by Alex Ko
“I’m going to teach you,” he said. “Come on.”
He gestured over to a quiet corner of the rehearsal room. As I walked, I watched my reflection in the big front mirror. A dozen girls in tights and ballet slippers were lined up against the barre, practicing. Nolte was a small school, so there were only about twenty of us in the room.
“Sit,” Tad said, pushing his hands together in front of him and gesturing at the ground. He stood straight and peered up toward the ceiling, in his teaching pose. “Let’s see, how to explain a tour? The word’s actually French and is short for tour en l’air, which literally means ‘turn in the air.’ It’s one of the basic jumps that all male ballet dancers must master. Jumps and lifts are the two most important skills guys have in ballet. Now watch!”
Suddenly Tad leaped into the air. His body was fully extended down through his toes, like a human pencil. As he reached the peak of his jump, he seemed to float in graceful slowness and spin in a lightning-fast full rotation at the same time. He landed, but he stayed on the ground for only a split second before he jumped again. This time, he spun around twice.
“That’s a double tour. Some dancers, like Nijinsky, could even do triples.” He paused, a rare smile lighting up his face. “But we’ll start you with the basics and work our way up. To begin, assume fifth position.”
In ballet, there are five basic alignments for your feet, with corresponding positions for the hands—first through fifth position. Fifth position is when your feet are parallel, one in front of the other, toes pointing in opposite directions so that the heel of one foot touches the toes of the other—if you can stretch that far. It took me a while.
After I got in position, Tad explained that in order to do a tour, I needed to jump, point my feet while I was in the air, do one full rotation, and land back in fifth position.
“Make sure you spot before you jump,” he said. “You know that, right?”
I nodded. Gymnastics had given me a leg up in ballet. Because of all the tumbling I’d been doing, I knew a lot about jumping, spinning, and keeping my balance. One of the big tricks is to spot before you turn. Spotting means staring at a point on the wall that you want to end up facing. When you spin, you move your head as swiftly as possible, so that you only take your eyes off your spot for the briefest moment. Your head should rotate much faster than the rest of your body. This keeps you from getting dizzy.
For the rest of rehearsal, Tad had me assume fifth position, spot, jump, and land, without any rotation. We never did any full tours that day, but from then on, whenever we had a free moment, Tad drilled me. Until I had those parts perfect, he didn’t even want me to try the rotation. Instead, we built the skill up slowly, piece by piece. It took weeks for me to learn how to do perfect tours. Those little tips from Tad evolved into private lessons, and soon I was studying with him almost constantly.
I’d been pretty dedicated to dance before this, but now I was at a whole different level. I had my father’s blessing, which had been the last thing holding me back. And I had only a short time to prove that I was taking ballet seriously. So I studied constantly, wanting to show Dad what I was capable of.
But it wasn’t enough. I needed years of training before I’d be a great ballet dancer, and my father didn’t have years. He had months, maybe weeks—maybe days. I felt like an invisible timer was hovering over my head. I could hear it ticking, but I had no way of knowing when it would hit zero.
Chapter 9
Travels with My Dad
As the plane circled Chicago’s O’Hare airport, Dad began to feel weak. The color drained from his face, and even though sweat was dripping down his forehead, he shivered.
“Excuse me, but could we get a blanket, please?” Mom asked the flight attendant. We were flying coach, and it looked like she was about to tell us they didn’t have blankets on board. But then she saw Dad.
“Of course. I’ll find something,” she said.
When she came back, she brought him a blanket and gently tucked it in around him. Even though she didn’t know about the cancer, it was obvious by this point that Dad was dying, and everyone could see it.
By the time we landed, Dad needed a wheelchair to make our connecting flight. It made me wonder if this trip had been a good idea. Dad desperately wanted to see his mother before he died, but she had Alzheimer’s and was too sick to leave California. So we were going to her.
Everyone knew this would be the last trip, so our entire extended family was gathering for a week in San Jose. My cousins Emily and Pearl drove from San Francisco, my auntie Alicia and uncle Franco flew in from Las Vegas, and my auntie Kristin, uncle David, and their kids, Ashleigh and Alissa, flew up from Los Angeles. Other relatives also came from all over California. But Po Po was too sick to leave Oakland, so we had to go visit her. Because she had Alzheimer’s, no one had told her that Dad had cancer.
As we arrived in San Jose, Mom kept checking to make sure Dad felt okay. Maybe it was the ocean breeze, or knowing that he would soon see his mother, but as soon as he stepped off the plane in California, a twinkle returned to Dad’s eye. For the first time in a while, it was like he wasn’t sick. When the flight attendants asked if he needed a wheelchair, he waved them away. He held Mom’s arm, but he walked out of the airport on his own two feet, and I could tell how happy that made him.
