Movement as a Mirror: 

How Drama and Dance Helped My Students See Themselves and Each Other

by Mazen Abbas 

Abstract

This story illustrates how elementary drama and dance can serve as powerful tools for self-expression, identity exploration, and community-building. Following an inspiring music assembly, Grade 5 students created a movement piece, exploring themes of bullying, belonging, and resilience. Through choreography, reflection, and collaboration, students embodied complex emotions, connected with their peers, and shaped a narrative rooted in their lived experiences. This work challenged assumptions that young children are ‘too young’ for difficult themes, showing that when guided with intention, they can engage deeply and authentically. It also reflects on equity, access, and the importance of making arts education meaningful, visible, and inclusive for all students, particularly those from marginalized communities.

Introduction

Imagine a school. A small school full of powerful, complex stories, many of them still waiting to be told. A school where students’ lives are shaped by resilience, layered challenges, and extraordinary strength. In my last five years as a K–6 teacher, I have had the privilege of working in multiple schools and encountering stories like this again and again, stories shared by students, families, and educators themselves. This is just one of them. One powerful story in an archive of so many untold ones. There is so much work happening in schools every day, so much care and impact, especially by educators and arts educators, that never gets named, never gets seen, and never gets shared. This story is dedicated to my performing arts teachers and mentors growing up, the ones who showed up for me in my hardest moments. It’s dedicated to the colleagues, students, and families I’ve had the honour of learning alongside, the ones who trusted me, challenged me, and helped shape the teacher I continue to become, and it’s dedicated to my parents, whose sacrifices in coming to a new country shaped every opportunity I have today. 

When I reflect on the experiences that have shaped my work as a drama and dance educator, I always return to one year; a year where students left inspired, and where a spark turned into something much bigger than a performance. It started simply. As their music teacher, I was selecting a new song to workshop with my students, something they could sing to for a possible school performance. One Grade 5 student suggested a song that had been circulating widely on social media that summer. The students formed an immediate connection to it. Yes, it was trending, but more than that, students connected to its message: kindness, community, hope, and love. The meaning mattered. As arts educators, our work is not just about selecting material. I believe it’s about choosing stories that reflect what our students are living, feeling, and navigating every day. When the work is relevant to the lives of our students, it stops being a lesson and starts becoming theirs.

Almost as an afterthought, I reached out to the artist’s family through social media, hoping for a short message for my students, just a small moment of encouragement. Honestly, I did not expect a response. I assumed the message would disappear into the hundreds of messages artists receive every day. What happened next, however, went far beyond anything I imagined. Their team responded, and instead of offering a short video message, they wanted to do something more meaningful. The artist and her family wanted to work with me to surprise the students live, during their final performance for families. On the day of the assembly, students and families filled the gym, completely unaware of what was coming. What they did not know was that this moment had been a month in the making, built on trust, secrecy, and collective belief. There were rehearsals after rehearsals, often during teachers’ instructional time, all for a three-minute performance involving the entire school. Not a single colleague knew what was planned. No one questioned why families were being invited in for such a short performance. Everyone simply trusted the process.

On the day of the performance, the artist, her team, and I created a simple storyline for the students: that a video message had been recorded and had somehow been ‘accidentally deleted.’ Some students were skeptical, but most were simply disappointed. One student said, “I knew something was going on, Mr. Abbas doesn’t do things randomly.” Another added, “I knew something was off the moment he said he deleted the video. He doesn’t make mistakes like that.”

When the artist walked into the space as I was attempting to recover the so called ‘deleted’ video, the entire room shifted. The reaction was immediate. Students and families were stunned, emotional, and overwhelmed with excitement and disbelief. It was the kind of moment you cannot script and cannot fully prepare for. The kind of moment that stays with people long after it ends. The performance became more than a song. It became a shared experience and a lasting memory for the entire community, one that continued to ripple outward in ways we never anticipated. The artist also surprised me, and made a $10,000 donation to our music program, a contribution that would have a lasting impact on our students and the arts experiences we could offer in the years to come.

