An elderly couple had taken to the dance floor, and although the eight decades of life’s joys and sorrows they had experienced were evident, their demeanor was lively and self-assured. The husband stood tall in his black coattails, leading his nimble wife with skill and sensitivity. She wore a light pink gown that flowed around her legs as the pair glided across the polished wood. They were doing the foxtrot with such light and airy ease that they seemed to be floating above the dance floor.
It was a Sunday afternoon during my first semester of medical-school at Harvard, and I was at a community ballroom dancing event hosted by the MIT Ballroom Dance Club at Walker Memorial, a grand Beaux-Arts building on the Charles River. I watched in awe as these older dancers moved with grace. They made ballroom dancing appear to be perfectly ageless, and I longed to be part of this exquisite art form that transcended time.
The tranquility and elegance exuded by the dance couples was much different than the fear and panic that drove me to dance so many years ago.
When I was six years old and the Cultural Revolution in China had been going on for quite some time, I would watch my dad perform with his hospital’s communist song-and-dance troupe. He was a spectacular dancer, stately and naturally graceful. He captivated audiences as he performed traditional Chinese minority dances in vibrantly colored costumes. Dad was recruited to perform at Chinese New Year parades and other festivals throughout the year. He was my first teacher in the art and discipline of dance, and I wanted to be just like him. I even joined my elementary school’s dance troupe and performed quite frequently in public venues across Hangzhou.
When I was forced to drop out of school after the ninth grade at age 14, and took up dance more fervently in order to try to join the communist propaganda song and dance troop so I could avoid the devastating fate of deportation and life sentence of poverty and hard labor. I would practice dancing for hours on end. I had no access to a studio, nor any recordings of the eight permitted model Chinese plays. In an open patch of land near my parents’ medical college, I practiced the dances I had seen on stage and in movies. Since I had no recorded music, I sang tunes to myself while I danced. I constantly ran out of breath from trying to sing and dance at the same time, so I couldn’t practice for very long before I would need to take a break. But because my life was on the line, I was driven to dance nonstop. Just like in the ballet Giselle, in which the young man was condemned to continue dancing until he collapsed and died, I danced constantly, consumed by the ever-present fear that I would be deported if I was not a good enough dancer to get into the communist song and dance troop.
After I was finally able to pursue an education at the end of the Cultural Revolution, I didn’t return to dancing as a hobby until after I arrived at Harvard Medical-school in 1987.
Watching the elderly couple’s timeless dance at the MIT event that day inspired me to resume my long-lost interest in dancing with renewed fervor. During my first year of medical-school, I helped create the Harvard Ballroom Dance Club, which was made up of both undergraduate and graduate students from the U.S., Germany, Vietnam, China, and South America. Few of the students had any ballroom dancing experience prior to joining the club, but I had been through enough of the basics of dancing to help us get started.
We had to learn all ten international style ballroom dances, five standard and five Latin. The international standard ballroom dances—waltz, foxtrot, tango, Viennese waltz, and quickstep—demonstrated sublime beauty, elegance, style, and discipline. The international Latin dances—cha-cha, rumba, samba, paso doble, and jive—on the other hand emphasized speed, rhythm, power, and passion. Together, the ten dances embody the full range of human emotion.
The Harvard Ballroom Dance Club practiced frequently, often with the MIT group. Our team of beginners was a sight to behold—stepping on each other’s toes, bumping bellies, going every which way but in the right direction. Sometimes couples even got into argument or fight. Eventually we realized that our biggest problem was that the men on the team simply couldn’t lead, and the ladies could not follow very well either. Dancers sometimes even argued with their partners because the men expected the women to know what they were thinking, and the ladies would retort, “How am I supposed to know what you want me to do before you actually do your part correctly yourself?”
We brought in a professional coach once a month, and we actually received our most valuable lesson in dance during one of those sessions.
“Gentlemen, you are the leaders,” declared the teacher. Her name was Dawn. She was of medium height, svelte, and crowned with a blaze of red hair.
“So if the lady isn’t following, then it’s all her fault, right?” I asked.
“No! In fact, if she’s not following, it’s most likely the gentleman’s fault,” Dawn replied.
