A Night Where Culture Took the Center Stage
I don’t think anyone walking into the New Gym on March 7th expected it to feel like stepping into another world—but that’s exactly what it felt like. The moment I pushed open the doors, the air shifted. Lanterns hung on the side of the bleachers, music pulsed from the speakers, the whole room buzzed with the kind of energy that only happens when people are genuinely excited to be together.
I’d been helping set up since school ended, but somehow the festival still surprised me. Maybe it was seeing everything come alive at once—the calligraphy brushes laid out in neat rows, the origami paper stacked like tiny rainbows, the food tables already attracting the crowd. Or maybe it was just the feeling of watching our school turn into a place where so many cultures could breathe openly and proudly.
I spent the first hour at the calligraphy booth, guiding kids through the basic of holding a brush with the help of the calligraphy master. Some people were nervous, gripping the brush like it might run away. Others dove right in, bold strokes splashing across the paper. My favorite moments were the quiet ones—when someone would pause, take a breath, and try again, this time slower, more intentional. It reminded me of why I fell in love with calligraphy in the first place: the way a single stroke can hold both discipline and emotional.
Every time when someone finished a character or a painting, they’d hold it up with a mix of pride and disbelief, like they could believe they made something that beautiful. And honestly, that joy was contagious.
By the time the performances started, the gym was packed. People squeezed into the bleachers, sat cross-legged on the floor, or leaned against the walls just to get a new. The lights dimmed, and suddenly the gymnasium felt like a theater.
The K-pop dancers came out—sharp, synchronized, and full of adrenaline. The crowd went wild. Then came the Bollywood group, whose energy practically lifted the room. Traditional musicians followed, their gushing and erhu notes floating through the gym like something delicate and ancient. Each performance felt like a window into someone’s story, someone’s heritage, someone’s pride.
What struck me the most was how the audience reacted. Even the people who didn’t understand the language or the cultural references still clapped the loudest, cheered the hardest, and leaned in with genuine curiosity. It felt like everyone was learning together.
For me, the real magic wasn’t just in the performances or the booths—it was in the conversations that happened in between. A parent asked me how long I’d been studying Mandarin, and was surprised when I answered back in Mandarin. The calligrapher master taught me how to right the character “馬” mean horse. She drew character the way that her ancestors wrote it, with the eyes, the legs, and the body showing the strength of the horse and how the draw evolutionised to the character 馬.
It felt like the kind of night where people weren’t afraid to ask questions, to try something new, to make mistakes in front of each other. And somehow it made the atmosphere feel warmer.
