Flower Girls

The fluorescent lights insulted the vulnerability of night.  The humble silence of the dark was interrupted by the vibrations of pop music.  Our bodies pulsed with the pavement.  We were surrounded by physical beauty- all of it exploited with fluorescent price tags.  Names replaced with flashing numbers.

Everything about the Thai Red Light District is a paradox- the exploit of poverty, the depravity for profit, flashing lights expanding the darkness of our transgressions.

We met Nina within these salacious sois (streets).  It was our fifth week working on Bangla Road.  Nina was nine years old, gao.  I was twenty-two, yee-sip-song.  I clung to ideals that had been tested but barely tried.

Nina was not the first child who approached my team on Bangla Road.  As farangs (white people), we were the targets for many child vendors wandering the streets draped with overpriced flower leis.  The children would approach sweetly and attempt to drape a lei across our shoulders.  "Soai Mac Mac," they would croon (beautiful, so beautiful).  The dynamic swiftly shifted as soon as the gesture was declined.

My team and I had been coached to limit our interaction with the "Flower Children" wandering in the Red Light District.  Their traffickers were always nearby and volatile. Our nonprofit received enough threats, and the trafficking rings presented a deeper level of peril.  Our purpose was explicit, as were our boundaries.  Be alert.  Stay with your team at all times.  Stay away from Soi Sea Dragon and Soi Hollywood.  Limit communication with vendors, especially children.

Nina broke protocol.  She approached without financial motive.  She took my hands and pointed to the palms.  "Pra-Yesu... Pra-Yesu...Pra-Yesu... Pra-Yesu," she repeated the name of Jesus with intensity. She approached each girl on my team of four and pointed to our hands.  She held my gaze, in spite of the cultural taboo of eye contact.  In broken English, she told me her name.  She told me that she was from Laos.  She pointed to another younger little girl across the street... her sister, Cola.

Between my broken Thai and her minimal English, we gathered pieces of her story.  Her parents lived in Laos.  They owed money.  Nina and two of her siblings were taken to Thailand in order to repay debts.  As soon as the debt was paid, they would go home. Her confidence in this knowledge offended my cynicism.

She spoke quickly, urgently.  A male in my periphery approached and paused about twenty feet from our huddle- four young farangs and his vendor, but we were not digging in our pockets for baht. I was kneeling to hold the forbidden gaze just a little longer.

Breaking Nina's gaze was an admittance of powerlessness.  I wrote my phone number on one of our "business cards" and slipped it into Nina's hands.  "Please call me.  Please meet us here at this time tomorrow.  We will bring you ice cream.  Please."

Even though I said the words, I knew their futility.

Nina caught sight of the man who now edged closer indiscreetly.  She nodded in agreement, but her attention had been redirected.

She wandered to a young Australian couple at the crosswalk.

"Soai Mac Mac," she crooned.

The next night, I waited with my team for over an hour.  It was midnight when we finally made our way down the grid of sois to fulfill our nightly work.  It was halfhearted.  My attention was elsewhere.

Two days after meeting Nina, I dropped out of my graduate program.  I emailed my advisor at VCU.  Like everyone else who knew me at the time, she questioned my certitude and told me that a spot would remain for me in the fall should I change my mind.

I didn't change my mind.  I never heard from Nina.  I have dreamed of her reunion with loving parents who rejoice at the reception of their children, but waking up feels like breaking her gaze... an admittance of my powerlessness.

Even though Nina never called me, I see her often.  She resides in the faces of so many of my students.  She resides in the photos of our foster son.  Lately, I see her in the mirror-- questioning what I know of overcoming, what I know of trial, and what I know of faith.

The kind of faith that is offensively hopeful in the midst of the human paradox.

Releasing Balloons

Standing in Mamaw's yard, dewy blades of grass sticking to our toes, Ashley and I  gently kissed the latex and uncurled our fists.  We watched the colorful ascension into heaven and whispered messages to our Papaw until the spheres blended with the sky.

Growing up, whenever we received balloons, whether from a birthday celebration or from another special gathering, certain balloons were always reserved for those we had loved and lost... the strings that slipped through our clenched fists too soon.  

I have liberated many balloons over the years.

As I reflect on my week, my mind has paused on a reel of memories- the embrace, the unfurling, and the quiet absolution.  I find myself lost in the imagery of Mamaw's tradition.

Every fall, I receive a new, breathtakingly colorful bouquet, and for a short time, I get to hold the strings.  

For eight months, my nails dig into the palms of my hands.  I hold so tightly that the nail prints crack the dry palms of winter, and at times, blood surfaces, but it doesn't matter because the beauty of the task always silences the pain.

Sometimes we pause to disentangle a string or two.  As I gingerly climb gnarled branches and carefully navigate the labyrinth of an unpredictable landscape, I question myself at every foothold.  

Occasionally our entire day is spent in the act of the unraveling, but it is worth it for the moment I find you- afraid but still capable of flight.  The descent is much quicker, but it is my favorite.  It is when I keep you closest, and you don't mind because I am familiar with each foothold.

For 180 days we continue our journey together.  There are days of clear landscapes and weeks in the woods, but every day that I get to hold the strings is a precious gift.