“How come?” I retorted. “If I’m the leader, and she’s not following properly, then it’s only logical that it’s her fault.”
“Well it could be your fault actually because you’re supposed to communicate with her before you actually lead, in what we call the pre-lead phase.”
“The pre-lead,” she went on to explain, “is what occurs in the instant before the man actually leads. For example, if you want to make a back step, you don’t just simply move back. You first need to stay in place, and expand your body outward with an intention towards the direction you want to move so your partner can feel that intention,” Dawn explained. “Your partner will then have the time to read your intention and give you feedback as to what she wants to do herself. She might want to go in another direction. So you have to feel each other and form a compromised, unified plan to move together.”
According to Dawn, the most beautiful part of ballroom dance isn’t the movements that everyone sees. The magical part is the pre-lead moment before each movement, when the timing, musicality, and amplitude of impending movement are negotiated and then decided together, through the communication between the two partners.
Our team’s initial response to this lesson was less than enthusiastic, mainly because we didn’t really understand it. To us, there simply didn’t seem to be enough time in that split second to accomplish so much. Also, the men didn’t want to let go of our egos and compromise. We just wanted to lead without having to alter our original plan. Not willing to learn this pre-lead technique properly, we continued to step on toes and bump into our partners’ bellies, often going nowhere.
A few months later, the Harvard Ballroom Dance Club team entered a small regional competition on MIT’s campus that included many schools and more than one hundred dancers. At the competition, the standard dance pairs were outfitted in tuxedo tails and flowy gowns, and the Latin dancers wore black shirts and pants and sexy, barely-there dresses. We danced our hearts out from dawn until dusk, but the Harvard team came in dead last because we simply weren’t good! The male members of the team had been convinced that Harvard men can accomplish whatever they do, without compromising leadership. But when we came in last place in every dance category, we walked out of the gym slumped in defeat.
But this loss was a turning point for our team. The men realized that embracing the pre-lead technique—giving our partners the time to understand our intention and negotiate a joint plan as a couple before we actually move together—was the only way to have a partnership on the dance floor. The guys reluctantly let go of their pride and started practicing true partnership dancing.
We poured our Harvard work ethic into ballroom dancing as if it were a math or science class, and we practiced more frequently and with more devotion. Over the next four years, our team grew from the initial few students to more than fifty dancing pairs. Every semester our results in amateur ballroom competitions inched closer and closer toward the top. By my senior year, we took first place in the U.S. National Collegiate Championships—hosted by the U.S. Amateur Ballroom Dance Association—which was an unexpected victory for Harvard, known otherwise only for our academic achievements.
After graduating from Harvard, and throughout my years of clinical training, I continued to dance for fun, and occasionally I would even teach my colleagues and friends to dance … but always for free. All I wanted was to encourage more people to enjoy ballroom dancing as I did. To me ballroom dancing was, and still is, a way to relieve the stress of daily life and demanding work by appreciating music, exercising, and learning to be sensitive to another human being, physically and emotionally. During my fellowship and residency at Wills Eye Hospital, I didn’t have much time for dancing, but when I landed in Miami for my corneal fellowship at Bascom Palmer Eye Institute, I earnestly resumed my dance hobby.
At a dance party following my interviews at Bascom Palmer, I met a couple named Misha Bartnovsky and June Rudolph, who were both in their late fifties. Misha was a tall, elegant Jewish gentleman who was a fellow scientist. His wife, June, was a beautiful Japanese-American lady with a deep appreciation of art. We hit it off immediately; they invited me to join their table, and we danced and talked throughout the night. I visited them the next evening at their home in Delray Beach, and it became the start of a lifelong friendship. I was drawn to their joviality and love of life, and their cultural values resonated with my own emphasis on family and education.
