that's what we celebrate on Cinco de Mayo!" said Carlos. Carlos couldn't sleep that night. He thought about the soldiers. He thought about learning the dance. "I can be brave, too," he said. Miss Lopez showed Carlos the steps. He stepped on Maria's foot. He tripped and slipped. "Don't worry," said Maria. "You'll get better." Carlos felt he would never learn. But he didn't give up. His father gave him a surprise on the morning of the festival. "Real cowboy boots!" Carlos said. There were so many things to see. Carlos and Maria stopped to watch a puppet show. The crowd was clapping. "I hope they clap for us," said Carlos. They saw rows of shining cars. "Let's look at the hot rods!" he said. "Hurry, Carlos!" said Maria. "We just have time to put on our costumes." It was time for their dance. Carlos looked at the big crowd. His heart pounded. "You can do it," whispered Maria. Then the music started. People began to clap in time to the music. Carlos stomped his feet in his new cowboy boots. Suddenly, the music stopped. It was over. He hadn't tripped once. The crowd cheered and clapped. Abuela's cheer was the loudest!

“On this night, we share a roof protecting us from fleets of inequity. Our unification promises a better tomorrow. Those larger than myself, sitting on their marble thrones, sipping blood from cups composed of human skin and singing songs of so-called virtue, grow weaker each moment. Their caravans are revolting. There is hope yet. There is progress! Though tonight may mark a countdown, it is still a celebration. Look at all we have done, not just for Trials but for Palatium Infra as a whole. In four years, when I’m no longer Sovereignty, the Spoiled Purity and his people will continue to strive. So drink! Smoke! Crush up those exotic plants and snort them! We will not falter, weaken, or wane. Our influence is expanding, and somebody new opens their eyes every day. Even the Silbys of Aculeus have reached alarming potentials despite their embittered minds. So long as you relish in tonight, dance, and pray to your “dead” Gods, our revolution shall rise beyond the bounds of class, and when I’m only a commoner, we shall rise again beyond our brainwashed adversaries! Cheers, my people. Cheers!” Followers raised their cups. Some clinked theirs together. Others stood still and screamed breathlessly in agreement. I smiled with courtesy, then stepped off my platform. My voice still rang across the cellar. Speeches before were grander. Those displays were supposed to be emptying, and yet this one left me bloated, swollen tight. I watched as they popped the corks of their bottles and chanted in the name of Purity. Maybe the quality of my words wasn’t what mattered to them anyway, so long as I screamed loud enough. There’s no merit in attacking your people, a voice corrected me. “That’s right,” I said aloud. “Knox, my-my Sovereign!” squealed a nearby devotee, jittering as he stuffed his face with catered pastries. He was one I’d never seen before or had failed to remember. “Look what I’ve found! It’s wine, and not the shoddy Infran kind, either. Earth-made with good fruit! I don’t know how anyone managed to get their hands on this. Maybe some space travel mischief.” He giggled and held up a small glass bottle. “How neat.” “I want you to have it, Sir.” I nodded my head. “Yes, of course. Thank you.” Backing off into the midst of rowdy disciples, I clutched the bottle. What a waste of grapes. It could have been jam instead. Earthly food had a superior taste, ripe with delicate intricacies and nostalgia, but Palatium Infra had mastered the art of alcohol. Why waste your time with a drunkenness so sad and sickening? The booze of trash. Not many more followers approached me. The barren peroration must have upset them. My hands itched to submerge into my suit pockets, and my legs stood suddenly numb, wobbling. Four more years until I’m nothing. But tonight, you are nothing. “Shut up,” I told myself. Tightly packed together in the corner of the dwelling sat the Sibyls. A mound of writhing fabric and tones of skin made up their unified silhouette. I snapped the strap of the nearest gown, balancing on my hands and knees, waving the bottle before them. In their almost rodent nature, narrow noses prodded my way. Their dresses wrinkled and fell to their ankles. Knees dropped, and eyes widened. Many grumbled at me like hungry she-beasts. Those newer ones with faded curtains for hair, sunken eyes, and dirtied nails looked, hid their face, then sobbed. I imagined them in a pack together, fighting wildly against the Spoiled Purity in their rat decorum–biting down with square teeth laced with rabies. “I’ve got you all something,” I said. “Go back off to your pedestal and yap some more. We don’t want it.” A woman rose from the pile and spat. “You don’t even know what it is yet. It's Earth hooch, or more likely a near-flawless replica. I figured you girls would also like a chance to enjoy yourselves tonight.” “Your playmates have been harassing us since the