Khmer classical dance

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.