Crouching Lion, Hidden Sweat
It’s 4 p.m. on a Friday at the New York Chinese Freemasons Athletic Club, the hustle and bustle of Canal Street a distant echo. Here, 10-15 brave souls have assembled for their weekly ritual of agony, also known as lion dance practice. Welcome to one of Chinatown’s longest-running “party-train” groups, and by party, we mean a workout that would make a drill sergeant weep.
Dressed in an unforgiving black T-shirt, Brandon Lee, the nonprofit’s fearless president, strides back and forth like a caffeinated tarantula, issuing commands like he’s about to lead a military coup. The trainees, ages 12 to 29, are sweating buckets while performing what can only be described as a mix between an ancient ballet and a free martial arts class featuring the added fun of calisthenics.
Fueled by misguided curiosity—(or was it a desire for humility?), I decided to join in the class to discover what’s required of a lion dancer. Spoiler: It’s not just a furry costume and a desire for fame; it’s part ballet, part “Cobra Kai,” with martial arts weapons gleaming on the walls, presumably to encourage self-discipline or mildly intimidate the unfit.
“On three, we’re switching to the next move!” Lee bellows as I flail around trying to replicate advanced dance steps and lunges. Five minutes into squats and my legs are sending urgent distress signals. And to think, I almost got out of the mandatory 70 push-ups. My quads are developing a minority report against this tyranny.
“It’s tougher than it looks,” Lee states, as if this were newsworthy. “Thanks to the meticulous selection process, it takes about three years to train a lion dancer capable of terrifying both drummers and children.” Lee’s passion is evident, having followed in the illustrious footsteps of his father and uncle. While moonlighting as a lion dance president and treasurer, he maintains a day job in IT. Talk about a split personality!
Here’s the kicker: this bootcamp is entirely volunteer-run. High schoolers and overworked professionals squeeze in some lion training between existential crises and impending due dates. Unsurprisingly, no auditions are necessary to join the club; just sign a waiver agreeing to respect the lion head, or you risk inducing a curse-spitting tantrum.
“It’s a side hustle,” admits David Jiang, 22, who’s managed to sustain this attractive hobby since 16. It took him nearly a year to secure his first lion head gig, which required crafting unofficial out-of-class sessions like some sort of secret dance cult. Jiang’s journey has certainly cultivated resilience, forging him into a “better individual.” Because nothing says personal growth like sweating buckets in a lion suit.
Still, performers best beware; there’s no participation trophy in the world of lion dancing! It takes impressive upper body strength and the ability to harmonize with your partner’s movements—similar to two stunning Broadway dancers caught in a romantic spiral. According to Lee, freestyle movement is the real test: “When the head dancer goes rogue, you had better follow suit unless you want to look like a confused chicken.”
As I observed these gladiators preparing for the grueling 70 shows a year—everything from birthdays to the Knicks halftime—my admiration grew. This formidable crew is gearing up for the upcoming Lunar New Year festival, where they’ll perform for what feels like eternity while excellence looms over them in the form of sheer exhaustion.
As with all things, the stakes are high: don’t drop the lion head, a $1,500 faux pas that would earn you some very serious side-eye from the community. “That’s a major loss of face,” warns Brian Tom of the Young Lions. In lion dance culture, dropping the head allegedly invites doom and gloom, though I suspect it would also lead to a lengthy discussion about their next victim—err, dancer.
Historically, this colorful art form aimed to scare away evil spirits and bring prosperity along with some much-needed action at social gatherings. Today, the influences of modernity have seeped into this tradition, with increasing participation from the melting pot that is New York. Despite the rich cultural roots, some feel stuck between centuries-old tradition and the TikTok generation’s eager hands.
At least one thing is clear: Cultural appropriation is alive and well on social media, with questionable trends posing an existential threat to authentic lion dancing. Lee acknowledges the predicament: while social media spreads awareness, it can also dilute age-old traditions into viral trends and “dance-offs.”
“You can either adapt or get left behind,” Lee inspects, grinning slightly, as if sharing the burden of wisdom with me. “At the end of the day, just remember: don’t drop the lion’s head. It’s not just a head; it’s the pride of a lion and thousands of sweat-drenched hours behind it.”