moment you hung the banners and opened the cellar door.” The youngest, with a striking cyan mop upon her head, uncoiled from the mass. What was she now? 20, 21? We celebrated a birthday recently, I thought as she spun around me. “I remember something about a promise. Multiple promises, actually. Are you trying to bribe us into just shutting up and taking it? Because if another sticky, 40-year-old, Earth-born virgin gropes my shoulder, I’m going to have an aneurysm!” the girl continued. “Why not an Infran follower? Do you like it when they touch you?” I returned her accusing tone. “I’m sorry, sweet prophets, that you feel I’ve neglected my duties. I’ll keep a better eye out. Remember, you can always just holler if somebody is bothering you. And Anwen, friend, if I’ve ever tried to bribe you with anything, it was certainly the hair dye. I mean, look at you! Such handsomeness!” I exclaimed. The other Siblys began to encircle her, uttering compliments or even announcements of their envy. Anwen disappeared in a wink with flushed cheeks back into the mound. “I’ll just leave this here.” Smiling, I set down the bottle. ** “141, 143. . .” I counted each step as I trekked the staircase. There was no doubt I lost track somewhere. The ledges kept spawning under my feet, infinitely multiplying until I wasn’t moving at all–swallowing me up in a whirlpool of stone. My tie still hung around my neck, and my blazer remained tied around my hips as a skirt. Streaks of red dribbled off from the cavity in my chest. It was a gorgeous marking, sensual to my fingertips as I traced its edges. Purity, oh, Purity. Purity and his wings of burnt skin. Purity and his many faces. Purity the spoiled. Purity the mutilated. The Silbys did not bother waiting for me. On bare feet, they stormed up the stairs to their room. A trail of red, though in paint unlike mine, streamed after them. None looked remotely near me as they squeaked and gossiped intangibly. I saved them, those Infran broads, enlightened them. As much as they liked to deny it, spit at me, and bask in the thought of their victimhood, in this home, they stood empowered. You’ve done well, my thoughts affirmed, though in the manner of an insincere commentator rather than a hype man. Teeth grace in tile violin goes laundry paper when. It dissolved into an intruding drivel. I rubbed my head and sniveled. “Do you need help, Knox?” called a Silby. Fattened by my coddling, her shadow fell upon me from the doorway steps ahead. I attempted counting again. There must’ve been at least another hundred between me and her. “I’m hallucinating some,” I said, breathing deeply to suppress a burp as I struggled to recall her name. Two syllables. Typically Latin, though sometimes English. Drops of slobber leaked from my mouth. “I’m hallucinating some, Tybal. Do you like your name, Tybal? I would have named you something better. Ty-Tyballinia. No, we’d have to eliminate the ‘ball’ aspect. It sounds too crude.” “One foot in front of the other,” she said. So I walked. Mess greeted me at the doorway. Dirtied culinary obscured the dark wooden countertops, and the sink lay running. I approached the kitchen table, sat, and set my face down upon its cool wooden surface. Assaulting my nose was the smell of neglected flowers, like soil mixed with the kind of sweet cough medicine that would have left me gagging as a child. Open windows whispered songs of the twilight hour through the vessels of busy trolleys and shooting guns. My mouth strained to vomit, but there was nothing in my stomach to regurgitate except the petals of Stulto’s bloom, which came out effortlessly in little sputters. Teetering, I stood up and brushed disgorged plant parts off the tabletop. “Love,” I said as I slogged up yet another staircase. “Are you awake?” She said she’d wait. Somebody’s gotten her. No, she always misses movie night. That sleepyhead, I assured myself. There was a stirring amidst the manor’s cloak of dusk. Portraits of myself, my wife, and my daughter turned to face me as the hallway lights flickered, escaping their quartz frames to penetrate my ears with nonsense. The taxidermied heads of Infran creatures bared their teeth. I stopped to stare at my favorite, an adabactor with daunting spiked tusks poking out from its forehead. Its nose remained black and sharp, and its eyes wide with malice. “Where is my Spes, Adaba-boy? Is she sleepy?” There’s someone in the house. The sounds of the stirring rose along with my blood pressure. Footsteps orbited around me, drawing near and far and then near again, little dancers in the dark. The carpet immersed me in its mass of purples and blues, leaving my skin stained indigo and my vision abstracted. I toiled to reach the master bedroom across the aisle as it stretched out to me with bright lights and celestial howling, like a dove struggling in a pool of oil. Never again with Stulto’s bloom. Never again on what was already a bad night. My hand brushed the doorknob, and the high abruptly faded into only a persistent