During my year in Miami, I spent many weekends visiting Misha and June’s home, where we would enjoy dancing, laughing and talking. My parents and brother were still in Boston, so I didn’t know anyone else in town. Since my real parents were more than fifteen hundred miles away, Misha and June became my surrogate father and mother. Bascom Palmer’s hospital cafeteria offered less than palatable meals, so I often went to June and Misha’s house to enjoy delectable Japanese and American cooking. Misha was a master engineer and helped keep my used car running throughout my fellowship. We often took dance lessons together and discussed our love of dance. Even after my time in Miami, I went overseas with June and Misha on our annual pilgrimage to the capital of ballroom dancing—Winter Garden in Blackpool, England—home of the Blackpool Ballroom Dance Festival. June and Misha also helped me organize a ballroom dance event at the American Academy of Ophthalmology’s annual meeting. Teaching dance to a group of ophthalmologists, who are not known for the dexterity of their feet, was a fun experience. June and Misha loved me as much as my own parents did, and I loved them too and eventually considered them my godparents.
At the end of my cornea fellowship in early 1997, ballroom dancing actually played a key role in my decision to accept the position as founding director of the Vanderbilt Laser Sight Center in Nashville. Dr. Harry Jacobson was the newly appointed vice chancellor for health affairs at the university. After my interview with him, he asked me, “Ming, what can we do to attract you to Vanderbilt?”
During my job search, his was the only laser eye surgery center at which I had been offered such a prestigious directorship, so I was already leaning toward accepting it. But our conversation that followed soon sealed the deal.
“I’m a ballroom dancer,” I said. “Does Nashville have nice places to dance? Where can I go dancing tonight? I don’t fly out until tomorrow morning.”
As it turned out, Dr. Jacobson was also a ballroom dance enthusiast himself. He pulled out a pen and a piece of scrap paper and drew me a map to a studio in Belle Meade. I had a wonderful time dancing that evening, which made the decision to commit to the job at Vanderbilt even easier.
Ballroom dancing has served an even bigger purpose in my medical career since then. It has taught me how to better connect with my patients. Like the pre-lead—which requires sensitivity, awareness, and communication with your dance partner and try to make a joint decision together—these unique qualities, which I learned through ballroom dancing—have brought me closer to my patients and have allowed me to listen to them more and pay more attention to their needs. When insurance company restrictions and the costs involved with modern technology create barriers between doctors and their patients, this sensitivity allows me to overcome such barriers by listening to, caring for, and more fully connecting with my patients.
Before I perform an eye surgery, I always pray with my patients. Our prayer invites God into our team to lead us from the beginning of the journey, rather than asking Him for help only when we get into trouble. Praying also allows me to pause, slow down, focus, and emotionally connect with my patients before we begin. I learned much of that process from honing my partnership skills in ballroom dancing.
I continued dancing as soon as I was settled in Nashville. My teacher and partner, Shalene Archer, is a former U.S. professional ballroom champion, and I have taken lessons from her nearly every week since then. We have competed in competitions throughout the country in the Pro/Am division, which showcases professional-amateur pairs (she’s the professional; I’m the amateur). Our dance career reached its peak in November of 2007 when we won fourth place in the U.S. Pro/Am International Ten-Dance Championships at the Ohio Star Ball in Columbus, Ohio. Years earlier, that same competition was the one I had invited Gwen to, and the last event we attended together before her final goodbye at the Columbus airport.
* * *
When the Wang Foundation for Sight Restoration was created in 2003, our founding board of directors included Gene Angle, a banker who served as board treasurer; Charles Grummon, a financial consultant; Mary Beth Thomas, an attorney who served as secretary; and Shirley Zeitlin, a real estate executive. Not long after we treated our foundation’s first patient, Joel Case, we realized that we needed more board members, more awareness of our mission, and most of all, more funding to help cover the costs beyond physician fees. So we decided to host an annual fundraising event. We just needed to come up with a great theme.
Inspired by what I had experienced and learned through dance, I suggested that we have a gala featuring ballroom dancing … and call it the “EyeBall.” The idea came to me as I was trying to find a way to create a ball to signify the emotional aspect of the importance of vision. Ophthalmologists tend to think of vision in terms of numbers like 20/40, 20/60, 20/100. But vision is much more than just numbers. It is an emotional experience that affects the very core of a person. Seeing is a fundamental way of living, both physically and spiritually. We visually witness the world, find meaning, and discern truth. I felt that finding a creative way to illuminate these deep human dimensions of vision would have a powerful emotional impact for the cause of sight restoration for the blind. I believed that the elegance of ballroom dancing would lend itself perfectly as a showcase of beauty and the importance of vision. When we see something as breathtaking as ballroom dancing, we will truly comprehend how emotionally devastating it would be if we didn’t have sight, and how important it is to help those who have lost it.