We rented a giant minivan so that we could do touristy things but always have a place where Dad could sit (or even lie down) if he needed.
“Your dad is very sick,” Mom had cautioned us before we left, “so we might not do a lot of activities. Okay? We’re going to only do what Dad can do, and that’ll have to be enough.”
“Always looking out for me.” Dad smiled and kissed her on the cheek. I knew it made him sad to admit how sick he was, but he was happy to have such a wife, who cared for him so much.
Luckily, Dad found a reserve of strength somewhere deep inside him. For that entire week in California, it was as though he wasn’t sick. We went everywhere. It was the best trip of my life.
One of my favorite parts was dinner at Auntie Polly’s house. It was like footage from a Disney movie. Everyone was just so happy. Auntie Polly made dinner for about one hundred when there were only about fifteen of us. Every single dish was a different color and had a different taste. There was so much laughter and joy in the room, I never wanted to go. Leaving her house was like the day after Christmas. You couldn’t wait until the next time.
My favorite memory was being at the ocean with my dad. Dad loved the ocean, so we spent at least part of every day by the water. He took Matt and me to see the seals on the pier at Santa Cruz. We went to Monterey Bay to watch the surfers, and to visit the aquarium. In the afternoon, we played games on the boardwalk with our cousins, who we never got to see much. Dad watched with a smile on his face. He was always happiest when we were all together.
“Family,” Uncle David said as he dropped down to sit next to my father. “It’s the most important thing in life. We should do this more often.”
He was talking to Dad, but he looked at me as he said it. I knew “we” would never do this again, but it reminded me that family didn’t just mean my parents and brothers. I had a great big extended family, and even if we didn’t see each other often, we still loved each other very much. I knew Uncle David was right: family was the most important thing. When Dad was gone, we would be the ones to remember for each other, to comfort each other, and to tell the stories of Dad’s life that would make us laugh and cry for decades to come. But for now, I was happy just to be in the same place as them, feeling the same sun shining on all our smiling faces, even Dad’s. I stared out at the ocean, and wished his life would go on forever, just like the sparkling water in front of me. But I knew it wouldn’t.
We visited Oakland to see Po Po, who I’d only known when I was a baby. She was like a little-old-lady version of Dad, always sweet and smiling. We went all around Chinatown, where she lived, seeing the sights. Everyone seemed to know
her, even if often she couldn’t remember them. But it was clear that she was well loved, and seeing how happy she was—even though she was sick—made Dad even happier.
“This is very much like Hong Kong,” Dad told me as we wandered past bright red-and-gold awnings above stalls selling vegetables and live crabs in buckets. I slipped my hand into Dad’s, and for a moment I imagined we were in Hong Kong together. I knew we’d never make it there, but at least we had right now, and I could pretend.
“There’s someone else we need to see,” Dad said one afternoon, after we’d left Po Po to take a nap. The whole family got in the minivan and drove out beyond the city limits.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see” was all he would say.
When we pulled up at the cemetery, I understood. It took a while to get to the grave, because Dad had grown tired from walking around all day, but finally we stopped in front of a small tombstone in a large, grassy field.
“This is where my father is buried,” Dad said. He placed a colorful bouquet of flowers in front of the stone, which was dark, weathered granite. Then he looked at the clear space next to it. “And this is where your father will be buried.”
He put his arm around my shoulder. I looked at the innocent patch of grass. It was so fresh, green, and beautiful. It seemed impossible to believe that one day, Dad would be buried beneath it. A chill ran down my spine. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to think about this. The entire trip had been so normal. No one had cried, not since we’d arrived in San Jose, and Dad had been strong again. But there was no escaping the future.
We stood silently, side by side, looking at the graves of our fathers. For the first time in my life, I began to understand what it felt like to be a grown-up. To be a man. My father had buried his father, and soon, I would bury mine. It was a universal truth, something every man must do someday, but I would have given anything to put it off for one more day, one more hour, even one more second with my father.
When we returned to Iowa, Dad’s health collapsed. It was as though he’d used everything left inside him to give us that final, wonderful week in California. As Dad got sicker, my brothers and I spent more time outside the house so that Mom wouldn’t have to take care of us and Dad at the same time. Our next-door neighbors, the Abdos, were good friends of the family, and more often than not, Matt and I slept at their house. They had sons near us in age, and we would stay up late into the night talking, laughing, and beating each other at games.
It felt weird not being at home—but truthfully, it felt weirder being there. The house I knew was a place full of laughter, music, and the scent of delicious food constantly wafting out of the kitchen. Now our house was full of whispered voices and quiet tears. I could deal with my father dying—but I couldn’t deal with watching him die. And he didn’t want that. I knew he wanted me to remember the laughing, loving father I grew up with, the Dad who took me all around California, not the sick man who could barely walk. Mom tried to keep our spirits up, but those last few weeks were hard on all of us, but especially on her, because she took care of everyone else.