hum-buzz twirling around my brain. The portraits returned to their typical depression–Spes posing with her ax, Ari’s school photo, and myself in the cap I wore when addressing the military with the Verbis emblem embroidered in its center. All lifeless shots. Who were they for when they captured not the subject’s essence but only some fragment of their identity? They used to feel personal, not advertisements of some supposed characters. Servants, babysitters, and likewise civilian guests, I reminded myself, mustn’t forget whose home they’re in. Yet my body moved independently, taking Ari’s from its hook and laying it backward against the wall to hide her distant grin and tamed posture. It was time for new pictures. Sweet ones, real ones; time was ticking. I approached my own when the stirring began again. Groans and squeals erupted from the vents as if someone had set a pen of pigs loose in my crawlspace. No, not the crawlspace, my bedroom door. I turned the ruby knob. Underneath a blanket wrestled my two squealing piglets, their skins melting together beneath the layer of duvet. Fishnet leggings and manicured nails outstretched and scraped at the sheet beneath them. One raised its head, a salmon-colored man with sweat running down his forehead. Through the crack in the door, we met eyes, his Infran Dr. Sesuss nose flaring its narrow nostrils. No mark of the Spoiled Purity existed carved onto his naked body. My chest felt tight. I stepped back. I was suffocating. Spes emerged from the linens, her hair flowing down her back and her dark skin glistening in front of the bedroom window. She giggled and held the man, the blanket falling and revealing inches of her body I had not seen in months. “Darling,” whispered the rosy-faced man, “look.” He was unfathomably ugly and grotesquely young, with beady, lifeless pupils that dilated when he faced me. The excess flesh on his face sagged while he bit down on his thin lips. My wife faced me, gasped, and strained to cover herself. Suddenly, I was a stranger. A small child who had walked into his parents having sex. I unfurled the door completely. “Get out of my house,” I said. The man stayed in place. “Get out of my house,” I repeated. “Knox,” Spes began. Tears ran down her round cheeks. “Shut up!” I turned to the man, picking up a marble trophy from on top of my dresser. “Get out of my house! I’ll kill you!” “Knox!” Spes sobbed. “God damn it! I hate you! You barely look at me. Every day, there’s less passion. God, God, God, I don’t want to fuck a dead man!” she screamed, “You get out! Get! Get!” My hands wrapped tighter around the statue. That pig of a man was attached to her at the side, his face equipped with a scowl that challenged mine. He thought I was weak; frail like a decaying dementia-ridden senior. I imagined his skull bashed in, his scowl gone, and the feist and confidence in his face beaten into numbness. A new portrait was in order of such brutality, him as a splintered slab of wood, rashed and beaten, a carcass licking my boot. The churning in my brain had come back. Every wall shook. Clock faces came to life and rang in alarm. Indescribable noises caressed my eardrum before breaking into sorrowful weeps. Was it my own? I stared at Spes in motionless frenzy, clenched my teeth, and screamed like a siren. Passionless. What a lie! An excuse, more like. One that erased all my ventures, reducing me to a nobody. But I was not a nobody. I thought of my sect, my campaigns, my endurance through the political brutality of my empty hive-mind world–even my collection of literature, maps, and artifacts. I thought of daring nights alone with Spes when we were young, ravaging each other, two sardonic eggheads suddenly overcome with desire. The veins in my neck throbbed as I gasped for air. It was all I had. I threw the figurine at the man’s head. Eye shut, I heard the thud. A million singing voices of victory flooded out of the cracks in the floorboard. Proving myself a man to the woman I loved in a display of fervent violence was passion. I strained my ears for his cries, though I did not look yet. There had to be a pause, a moment of relief, where I stood tall as a skyscraper and seemingly fought to stay contained in front of my wife and her wounded, quivering paramour. Frantic footsteps rushed off the bed and past my side. I turned and grappled against myself to seize my wife’s shoulder. “Spes!” My eyelids lifted. Escaping was the man with that same numb expression in which I had imagined him. “You’re insane,” he said. I swiveled back towards the bed. With her curly locks flowing over her breasts and her limbs bent at her sides, Spes sat limp pressed against the headboard, her forehead bludgeoned and the statue resting on her stomach. Lips pursed and sweet, my Renaissance beauty reclined there in the guise of a squashed bug. But she was not dead. The desk ornament I flung was only the size of my shoe. Spes, that dramatist, may have been slightly hurt but was far from dead. She only wanted me to