ABSTRACT
The practice hall was nothing more than the concrete courtyard of an office building, wedged in invisibility amidst a row of neighborhood stores, noodle houses, and taquerias that dotted the busy Anaheim Street of Long Beach, California. Cambodian American youths, adorned in their silk sampot (Cambodian dress) and ao lakhaoun (a blouse dancers wear during practice), bustled around, exchanging snacks and gossip. A bit of America peeked out through the laced-up sneakers that some of them were still unwilling to shed before class. Like a colorful tapestry, rolled out in one undulating ripple, the students moved into position on the floor and proceeded, with disciplined regimentation, with the ritual salutation of the kru (teacher). Witnessing this scene unfolding, one finds oneself standing at a portal to a different world, impermeable to the noise of inner-city America, to that moment when tradition and modernity, past and present, intersect. What was exhibited was more than artistic impulse. It was the indomitable spirit of a nation, struggling to survive in diaspora.
