It was that time of year when my mother had to quite literally drag me to perform in the annual dance recital. Being only 8, I was blissfully unaware of the harder hardships that the near future held; dance recitals, at the time, were equally as stress-inducing as final exams are now.

The whole dance studio, Machita and Co., had been preparing all year for the big end-of-the-year performance. I was in about 3 dances: one for each class my mother had forced me to take. These included jazz, ballet, and hip-hop.

The night of the recital, my extended family had come to see my sister and I perform several dances; each of which consisted of nearly identical choreography – series of what my dance instructors called “plies” and “pirouettes.” Things my 8-year old persona, of course, referred to as squats and spins, respectively. I was eager to display to the family my ability to not run off the stage crying, unlike several of my fellow dancers… Something that was not uncommon in my line of work.

My dances went fairly well. I squatted and spun accordingly. Once I (finally) finished my last performance of the night, I was allowed to go sit with my family and watch the rest of the recital. Between each dance, there was a short break, which allowed the audience to venture into concessions and to empty their soda-filled bladders. My family and I stayed seated as I indulged myself in a bag of Cheetos; my mother was, and is, infamous for smuggling food into places in which food should not be smuggled.

Just as I was being scorned for my newly Cheeto-stained tights, the lights dimmed, and the crowd quieted. The theater was filled with the sound of parents aggressively flipping through their programs – trying to figure out whether or not their child would be performing in the upcoming dance, and in turn, whether they needed to pay attention or not. Suddenly, one of the Beach Boys’ most famous hits, “Kokomo,” began playing. Dark figures began to sway onto the stage, silhouetted by dim backstage lights. The spotlights flipped on, and the crowd was greeted with an amusing sight: at least 20 old women, well past their fifties, wearing grass skirts and coconut bras. They danced in line as the audience erupted into confusion – then cheers. My mother gasped, tapped on my leg, and whispered:

“That’s Granny!”

Confused, I glanced back to where my grandmother should’ve been sitting, and behold: her seat was empty. Minutes earlier she had excused herself to the restroom. How she ended up on stage rather than the toilet, I was bewildered.

It took me a moment to find her among the others. Of course, I was taken aback. It’s one thing to see a hoard of grandmas wearing such apparel, but your own grandma?

They moved in unison; far better than anything the dancers my age could’ve done. The crowd continued to cheer until the song came to an end and the… “Bahama Grandmamas” hula-danced off stage.

Turns out the owner of the dance company put together a performance for all the grandmothers of the young dancers. Grandmas were often their granddaughters’ personal chauffeurs when it came to dance class. I suppose the owner thought, “Hey, as long as they’re going to be waiting around in the studio for a few hours, why not give everyone a laugh?”

And so after the performance, Granny revealed to us her secret life as of the past few weeks. While I went to my daily dance classes, she had been secretly attending her very own.

One thing is certain: within only weeks, my grandmother became a better dancer than I ever was, and ever will be.