think she was to observe me at my most distraught, like a leech feeding on misery. “Get up.” Staggering toward the bed, I said. “You wanted passion? I showed you passion. ‘Shoved it right into your head. Of course, we both know who that gesture was meant for. . .” I fumbled to find my wit. Cold skin met my hands as I stroked her face, unable to resist checking her pulse, even though she was not dead. “I love you, Spes,” I said. Rain pelted against a nearby window. “Spes, please. Please.” No vibration answered my plea. I lifted my hand, sitting next to her now. Tears did not come. There was not any blood on the trophy, but when I picked it up, it felt to be now only a cruel instrument. It depicted a younger me in white marble, with my glasses and collared shirt being the only things painted. Both were in pink. It was a favorable color. I scrambled from the bed to vomit pure digestive bile on the rug. My stomach heaved. I ran my nails along every piece of myself I saw, a dog chasing my tail. As I slammed myself against walls and convulsed, my own heart grew ever louder in my chest. “Dad? I heard–” Ari’s slippered feet hammered across the floor. “Mom? Mom?” I kept my eyes on the storm. Silence fell. “She-She isn’t—your—.” Gasps interrupted every syllable she spoke. “You’re a murderer. Bad. Like they said,” she breathed, “ You beat her!” The words became mush, alphabet soup. Ari ran back down the hall. “My-My mom is dead. . . .Yes. . . Manor of the Trials Sovereignty. . .Ari Sorkin. . . I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me,” she said, presumably over the phone. It was all too fast. I crawled onto the windowsill, opened the glass, and let myself plummet into the alley below. Gusts of wind howled. The lack of motion or sensation informed me I had passed and again lived. Another Palatium Infra, another strange planet in which the celestial endowed rotting men with the opportunity to inhabit. Was this it? Was it all just an impossible limbo of galactic traveling? My surroundings were overwhelmingly gray, an abyss of clouds. Perhaps I had now met the real coming world, and my family and old friends lived here, ready to rush to my sides, lift me up, and jump for joy. Spes would be there. She would be enraged, but at least she’d be there. You are a bad man. You are a bad man. My eyelashes fluttered. There was a tugging sensation in my leg. The fog was wavering along with my ascendance. “No,” I yearned, trying to grip the clouds and stick them in place. “Stay with me.” But the peace was fleeting. I felt the cement under me and the moist garments clinging to my figure. My leg burned. Carefully, I craned my neck, only to observe the promenade as my surroundings. The most underwhelming of filth and danger, individually Infran. Forever my coming world. What a fool I was, having forgotten my blessing. Those idiot Gods could not tell the difference between assassination and self-infliction; a faulty insurance plan. The urge to cry at last set over me, and so I sat and wailed hot salvia into my palm, shielding my mouth to muffle the noise. Thunder echoed my hushed howling. Raindrops turned to pebbles. Under the ambiance of the stormy night, I could have sworn I heard troops stomping, guns cocking, and the chanting of my name. They had all been waiting for this. Billboards came to life, and I could only sit and spectate as the scenery flashed red. I inhaled fear and sobriety through runny nostrils. “Trials Sovereign Vsevolod “Knox” Sorkin is currently at large for the suspected homicide of Spes Sorkin, breaking the first term of the Sovereignty Charter. We now instruct you to report any sightings of the Earth-born, caucasian, roughly 195 centimeters tall, brown-haired, and brown-eyed man to your local Guard post. One can identify the suspected convict specifically by an occult tattoo of Purity’s Coronet on his lower back. No attempted execution or elongated punishment will take place until our Guards conduct an autopsy proving his guilt, per Life’s 1238 commandment. We cannot be sure when or if the Gods will revoke his blessing. Remember, when Gods frown upon strife, opt for a peaceful life. We permit all grieving festivities until Cagidus 4th. Good year!” towering buildings sang out in broadcast, repeating that same convoluted message quicker the instant it ended. Sometimes, the announcer spoke in Latin for the Infran children, other times in Chinese, Hindi, or Spanish to cater to those of irrelevant tongues. You aren’t a bad man. You are a stupid boy. Puddles sloshed. Somebody was approaching. I didn’t dare waste any remaining energy avoiding the Guards and their prodding blades. How did that phrase go? You dug your grave. Now lie in it. And so I embraced the cement. “Knox?” said the Guard. No, her tone was too sincere, and no authority would proceed in such a manner. There wasn’t confirmation on whether or not I was armed, and it wasn’t as if she could shoot me first. She was a partygoer, having just left from the cellar’s backdoor. I