But what mattered most was not the surprise itself, the performance, or even the moment. What mattered was what unlocked in the students. One student said afterward, “I never thought something like this could happen to a kid like me.” In a school where many children come from marginalized communities, this moment was a reminder that our work, not only as arts educators, but as educators, matters deeply. Parents were visibly emotional in the audience. Students hugged each other. I could see a shift in how the students carried themselves, in how they stood on the risers, and in how they looked at the stage. They began to see themselves not just as students, but as artists, as storytellers, and as people whose voices belonged in visible spaces. This experience became the foundation for what would grow into one of the most meaningful drama and dance pieces of my career as an educator.

Drama and Dance Process: A Story Told Through Movement

Fresh off from performing at the assembly, we moved quickly into preparations for the winter concert, and I could immediately feel the excitement building in my Grade 5 students who were developing a movement piece. I have always taught my students that our work should never be without purpose. I consistently ask them: What is the message you want to leave the audience with? How will we use the creative process to guide that message? Everything we create and share needs to carry intention. This mindset had become embedded in every aspect of my performing arts program.

Soon after that moment, while preparing for the winter concert, the Grade 5 students decided that their next project would explore themes they and many children their age knew too well: bullying and belonging. They wanted to tell the story of a young girl who felt invisible, unheard, and alone, and how she navigated those emotions and experiences. Their goal was not just to tell a story, but to bring those feelings to life through performance.

What emerged was a drama-inspired movement piece. The performance began with four students dressed in black, frozen in tight formations of embrace, creating a tableau that represented belonging. At the centre, stood a single girl dressed in white, alone and still. From the very first moment, the contrast was clear: community versus isolation, visibility versus invisibility. The black and white coloured shirts they wore further symbolized the significance. As the girl in white moved toward the group, the others shifted, not through large movements, but through levels, sinking low and grounding themselves to embody emotional heaviness. They froze in postures that they described as representing rejection. In another tableau, the group laughed while the girl covered her ears, symbolizing the internal voices of doubt.

What struck me most was how deeply the students embodied these images. They spent time with each movement and shape, reflecting on what it represented in their own lives. Throughout the process, they spoke openly, sometimes for the first time, about how they personally connected to the storyline and themes. The process itself was also collaborative. As a class, they shaped the emotional arc they wanted to express. In small groups, they experimented with movement and continually checked in with one another, asking questions such as: Does this movement communicate what we want it to? Is the message clear to someone watching from outside? When we came together to share the pieces each small group had created, we worked through the creative process as a class to ensure that all parts of the story connected and flowed together.

Every movement needed purpose. Originally, we planned to begin behind a white screen, using light to create silhouettes. When we realized we could not access a spotlight strong enough to make this work, we had to pivot. While students initially felt frustrated that the original concept was not working, they came to understand that this challenge was part of the creative process. What felt like a setback became one of the strongest decisions in the piece. The original tableaux carried more emotional power in full visibility rather than behind a curtain. The shadows would not have created the emotional connection we were hoping for. During rehearsals, teachers who observed the process shared feedback, with one noting, “I can see their emotions and feelings, not only in their movement but in their expressions.” That connection would not have been possible through silhouettes alone.

As the piece continued, the girl in white stepped forward to the opening notes of “Runaway” by Aurora. The others pointed and stepped back, not in exaggerated ways, but with a subtlety that reflected the internal nature of her thoughts and feelings. When the music swelled, they rushed toward her, only to fall away again. A powerful mirroring section followed, where students intentionally copied the girl’s movements, representing embodied empathy and connection. However, healing was not portrayed as linear. The girl in white pushed them away with sharp, sudden movements, and the dancers in black fell back in response, reflecting emotional honesty and complexity. It was important to show that relationships, friendships, and conflict do not resolve as simply as saying, “I’m sorry.” I often use the analogy of crumpled paper with my students. I ask them to say unkind things to the paper, and with every comment, I crumple it further. Then, when I ask them to apologize and try to straighten it together, they quickly realize that the lines and wrinkles remain. No matter how hard they try to smooth it out, it can never fully return to the way it was before. In the same way, our actions leave impact, and repair takes more than words alone.

At the height of the song, during the lyric “when I was running far away,” the entire class moved in sync, expressing the deep desire to escape emotional pain. They collapsed together into a heap. During reflection, one student shared that they felt this moment represented the climax of the performance. Within the story, it marked the main character’s lowest point. Symbolically, it reflected what people, and particularly peers, often experience when they feel excluded or bullied.

