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.