shooed her away with my hand. She hovered, and I discerned her shadow hesitating over my body. A man could not rot in peace. “Come on, get up! They’re after you!” Hands reached around my torso, struggling to handle my weight as they urged me onto my feet. That leg, the burning one, my right, trembled and bent unnaturally upon impact with the ground. The partygoer slung my arm over her shoulder, balancing me. My eyes caught a glimpse of a cyan mop. “Anwen?” I rasped, “hu-who let you out?” Keys jangled in her hands–my keys. “I escaped,” she said casually, coercing me to walk beside her. “Quicken your pace. I just heard somebody on your front porch. ‘You see that compost bin down the alley? We’re gonna burrow right down into the depth of that. If they open it and uncover us, I’ll be on top, and I can hide you and act like I’m just a homeless amica trying to take a nap.” With a tightening grip, she led me like livestock to the stinking crate. “I don’t understand, Anwen,” I said. “They’re going to torture and kill you, stupid. You know they’ve been wanting to, and you just handed the opportunity to them!” “I understand that.” It was becoming increasingly challenging to hide the fragility emerging in my voice. “You said you were escaping. Why stop and help your captor?” “What else could I do? Leave you there?” Attempts to shove my wounded body inside its mass of discarded fruits and vegetables began. She yanked down upon my head and submerged me in the fertilizer sea. The evidence grows indisputable, I thought as I stared at the abruptly humane Infran girl, diving in after me, that I belong here. “Damn me to hell! I’ve killed her! My love is dead!” an uncontrollable cry leaped from my mouth. “Shut up! Soon you’ll be, too, if you don’t quiet down.” The actual noise of the Guards darted past us: disorientated marching, guns clanking against each other, cluttered belts rattling, the Latin squawking. One paused to open the bin’s lid, though only rummaged through the surface layer of peat before carrying on. “What are they talking about? I struggle with my Latin,” I whispered. “The search, mainly.” Aggression remained firey in Anwen’s clenched jaw. Though she sat on top of me, there was a monumental distance between our rain-soaked forms. I curled up into a ball, ducked my head between my knees, and dreamt of Spes, ignoring the stench of spoiled food rising from every crevice of my dwelling. The next coming world was due to adopt me again as I forced sleep. I prayed for a canyon of fluffy haze, where I waltzed with pale memories but found nothing but the petrifying stillness of my mind. Killed and ran. Violent as a Guard just to prove a point and watch it backfire. Why would any heaven want to welcome me? I clung to the picture of Spes in my head like it was the last ember of an extinguished flame. “Did you mean to kill her?” Anwen interrogated. “Someone like you would immutably believe yes.” “And who is someone like me? You can’t even treat me like a person for a moment, can you?” grating drama decorated her words. “You know my opinions. I have not seen much of your or your breed’s faces besides that of cruelty and ignorance.” I retorted. “I just saved you! Does that make me cruel and ignorant?” “It makes you an idiot, which is another word for somebody ignorant.” “And why am I an idiot?” She asked. “Because you helping me does no good. Thank you anyhow. Now, do yourself a favor and scram.” As she bent her leg in anticipation, preparing to strike me on the forehead, I sensed an invisible withdrawal widening the gap between us. “You never answered my question,” Anwen took me by the end of my tattered tie suddenly and started her game of shepherd and sheep over again, pulling me back up to the crate’s exit. It appeared as a shining light at the end of a maze of rubbish and mold. “No. Of course not. Spes was my everything,” I sniffled. “I knew it. You couldn’t even bring yourself to hit us, let alone murder your wife. The girls and I always figured you were sensitive.” My heart rate quickened. Today was one of humbling and misery–one to pray a hail spike would fall from the sky as sharp as a needle, pierce into my eyelid, and lobotomize me. I wished I could have merely died or hit my head hard enough not to have to deal with it all. No, I wished I was Anwen with her snarky, careless glow and lack of depth in her eyes. As we emerged from the compost bin together, I fantasized about strangling her until her face turned purple, her weakening spirit no longer categorizing me as “sensitive”, but the thought could only remind me of wielding that trophy and the microscopic traces of my wife’s tender skin tainting it, which turned my guts inside out. “That’s why I think you could use a little help,” Anwen said, “It seems like you can’t walk, either. Your leg is all twisted up.” She undid one of her trim pigtails and handed me the band. “Take off your tie and put up your hair. ‘Will make you less recognizable. Then swallow your pride and stick with me.”

