By Theresa Tha
Nervous. It’s a feeling that can
describe various situations. A new kid has just moved in from another town and
could be nervous about making new friends at school. A bunch of students that have
pulled all-nighters to study could be nervous about failing their finals. A
parent’s child could be nervous about getting a shot from the doctor. A bride
could be nervous about how her big day will turn out. But me? I’m nervous
before I perform, regardless of the size of the stage or the audience.
I
took an interest in Cambodian classical dance since I was young. As I watch an
old cassette tape of myself when I was still a toddler, I see the TV is turned
on, with a Khmer channel playing on the screen. The robam - a Khmer term
meaning “dance” - that was being performed on that channel was Robam
Apsara. I see my three year old self watching the dance joyously,
attempting to dance along with the dancers on the screen in my old East Boston
living room.
A few years later, I
turned five and my family decided to move to a new house in Lowell: the city
that has the second highest population of Cambodian Americans in the United
States, just behind Long Beach, California. I remember my mom signed me up for
dance classes with, who at the time were called, the Golab Saw or White
Rose dance troupe, a small dance troupe from Lawrence that were learning under
the master teachers from the Angkor Dance Troupe. It was my first day of dance
class and my mom specially made an aovnoy for me to wear. An aovnoy is
a tight-fitted button up shirt that dancers wear to practice. Unfortunately, my
grandmother tried ironing it and burnt the fabric off, so I couldn’t wear it to
practice. As I arrived, my parents and I were brought to one of the big
practice rooms to join the rest of the troupe in their stretching routine. The
doors to the practice room opened and everyone turned back to look at the new
arriving student. I felt a bit intimidated and scared to say the least, but
soon, I felt right at home.
Over
the years, our numbers in the troupe dwindled, since the older dancers grew up
and went to college, or moved to another state. It was only me and a few others
that were left. We rebranded and named our group the Apsara Dance Academy. Most
of the offers that were coming in asked us to perform Robam Chhoun Por
or the Blessing Dance at a few events and temples and some senior homes. I
loved dancing with the troupe, but I just felt like we lost our dancing spirit.
At this rate, wondered if I would ever be able to learn Apsara, which in that
point in life, was my ultimate goal as a dancer. Our numbers dwindled even
lower, until there was only me and my troupe founder left. With only us two, we
decided to focus on our own lives. With me, it was to finish high school and
get a job. I ended up graduating with my hair license and helped my aunt and my
cousin with their wedding business. Life was great, but something in my life
still felt missing, and empty.
It wasn’t until 2017,
when my cousin asked me to go with him to help the Angkor Dance Troupe get
their dancers ready for their annual residency. We were both in charge of doing
the dancers’ hair. As I walked in, a bunch of people were moving about. Some
were practicing on the sides, others were doing their makeup, more were getting
dressed. Looking at all of these kids just rush about, getting ready for their
troupe’s big performance, it made me feel some sort of way. I was just there to
do hair, but I felt an adrenaline rush through me. A feeling that I haven’t
experienced in a long time. It was at that moment that I told myself I would
join the Angkor Dance Troupe.
The following January, a
new semester at Angkor had begun. It was nostalgic to see the halls and the
practice rooms of Angkor again, but this time, I was a student of Angkor. It
was mostly the newer generation of dancers that were walking in the halls, so I
felt slightly out of place with no sense of familiarity. I didn’t know any of
the children. And to make myself feel even more secluded, I had bright neon
yellow box braids, compared to the other children’s natural dark colored hair.
My aovnoy and kben were a dark plum, unlike the other students
that had bright colored aovnoy and kben. I felt self conscious
and didn’t know how they would take in my weird appearance. Fortunately, the
kids took an interest in me and I quickly began to make new friends.
Fast
forward to September 2018, a new semester started once again and I was happy to
be back and reconnect with my new friends. Seeing as to how Angkor usually
performs their annual residency around this time of year, I was excited to know
whether or not I could get the chance to perform in it. Our troupe’s creative
director, Phousita Huy, who is also our master dance teacher, decided on
showcasing “Rain & Life”. The show is about a young lady in Cambodia who
prays for rain so that she can have a good harvesting season. In the first act,
there would be an excerpt from Moni Mekhala & Ream Eyso. The first
dance being Robam Boung Soung, also known as Robam Preah Thong. Robam
Boung Soung, as I was told by my senior dancers, is a prayer dance,
therefore, it is very spiritual. As you dance, you are connecting with our
ancestors and gods, so when I was told that I would be performing it, I was in
utter shock. Even though it’s been only a year since I joined, I was able to
perform such an amazing dance. I was honored for this great opportunity.
As
performance day came, I rushed to wake up early and do my makeup, trying to be
as flawless as possible in order to represent the teptida or goddess
role that I would be portraying on stage. Arriving at Lowell High, where the
performance took place, the younger kids were already in their frog and flower
costumes. Most of the other girls that would be dancing with me were quickly
getting into their costumes as well, the ones portraying the neang role
(female) such as myself wore a velvet, forest green sbai and red bodices
and skirts. The ones portraying the nearong role (male) wore
long-sleeved shirts that were made with the same materials and colors as our sbais,
and wore gold kben. Performance time was coming close, the audience
already filling up the auditorium seats. Our teachers called us over to put on
our mokot, a golden headdress, to complete our heavenly costumes. Once
everyone was ready, we all gathered and prayed to our ancestors to wish for
success in our performance.
The
first act had begun and it was time for my group to dance. Quickly, we prayed individually
before we get on stage in order to shake off the nervousness in our bones and
hope that we perform well. The music started playing and we danced our way onto
the stage. The prayer helped me a lot. If I hadn’t prayed before hand, my mind
probably would’ve been all jumbled up and I wouldn’t be able to focus. Even
thinking back to it now, we spent a month learning the choreography, but the
performance went by fast. I only remember getting on and off stage. Whatever
was in between has become a blur.
No
matter how tiring it gets, I would wake up and do this all over again. If I had
to choose which nationality to be born into, I would still wish to be born
Cambodian. Cambodian classical dance is not only my passion, but it is the one
thing I hold dearest to my heart. It is my only true source of happiness. Even
if the world fell apart, this would be the one thing to keep me going. I aspire
to learn all of the roles in Cambodian classical dance so that I can keep the
culture alive and teach them to the future generations so that they too can
fall in love with their identity as a person with roots from the wonderful
country of Cambodia.