Yards and yards of dark red curtains hung from rafters hiding me from hundreds of people in the audience. I wiggle my toes in my tight point shoes wishing my feet were a half a size smaller. Looking around at the large group of girls I was about to enter onstage with; “Girl with the big hair bun”, ” girl who can jump high”, ” girl who wears two hairnets”, “Lauren”, “Kelly”, and “that other girl”, were some their names. I’ll be honest, I never really knew the girls by their real names or their life story. I knew them by how they looked, jumped, danced, got yelled at, or what they ordered at the Taco Bell in the parking lot of our dance school.
I danced for 13 years with hundreds of different girls and guys and only really remember three of their faces to this day. I had ripped off what seemed like hundreds of costumes as my dance numbers switched. I learned new dance endings the night before our shows, just because my teacher felt like being more creative. There was nothing consistent about dance life accept that recitals were too long, the size of your hair bun determined your coolness, and my father always bought me roses for after my recital.
Roses are a symbol of being proud, a sign of being present in my life, and an act of celebration of an ending season. Because of this act, roses are my favorite flower. I always knew I could expect them if my father showed up to see me dance. They are a symbol of consistency
My shoes are orange, but the dirt from the Lahu village turned them brown. They are nothing like the light pink point shoes I wore nearly 12 years ago. My stage was made of rocks and red dirt. The Lahu village is a primal village four hours away from Chiang Dao, Thailand, where I work as a teacher. The shack like structures in the Lahu village were homes made from bamboo. Unlike the pink tutus and red lipstick most of the people wore their tribal print. “The woman with the head garment”, “the kid with the jacket that looked like an ewok.”, “Grace” “Na”, “and the white Dutch woman dressed in Thai clothes.” I was surrounded by hundreds once again. Knowing I would only remember a few faces as time continued to pass my mind began to dance around and ask deep questions about life and the love Papa has for me.
Surrounding the village are gardens that stretch across the mountains. These gardens seem to go on for miles. One of the gardens that rolled across the dark green mountains was full of red roses.
I stared at the Lahu kids ripping red petals and throwing them at each other as though they were just weed flowers. Roses had little to no value to the children. My heart hurt for the petals that covered the ground. Roses carry weight and depth for me. The delicate petals pursue my heart. They make me miss who my father once was … So I prayed “Papa if you want to pursue me. Give me a rose.”
I continued up the mountain for another five or six minutes with my eyes focused on my feet. Just as I began to loose hope I hear one of the children from the children’s home, Fountian of Hope Home, in Chiang Dao. “Hello!” Grace said as she took a rose from behind her back. caressing the stem so carefully, her delicate hands gave the rose a gentle but restored value. She smiled and handed me the rose and then gave me a huge hug. I held her for a long while because, in some ways she was the hands and feet of Papa’s pursuit of my heart. “I love you” Grace said in broken English.
I love you too Papa.