As we approached the end of the piece, students knew they needed to send a final message. We returned to the same guiding question: What do you want the audience to leave feeling? The answer was clear. They wanted to communicate hope and resilience. They wanted to share a message that many of their peers could connect deeply. As the music rebuilt, so did they. Hands lifted. Bodies rose through both sustained and sharp movements. Students shared that this symbolized resilience, healing, and the importance of community. They rebuilt themselves from the ground up and returned to the girl in white, linking with her in a final tableau of unity.

What began in isolation ended in collective strength. Families in the audience were quiet, but their expressions showed the impact of what they were witnessing. A student in the audience whispered, “Wow.” In that moment, it became clear to me that drama and dance are not simply art forms; they are powerful spaces for children to explore identity, emotion, and lived experience. This piece was not fiction. It reflected their realities and their stories, exploring exclusion, resilience, and hope in ways that words alone could never fully capture.

What Needs to Change in Elementary Drama and Dance Education and Why

In elementary education, we too often offer stories that skim the surface. We shy away from depth because we assume students aren’t ready for challenging themes, complex emotions, or the truths of their own lives. That assumption isn’t just wrong, it’s harmful.

We underestimate children’s capacity to express themselves. If they struggle to put feelings into words, we assume they can’t express themselves at all. But drama and dance are often the safest and most accessible ways for students to communicate what they cannot yet say aloud. Sheltering students from exploring emotion or identity does not protect them, it silences them.

Now more than ever, when belonging, self-regulation, and connection are deeply needed in schools, we must create spaces where students can move, create, and make sense of themselves. Drama and dance are not extras, they are essential practices for wellness. For students who have historically been marginalized, these opportunities are even more critical.

Access to the arts often depends on resources, networks, and finances that many families simply do not have. In an era of shrinking arts budgets and widespread cuts to education, this inequality only grows. Too many children never get the chance to see themselves as dancers, actors, storytellers, or creators. They deserve the same visibility and opportunity afforded to their more privileged peers. While I was proud that twenty percent of students in my school that year gained admission into arts-based middle school programs, there were still students who wanted to pursue this path but didn’t have the means to do so. That breaks my heart as an educator. Every time we lose a talented, passionate young artist because they, or their families don’t have the means, it is a loss not only for them, but for all of us.

We need schools to create opportunities for families to engage without barriers. We need more robust funding and supports, especially for newcomer families, English language learners, and those unfamiliar with navigating the education system. Arts education should not be a privilege. It should be accessible to every child, regardless of background or resources. Students also need to see how performances are made. Under my work as a performing arts educator, students didn’t just perform, they saw what went into making a show happen. They planned costume changes, organized who was on stage when the curtains open and close, acted as runners to support other classes, and helped manage all the moving parts. They experienced firsthand the collaborative, intricate work of production. Later that year, my Grade 5 students went to see a live, improvised performance at the Young People’s Theatre in Toronto. They met people from wardrobes, lighting, set design, and carpentry, every department that makes a performance possible. This was funded entirely through the generous arts donation from the artist earlier that year, but for so many schools without this support, students miss out because of cost.

All of this work has transformed how I teach. I no longer start with rigid ideas of what drama or dance should be. I start with my students, their identities, interests, emotions, and lived realities. I ask them, “What story do you want to tell? What do you want your audience to feel?” And then I follow them. When they show me the stories they need to tell, the work becomes authentic, meaningful, and rooted in their lives. The purpose of drama and dance is never just the final performance. It is the process, the exploration, the discovery, the expression.

Drama and dance in elementary education can be so much more than surface-level activities. They are voice. They are stories. They are identities. They are belonging. They are community. They are spaces where students feel seen, process the experiences that shape who they are, and create something meaningful while being wholly themselves.

Our students already have stories that matter, voices that deserve to be heard, and identities that deserve to be celebrated. Elementary arts programs must evolve to meet them where they are. They deserve opportunity, visibility, and a place to create. While this is one story from one school, I hope it leaves a broader message: we need more spaces for these stories to be shared, more opportunities to connect with students and families, and more investment in arts education across Ontario and beyond.

So when I regularly asked my students in our classroom, “What is the message you want your audience to feel or take away?” Their answers were always profound. Now, I leave the same question with you, the reader: what is your message? What story do you want to share with the world when it comes to drama and dance education?