I Thought He Was the Worst Student… Until I Knew Why He Came

I thought he was the worst student I’d ever had.

He had been coming to my class for twelve weeks and still couldn’t get through three steps without tripping.

“Mr. Martínez, again,” I said, unable to hide my frustration. “It’s step, cross, turn. Step, cross, turn. It’s not that hard.”

He nodded with that patient smile that annoyed me more than his mistakes ever could. At this point, he had to be the worst student in fifteen years of teaching salsa. The other students whispered, rolled their eyes, and sighed whenever he arrived on Tuesdays and Thursdays, punctual as a Swiss watch, with worn-out dance shoes and an absurd determination in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, professor,” he said, returning to the starting position. “Once more, please.”

I sighed and restarted the music. Carmen, my best student, was wasting her time dancing with him. She could be perfecting advanced moves, but instead, she had to carry this man who couldn’t tell his left from his right.

The music filled the studio. One, two, three… and there he went again, stepping on Carmen’s foot.

“Enough!” I threw up my hands. “Five-minute break.”

The others dispersed to their water bottles. Mr. Martínez stayed in the middle of the room, wiping sweat from his forehead, breathing hard. He wasn’t young—probably in his sixties or more.

I approached him, ready to suggest—again—that maybe dance wasn’t his thing. Yoga, walking, anything.

“Mr. Martínez, we need to talk.”

“I know,” he said before I could continue. “I’m terrible. You’ve been very patient with me.”

“So you understand that maybe this isn’t…”

“Today is my last class,” he interrupted gently. “I won’t bother you again after today.”

Something in his tone stopped me. It wasn’t defeat. It was something else.

“Why?” I asked, though I didn’t know why I did. I should’ve felt relieved.

He paused, a long silence. The other students were chatting in small groups, the music playing softly in the background.

“My wife,” he finally said. “She taught dance. She was magnificent, professor—you would have admired her. Salsa, bachata, tango… she danced everything as if she was born to dance.”

A lump formed in my throat.

“She passed away three years ago. Breast cancer. It was… fast at the end.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, and every ounce of irritation melted away.

“Before she left, when she could still speak, she made me promise something. There was a choreography she loved, one she danced when she was happy, when she wanted to celebrate life. She made me promise I’d learn it and perform it at her grave every anniversary.”

Tears pricked my eyes.

“I told her yes, of course, even though we both knew I couldn’t dance a simple waltz. She laughed, professor. The last time I saw her laugh. And she said, ‘It doesn’t matter if you do it badly, my love. What matters is that you try. That you do it for us.’”

“Today is the anniversary,” I said, not a question.

He nodded.

“The third one. That’s why I needed to finish this choreography today. That’s why I’ve come to every class without fail, even though I know I’m a disaster. That’s why…”

I didn’t let him finish. I turned to the rest of the class.

“Attention everyone! Change of plans. We’re going to run the full choreography one last time. Carmen, come. Mr. Martínez, let’s make it perfect—or as close as possible.”

For the next hour, I worked with him long after the official class ended. The others stayed quiet, no complaints about the extra time. Carmen’s patience was infinite. I corrected each movement with a gentleness I didn’t know I had.

It wouldn’t be perfect. His steps were still awkward, his rhythm insecure. But when he finally finished the full choreography without stopping, without apologizing, we all applauded.

Tears shone in his eyes.

“Thank you, professor. You have no idea what this means.”

“Wait,” I said, running to my office. I returned with a small portable speaker. “Take this. So she can hear the music.”

As he walked to his car with the speaker under his arm, smiling in a way that no longer annoyed me, Carmen came over.

“That was beautiful what you did,” she said.

I wiped my eyes.

“I’ve been teaching dance for fifteen years, Carmen. I thought it was about the steps, the rhythm, perfect technique.” I looked toward the door he had just exited. “Today I learned that sometimes it’s about love. Just love.”

That night, alone in the empty studio, I danced the same choreography. And for the first time in a long while, I remembered why I started teaching.