Our first EyeBall was held on October 1, 2005 in the Pineapple Room at Cheekwood Botanical Garden and Museum of Art in Nashville. The theme of the event was “Sight and Sound,” since it also featured the Nashville Chamber Orchestra. The Pineapple Room had polished concrete floors, crystal chandeliers, and an entire wall of huge windows with a view of the outside veranda and gardens. Beyond the veranda, hills and valleys rolled along the horizon.
Over two hundred people came to the 2005 EyeBall to support the foundation, including congressional representatives, university professors, business owners, members of the media, and other people from the community. Once everyone had been seated for dinner, we invited several foundation patients onto the stage to share their experience of being blind. One woman had gone blind because of a genetic disease. Born without an iris or pupil, her eye couldn’t regulate the amount of light it received, so she gradually lost her sight during her young adulthood and was completely blind by her thirties. She reminded me of the blind patient whom I met during my first year at Harvard and who inspired my journey to restore sight for others. A car accident took another patient’s sight. The resulting pain and despair he experienced caused him to develop a destructive drinking problem with which he was still struggling to recover.
“It is a beautiful evening, isn’t it? But I can’t see it,” he said.
Next, Brad and Jackie Barnes came on stage. At that point, Brad hadn’t yet undergone his final restorative surgery. “I have never seen my wife’s face,” he told the audience. “I want to hear her laugh the way I hear her now, and I want to see her smile.” Many eyes in the crowd glistened with emotion hearing Brad talk of such a simple yet overwhelming desire, something spouses throughout the room undoubtedly took for granted every single day.
Joel Case was the last to testify, and he shared his experience of coming out of darkness after his surgery, and how successful sight restoration surgery is a life altering event. He told the group how he had lived with blindness for forty years as a result of a rubella infection he contracted while still in his mother’s womb, and how his foundation surgery had given him back his sight with which he saw his bride at their wedding the year before for the very first time.
After the patients had spoken, I walked out onto the stage.
“We rejoice with Joel Case for his miracle of sight restoration,” I said, “and we long for others who still live in darkness to be able to experience this miracle of renewed sight. But do we really know what it’s like to be blind? Those who truly appreciate sight are those who are blind, so I want all of us to experience for a moment what it is like to be blind and live in darkness.”
The guests were asked to put on dark sunglasses that we had placed beneath their chairs, and then the house lights were turned off throughout the ballroom. “Dark Waltz,” a haunting composition of plaintive strings and soprano vocals, started playing in the background.
Once the room was dark and the guests were wearing the sunglasses, I then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, now I would like to ask you to stand up, walk to the other side of the ballroom, and shake hands with someone over there.”
A gasp instantly spread throughout the room. I could hear the sounds of people bumping into tables and chairs being knocked over. In the darkness, no one dared move far. I could sense their fear and apprehension at being asked to perform an otherwise routine task for those who can see.
As the audience stood frozen in the dark, fearful of making any move, a single candle held by board member Gene Angle was lit up on the stage. Guests looked toward the light with a sigh of relief.
“Like this one candle,” I continued, “our sight restoration efforts begin with just one patient. One set of eyes. One surgery.”
Gene then lit the candles of several board members and volunteers, who then went to each table and lit the candles there. The room slowly became aglow with soft, faint candlelight. The darkness continued to recede as the house lights were turned back on, one by one. The guests removed their sunglasses, smiling with relief and joy that they could once again see.
“That is how we start,” I continued. “One light at a time, and then the light will spread. If we all take part, then the whole room will be lit up, then the city, the state, the country … and eventually the whole world.”
When the program was over, I invited everyone onto the dance floor. A good friend and a professional dancer, Monika Olejnik, joined me. As we danced, I remembered the elderly couple I had seen do the foxtrot back in Boston nearly two decades earlier. My life’s dancing endeavors had transformed from a way to avoid deportation to an appreciated art form to a meaningful way to bring people together for a purpose that transforms lives through restored sight. I felt as light as mist over water. At long last, I too was dancing agelessly.