Kieron Dwayne Sargeant was just 13 when he first felt the spark for teaching. He was standing in a modest studio in the Embacadere neighborhood of San Fernando, Trinidad and Tobago, when his teachers, Torrance Mohammed and Louise McClashie, asked him to lead the class through a warm-up. “That moment changed my life,” he says. “[It] gave me my calling.”
Sargeant’s passion for teaching has since flourished into an assistant professor of dance position at Skidmore College, where he teaches both majors and nonmajors in courses in African and Caribbean dance forms. His impact, though, goes well beyond the walls of academe, extending to nonprofit organizations and cultural centers. No matter the context, Sargeant, a performer, choreographer, and published scholar, says he approaches every opportunity to teach with the same intention: to introduce Caribbean dance “not as a supplemental style but as a full-bodied, full-system practice of rhythm, clarity, and relation.”
Dance Teacher spoke with Sargeant about the importance of conveying the cultural significance of dance, what it means to reframe students’ ideas of “success,” and how to shift their focus from mirror to meaning.
What do you enjoy most about teaching?
I most enjoy watching dancers begin […] to recognize rhythm not just as a skill, but as a language they can speak with their whole bodies. There’s a moment in class, especially when we’re working with live drums or call-and-response, where the thinking drops away and something more embodied takes over.
I also love how teaching becomes a space of cultural affirmation. Caribbean dance is often marginalized or misunderstood as just celebratory or folkloric. But when I teach, students encounter the depth and intelligence of these systems. These are not improvised movements slapped onto music. These are choreographic languages with protocols, timing strategies, relational logic, and a spiritual backbone. Watching students discover that—not through lecture but through sweat, voice, [and] shared rhythm—is deeply satisfying.
What is one “thing” that makes your teaching style unique?
One of the most defining features of my teaching is my use of skirt-work as a rhythmic and pedagogical tool. For me, the skirt is a teacher in the room. I treat the fabric as a live element of the class, one that reveals rhythm, organizes space, and gives immediate feedback to the dancer.
In my classes, I teach students how to spiral, sweep, flick, and catch the skirt in direct conversation with the music. If your rhythm is late, the skirt won’t follow. If your accent is sharp, the fabric will respond clearly. The dancer begins to [feel] their own timing through the motion of the cloth, [turning] technique into sensation. For students who struggle with phrasing, breath control, or transitions, skirt-work slows them down just enough to discover flow. It builds confidence through feedback, not critique.
Beyond the physical technique, skirt-work teaches presence. I’ve seen dancers who came into the room hesitant and unsure become completely transformed once they start working with the fabric. They start dancing from their own center, not from someone else’s idea of what dance should look like.
What is the biggest challenge you’ve experienced working with today’s generation? How do you work through these challenges?
Many students have been conditioned to prioritize aesthetics over rhythm, intention, or relation. They’re often taught that technique is something external, and because so much training happens in front of mirrors, dancers can [become] hyper-focused on form, [which] disconnects them from the internal timing and cultural depth of the movement.
To work through this, I reframe what it means to be “correct.” In my classes, success isn’t measured by replication. It’s measured by responsiveness. I use voice, percussion, and call-and-response structures to break the dependency on mirrors and counts. I introduce group exercises where dancers echo each other or take turns leading short rhythmic sequences. This builds confidence through connection.
What’s the worst and best advice you’ve ever been given about teaching?
The worst advice I ever received came from a Trinidadian male educator who told me I would never be a good teacher because I wasn’t trained in ballet or modern dance. That kind of thinking is not only harmful, it’s inaccurate. My training is rooted in tradition bearers, elders, drummers, and master teachers who understand dance as a cultural technology, not a visual commodity. I’ve learned to see that my lineage, my rhythm, and my pedagogy are not alternatives—they’re essentials. They prepare dancers for life, not just performance.
The best advice came from Thomas Talawa Prestø, who helped me see that the very thing I was told to downplay—Caribbean skirt-work and rhythmic pedagogy—was actually my brilliance. That advice reminded me that cultural knowledge is not secondary to technique—it is technique.
Do you have a role model in the dance education field?
I have several, but the three [who] stand out in my development as a dance educator are Makeda Thomas, Thomas F. DeFrantz, and Prestø.
Makeda Thomas showed me that Caribbean dance is not just a cultural tradition—it’s a visionary space. [DeFrantz] is a model for what it means to be both a rigorous scholar and a deeply embodied teacher. And [Prestø] has had an enormous impact on how I now see my own pedagogy. He helped me recognize that the systems I was already building through skirt-work, rhythmic training, and group relation were not only valid, they were unique.
What message do you have for today’s dance educators who are continually working to inspire and empower the next generation?
The most powerful thing you can do as a dance educator is teach from your lineage—not just your training. Know the difference. Training tells you what to do. Lineage tells you why you do it, who you learned it from, and how that knowledge was passed down.
We live in a time where so many students are overwhelmed by pressure, by perfectionism, by performance expectations. The studio should be a place where dancers learn to move from confidence, not comparison. We, as teachers, are responsible for setting that tone.
Honoring cultural heritage plays a fundamental role in your pedagogy. What inspires that focus for you?
I come from a lineage where dance was never just about movement. It was about memory, communication, resistance, celebration, and survival. To teach Caribbean forms without acknowledging that heritage would be to strip them of their power, and I refuse to do that—not for the comfort of the institution, not for the approval of dominant dance frameworks, and not for convenience.
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