The first time I watched the Statue of Liberty vanish, I stood spellbound. Despite the flickering mosaics on the ‘80s footage, David Copperfield captured my ten-year-old heart with his dazzling jacket, absolutely cool hair, and magic. Only one thought occupied my mind: I wanted to be like him.
As David raised his arms to conclude his performance, I raised mine too. But just at that moment, my sister’s cries broke into the living room and drew me back to the reality. I turned off the TV and rushed to her room. “Math is too hard.” Qingqing pouted. “You have to help me.”
“Anytime, ma’am.” I wiped her tears, sat down by her, and took over her pen. Like on many other afternoons when our parents were busy at work, I took up the responsibility of caring for Qingqing. This time, after we finished the last question in her math packet, a lightbulb flashed on in my head: How about I perform magic to Qingqing?
Thus began my journey as a magician. As you have probably guessed, my initial attempts were laughably bad, involving a coin sneaking so deep in my sleeve that I had to shake it out with Qingqing’s help... But I was determined to get better. After watching dozens of videos and training secretly in the bathroom, I succeeded in disappearing a coin before Qingqing’s eyes. Watching my sister’s gap-toothed smile, I realized that David performed magic not just for cool hair or fancy jackets but to make his audience’s day.
As I became versed in the art, mastering everything from Poker tricks to mentalism, I got more bewitched by David’s magic. At first glance, the statue’s vanishing looked like a simple combination of timing, distraction, and orchestrated rotation, but beneath the surface, it was months spent setting up the stage for a twenty-second feat. Like David, I poured weeks of designing, undesigning, and practice into even my shortest routines.
Was it worth it? I asked. As I extrapolated my passion for magic to physics and basketball, I would wrack my brain over one physics problem for hours out of infatuation, and train shooting from one angle for days just to help my team. From these experiences, I learned that the magic of true love could not be measured empirically, just as every day, however busy, I would invariably make time for my family, still serving as Qingqing’s go-to math teacher and my parents’ handyman in housework.
As I transitioned into high school, my understanding of magic continued to evolve. In tenth grade, I began teaching math to kids in the leukemia ward of Ludaopei Hospital. My task seemed simple, yet my first attempts said otherwise: one kid hid beneath the bed, and one tossed his pen on the table, telling me, “The doctor said I will die, so I don’t have to study.” Hearing those words broke my heart, but it also steeled my determination to make a change.
I thought back to how I had entertained Qingqing, so the next thing I did was standing in the lounge, holding a cup of water. As the curious bug-eyed kids grouped before me, I turned the cup downward. No drop fell. Their eyes widened in unison. “What happened?” “Teach me!” As they huddled around me, I sat them at the table and used the opportunity to tell them “math first, magic second.”
As they opened their math packets, eyes sparkling, I realized that I had found my life’s calling: using magic to elevate younger lives. As David passed his magic to ten-year-old me, the hopeful, positive boy has since grown into a young man determined to become a teacher and create his own greatest feat. When David bows to his audience, I carry his transformative power of magic with me. For him, magic is making his audience’s day; for me, it is all about making the kids’ day.