I wore a tan colored eyepatch over my left eyeball for most of what I remembered to be preschool.  Apparently the only way for my right eye to get better was to stick a band-aid over one eye and kill the confidence of a four year old preschooler.  It covered my eye with its sticky edges, unremovable by my tiny fingers.  "What's that thing over your eye?  Why do you wear that?  It looks funny."  I was Kriston, the preschool pirate.  With this thing on, I ditched the idea of standing at the front of the line for lunch, volunteering myself for activities, and singing in the front row of our preschool performances.  Along with the pocket of accumulated tears of embarrassment and the spread of scattered eyebrow hairs that were involuntarily waxed off daily, went my self-esteem.  Definitely not a great way to trigger my later years' pride.  But it wouldn't be long before the hairs grow back, and the self-esteem find its way to me.

The curtains open, lights shining down on a stage of smiling girls.  The music started and they were glowing.  Their gestures were strong—energy running from elbow to the tip of the fingers.  Their movements and motions were in sync—moving as one and never revealing a single mistake on their faces even when one did happen.  Each of them danced as if they had were in their own spotlight.  I wanted to be like them, the girls with the natural confidence on their faces and demeanor that said "that's right, I just nailed that turn," or "yup I'm a hula dancer, graceful yet bold."  For the entire three hour show, not once did my eyes deviate from the stage.  At one point in the show, my eyes locked with that of a dancer in the front row and I immediately felt her intensity—sending chills down my spine.  It was decided at that moment, a year prior to even being able to sign up for hula, that I would eventually be one of them, to be able to carry myself with the same demeanor they possessed. 

I signed up for hula, and the enforcement of confidence began right away.  "Solos.  Who's first?"  Oh, the frightening words.  The words from Kumu that sent a rush of anxiety down my spine.  Five seconds felt like five minutes.  What used to be a room of chatting and laughing was now a room of silence—a room of unwilling girls waiting for someone, anyone to raise their hand to volunteer.  "I'll go," I said.  A rush of nervousness shot through me, but so did a rush of an unfamiliar confidence.  "Why not?"  I thought to myself.  "Why not go for it and make a bold statement?"  I enjoyed it.  I danced to prove myself, to prove I was ready to be in the spotlight, to be a front row dancer. 

Back straight, legs shoulder width apart, shoulders back, chin up, eyes forward.  That pause before the song starts, the few seconds of complete silence where the audience is staring at each girl in the line, is the most intimidating.  We were being judged on a chopping block, stared down and evaluated.  Yet my demeanor now fed off these stares, the more eyes I felt on me, the more I was ready to show off what I got.  Now I was the girl—the girl locking eyes with others and sending that same intensity I was received years before.  Nothing compared to this feeling of empowerment.  The pa‘u (drum) was pounded at a steady beat.  Each thump excited my heart.  All eyes were on me, and I liked it.

Life is a performance and I stand in the spotlight.  Embracing this spotlight promotes confidence—confidence to try new things and to be bold.  It was a main expectation in hula—pride in our dancing, chanting, and as we conduct ourself outside of the studio.  "Don't look at the motions of the person next to you, focus on yourself.  Be sure you know what's coming next and own it" repeated Kumu over and over again throughout my years in hula.  If my motions didn't come from a place of confidence, how would my audience think it did?  I wasn't eye patch girl anymore.  The self-esteem killer no longer defines who I am, but what I used to be, and how far I've come from it.  I could have remained as the girl in the back row, too timid to raise her hand and show what she's got.  Instead, I chose to be the girl in the front, leading the rest with confidence—in her dancing and herself.