The advantage of direct method is that the teacher can control the class and fit in a lot of activity into a short class period. This leaves plenty of opportunities for the students to hone their skills, especially new ones. On the other hand, because the class is centered around the teacher, some students may not receive proper feedback, and creativity is limited. Also, the lesser talented athletes often tend to get lost in the shuffle while the great athletes shine. However, there are now a multitude of various teaching strategies that can be employed in addition to that method. Ex: Announcements, Module/Unit introductions, Descriptions/modeling of assignments and learning activities, Written or video lectures, Demonstration videos, Presentations, Discussions moderated by instructors, Interactive tutorials. Indirect Method The Indirect Teaching Style allows students to be involved in their own learning through experience and other peer’s knowledge. Students can use critical thinking to expand their learning capabilities by seeing what others may be doing correct and adjusting this to their own knowledge. The Indirect approach is the opposite of what the direct style suggests, but they are both strictly related, meaning you can’t have one without the other. Direct teaching: The instructor stands in front of the class or group and lectures or advises. Indirect teaching: The instructor assumes a more passive role and guides the student interactions. Movement exploration: Incorporates the use of equipment that involves movement. Movement Exploration The movement exploration class is founded on developing a strong, positive association to physical activity. Classes are aimed at developing movement skills and foundational strength through fun and engaging activities. The activities are age appropriate and include games, challenges, and exploration that positively challenge children’s competency while improving their physical capabilities. Skills such as the ability to climb, hold animal shapes, gymnastic style activities, and the introduction to athletic motor skill competencies are the foundations to youth training. This class provides the introduction to strength training to give children the opportunity to learn the skills required to safely and confidently engage in resistance training. Cooperative Skills Cooperative activities teach students to work together for their group's common good. By participating in these activities, students can learn the skills of listening, discussing, thinking as a group, group decision making, and sacrificing individual wants for the common good. There are two primary objectives guiding the teaching of cooperative activities. First, cooperative activities allow students to apply a variety of fundamental motor skills in a unique setting. Students are typically asked to perform motor skills in a specific way, such as “skip in general space” or “balance on one foot and one elbow.” Cooperative activities ask students to perform different activities such as skip with their hands on the shoulders of someone in front of them, walk with big steps while placing their feet on small spots, or walk across an area blindfolded while someone directs their moves. Due to the uniqueness of such experiences, students often find cooperative activities exciting and motivating. Second, cooperative activities are a wonderful medium for teaching social and emotional learning (SEL). SEL offers students an opportunity to understand and manage their emotions. In addition, such activities offer an opportunity to show empathy for others and develop positive relationships. Cooperative activities demand that all students play a role in completing the task or solving the movement problem. Every student, regardless of ability level, is important and contributes to group goals. 9 traits a PE teacher often needs Here are nine essential traits of an effective PE teacher: 1. Athletic ability Athletic ability is an essential trait for a PE teacher because they're often showing kids how to perform exercises. To demonstrate proper form and encourage the kids to continue their fitness education, it's important they can perform the exercises themselves. Having experience with fitness training can enhance a PE teacher's lesson planning because they're familiar with how each exercise affects a person's body. Athletic ability can also refer to an aptitude for sports and games. PE teachers can instruct students on how to play these games or lead after-school activities involving them, like soccer or basketball. An aptitude for sports and games can help a PE teacher encourage students to participate in the activities during class. If the PE teacher enjoys physical activity, they may make the lessons more enjoyable for the student. 