Thursday was the last day of my second workshop, this one focused on collaborative choreography (and will be the subject of a post whenever I get my act together). Greatly different from the first one, this demanded a lot of improvisation and group work.
The first week was a hodge-podge of various crazy exercises I have picked up across the years, all of them perfectly alien to my students, which were a great group of eight dancers. There were many more the first day, but the younger ones, perhaps not ready to deal with the concepts, bowed out after that and I was left with a strong, tight-knit group.
I had absolutely no sense if what I was doing was making an impact whatsoever. And yet, on Wednesday I was informed -- asked, but it felt more like being informed -- that I was going to stay after the showing on Thursday to eat with the kids.
(I say "kids," but I really shouldn't, because most of them are around my age. The youngest is sixteen; the oldest twenty-three, but the average is around twenty. I only know this by peeking at their birth dates on the registration sheets...)
Somewhat bemused, I agreed. They were really excited about it, even going so far as trying to get one of their friends to come who spoke more English. They pooled all their money, and then the next day turned up after the showing with bags full of food.
This was just snack food; they'd ordered a full meal. Dumplings, fried mushrooms, veggies, corn, toasted bred with coconut milk sauce for dipping, hot sauce, and what I assumed to be fried chicken (more on that later). To drink, they'd brought up a bunch of ice and red soda, fruit punch that was somewhat mystifyingly green, coke, and fanta.
"Yan," one of them announced, "we can eat now." When he saw I was about to put on some music, he shook his head. "No music, we talk."
So I came over to join the circle. It was all the kids from this workshop, plus one or two from the past one and a friend or two of theirs. Everyone attacked the food, chattering happily away in Khmer and making jokes. We didn't communicate with words, not really -- most of them still call me 'Teacher', but nevertheless it didn't seem to matter at all. We ate, we laughed, and although we barely understood one another, we were friends, and I knew that despite the fact they were enjoying their own inside jokes, I was included and welcomed.
About the 'chicken': I asked if it was indeed. "No," I was informed, "Frog."
Oh dear, I thought, and said, managing not to drop it like a hot coal. Now that I looked at it, it was fairly obvious, though thankfully it was missing the head and the front legs. I considered for a second, then figured it couldn't be worse than the unborn duck chick, took off one of the legs, dipped it in the sauce, and cautiously took a bite.
It wasn't that bad, actually; it was sort of like fish except not, and certainly not like chicken. But either way, I finished eating it, and by the time I glanced down, all the rest had disappeared -- frog is apparently somewhat of a delicacy, and the kids had followed my example by helping themselves.
When you sit me down and tell me to teach, I have no idea what to do, but somehow it just offering these kids what I know and love, acting as guide and mentor, I have managed to do something special. There is something wonderful about sharing food and sharing a meal, and I think honestly it doesn't matter at all that we don't really understand each other's words, because it all other respects, we understand each other perfectly.
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