Photo courtesy Brooke Balentine via Unsplash

I learned to cartwheel in gymnastics class.

I was five years old. Raise the arms overhead, right foot step forward, right hand down, hurl body into the air, stick the landing. Cartwheel! The joy of spinning like a wheel across the gym juiced every cell of my body like a bag of Halloween candy sugar rush. It was a perfect high. An addict, I couldn’t stop. Wearing my red leotard trimmed in white, I cartwheeled through the gymnasium, out the door, to my mom’s waiting station wagon. On the weekend at the public pool, I cartwheeled in my one piece french fries swimsuit, wheeling from the shallow pool to the deep pool. A shrill whistle stopped me. The lifeguard, a bronzed teenage boy sporting mirrored shades shook his finger at me, Don’t cartwheel. Walk! Ok. Left foot, right foot. My body twitched. It itched for the high. Why settle for bipedal when my arms ached for action. Propelled by an addict’s unquenchable thirst, my arms hit the cement as my body wheeled from the deep pool to the diving pool. Whistle—Hey you! Stop cartwheeling! The bronzed lifeguard marched towards me but my four limbs beat his two hairy legs as I cartwheeled into the locker room and out the door.

Photo courtesy Shan Abeyrathne via Unsplash

During summer break my family flew to Korea.

My aunts and uncles spoiled us by taking us to an amusement park. I skipped along the path, excited to ride the rollercoaster. Soon, my arms and legs tingled, my heart palpitating. I knew what was coming. I cartwheeled from the carousel to the roller coaster, from the roller coaster to the soda stand. My aunt remarked, You’re making your cousins jealous, they can’t copy you. It fueled me to cartwheel faster, like a whirling pinwheel, a spinning firecracker. I nearly exploded from centrifugal force. It kickstarted my international acclaim: An-young-ha-sae-yo cartwheeling from Korea! Then we flew to Europe. In the Netherlands, our family visited a cheese making factory, followed by a shoe shop. I clopped out with a pair of wooden clogs, sounding like a two-legged horse. As people bicycled along a path lined with tulips, I flipped over in a wobbly cartwheel as one shoe sailed in the air. I fetched my wide, boat-shaped clog and promptly tried it again. And again, until I was cartwheeling through a park. Hallo cartwheeling from the Netherlands!

We traveled to Germany.

Our family wandered into a cobblestoned square. Locals strolled in the blue-tinged evening, mingling at Hofbrau and taverns. A green ping-pong table stood in the square, though no one played. I licked my lips. My addiction transformed me into a brazen acrobat. Like a graffiti artist, I tagged locations with my signature skill. Leaping onto the table, I cartwheeled from one end to the other. People stopped to stare, wondering if a Chinese acrobat show had come to Munich. Nein my good people. Your entertainment brought to you by a six-year-old Korean American girl. My arms raised in the air as if I’d just won a gold medal, I smiled graciously to my bewildered audience. My parents ordered me to come down, but I knew what my fans wanted: more. I cartwheeled across the table while my dad tried to grab me and the moon shimmered over Munich.