2. Teaching ability A PE teacher is a member of a school faculty, so it's essential they have the teaching ability that allows them to communicate lessons to students. There are various skills involved in teaching, including the technical capabilities associated with each professional's particular field. Learning these skills can help PE teacher plan their lessons effectively and connect with their students, meaning they can encourage students to practice fitness skills in optimal ways for their health. Here are some important teaching skills for PE teachers: Having an engaging classroom presence  Real-world learning  Project building  Lesson planning  Technology 3. Interpersonal skills PE coaches are part of faculty teams, so working alongside other teachers is an essential part of their job. They often collaborate with a student's general education teacher to address any behavioral issues that arise. They can also team up with other classes to plan activities for students, like field days and special field trips. Communicating with peers can ensure these interactions remain productive and create opportunities for more fulfilling lessons. Teachers can also model emotional skills for their students by displaying positive social interactions. Interpersonal skills can also help PE teachers interact with students and their families. If a student can make a student feel comfortable expressing their needs and preferences, they can often perform physical exercises or play games to the best of their individual capacities. Understanding how to soothe nerves and support students' emotional needs are important examples of interpersonal skills. When interacting with family members, you may use some of these same techniques to communicate effectively and best uplift students. 4. Written and verbal communication Both verbal and written communication is important for PE teachers because they often communicate with students, families and various personnel on a day-to-day basis. For example, a PE teacher uses their communication skills in a lesson plan to describe any student assignments or expectations accurately. They may also write instructions in a document, then explain them in a classroom lecture. They also use communication skills to share their lesson plans with other PE teachers during conferences or classroom development exercises. Many teachers continue to learn their trade even after working as a teacher for many years. They may share tips with each other or special lessons they've developed if they feel another teacher may benefit from it. Creating a community can help PE teachers continue to expand their teaching methodology and receive feedback on their lessons. 5. Patience and adaptability Working with children can require patience and adaptability because they're encountering many new concepts at the same time and learning how to regulate their emotions. As a result, it's important to treat them with patience and care while they're in your class so they can feel comfortable and feel motivated to complete assignments. As children become teenagers, they may require patience and adaptability to account for their changing bodies and attention spans. Like any job where you perform tasks in real-time, certain circumstances may occur that require you to adapt lesson plans. For example, if the weather turns from sunshine to rain on a day you planned for students to run a mile outside, you may need to adapt the lesson plan so they can practice endurance sports inside a gymnasium instead. 6. Organization PE teachers can use organization skills to improve their lesson planning sessions. For example, they can keep their plans in one place, and determine which parts of a semester or quarter to introduce new concepts. Throughout the year, these objectives may change because of unforeseen setbacks, but organizational skills can help PE teachers control the trajectory of their class curriculum. PE teachers can also use organizational skills to maintain their classroom space. Physical education frequently requires balls, equipment and tools to play games that may be on a lesson plan. They also organize equipment and decide where to store it within their classroom or storage space. 7. Creativity Creativity can help a PE teacher develop fun ways to introduce new material to their students or reinforce previous lessons. They can teach new games or devise interesting ideas to change the rules of a game to help keep students engaged. To find inspiration for their lesson plans, they can turn to personal hobbies or media aspects they enjoy, like movie scenes, songs or dances. A varied lesson plan can foster more engagement among students who prefer action- based learning activities, rather than lectures. 8. Focus Focus is an essential trait of a PE teacher because students often require their full attention during class, especially if they're learning a complicated physical task. You can focus your lesson plans around specific elements of physical education you believe are essential for students of a certain age group or skill level. If students require mentorship, you can also focus on each student's needs to supply them with a steady support system. Focusing on your students can help guide your career purpose. It can give you a core value system that informs your lesson plans and mentorship activities. This passion for your student's well-being can also help you become an advocate for each student in your class. You can also help organize funding for different field trips or establish after-school activities to support their interests. 9. Enthusiasm for teaching sports and fitness Enthusiasm is essential for a PE teacher. Many physical education activities require high energy and may suit someone who enjoys teaching them to others. Being an effective PE teacher also requires an enthusiasm for working with kids and making a positive impact on their lives.

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