My dad died in his bed at a little before two a.m. on June 10, 2007. Matt and I were asleep at our neighbors’ house. When they woke me up to say there was a phone call from my mom, I knew instantly that Dad had passed, but part of me refused to believe it. I refused to believe so hard that when I got up the next morning, I was convinced it was all just a bad dream. Even once I knew it was true, I let it touch only the outside of me. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t give a speech at his funeral. Instead, I pretended I was somewhere else, at a service for a friend, or someone I didn’t even know. I understood that Dad was gone, but it was months before I really felt it.
And once I did, I could never not feel it—that dull ache of something missing, like when you lose a tooth and your tongue constantly probes the place it had once been. There is a Sam Ko–shaped hole in this world, and nothing will ever fill it. Thankfully, I know in my heart that there is another world beyond this one, and that my father is waiting for me there.
Right after Dad passed away, my mom was out on our front porch, talking on the phone with a good friend. As she stared at the moon, a star burst into glorious movement. Most shooting stars went across the sky from one end of the horizon to the other. This one went straight up, like a rocket. I think it was my father’s soul, ascending to heaven.
I know that he watches over me every day. He is in front of me, clearing my path; behind me, holding me up; and at my side, whispering encouragement. He’s my dad, whether here on earth or up in heaven. Nothing will ever change that. I spent all this time worrying about whether he would ever get to see me dance ballet, but now I know that he watches me every time I’m onstage.
I love you, Dad.
Chapter 10
Lost and Found
Have you ever arrived somewhere that you expected to be full of people and found it empty? Like if you wrote down the wrong room for a test, or showed up to a party only to realize you had the wrong date? Even before you figure out what’s happened, there’s that feeling of something being off—too still, too quiet. It’s the feeling of something missing.
That’s how the house felt in the weeks after Dad’s death. I constantly expected to hear his laugh, or smell his cooking, or walk into the living room and find him tinkering with our stereo. Because everything else was so normal, it seemed like he wasn’t really gone, he was just somewhere in the wings, waiting for his entrance. I constantly felt like I was walking through a maze, with my father always ahead of me, just out of sight. If I could walk fast enough, or if I opened the right door at the right time, my father would be there.
But no matter how I tried, I couldn’t catch him.
I refused to cry, at least not when other people were around. I didn’t want them to see me, and more than that, I just couldn’t do it. When other people were in the room, that part of me shut off. I guess I’ve always been a pretty private person that way.
But at night, before I got into bed, I would say my prayers, and the tears would come. In my dark bedroom, listening to the quiet sounds of Matt’s deep-sleep breathing, I wrapped my arms around myself and cried. Sometimes I would call my dad’s cell phone, just to hear his voice on the message.
I miss you so much, Dad, I thought. Why did you have to leave?
One night, something stirred inside me. It was almost as though I could hear Dad’s voice in my head saying “I’m right here.” And it was true. I could feel him in the room with me. From then on, I knew that Dad would always be with me, no matter what. That’s when I started talking to him regularly. Every night, after I said my prayers, I’d tell Dad about my day: the dance classes I’d taken, the subjects I’d studied, the funny thing that Mom, John, or Matt had done. It was a way of keeping him in my life. If I was always thinking about him, then I’d never forget his face, or the sound of his laugh, or the way his hand felt when he ruffled my hair.
One of my biggest regrets in life is that I couldn’t speak at Dad’s funeral. Mom asked if I wanted to, but for the same reason I couldn’t cry in front of people, I couldn’t imagine giving a speech. Everything was too raw and painful, and I felt like I had to hold it all in. If I let go for one second, or let one tear fall, I worried I might explode. But I wish I could have gotten up there and told everyone how wonderful Dad was, the way John did. His speech was beautiful and moving. It was like he was saying good-bye, thank you, and I love you all rolled up in one. I wish I could have been as eloquent as John, but it just wasn’t my way.
But I wanted to do something to honor Dad, even if I didn’t know what. I racked my brain, trying to come up with a way to say good-bye that felt right. A few days after the funeral, it came to me: I was going to choreograph a dance for Dad. But it wouldn’t be just any ordinary dance. I was going to make the entire piece out of the things Dad and I did together, like riding bikes and fishing. Every step, every movement would be dedicated to
Dad’s memory.
I don’t know how the idea came to me, or why I thought I could pull it off. I’d sort of taken a class in choreography once before, with Michael. She called it improv, probably because no six-year-old would want to take a class in choreography, but what we learned was the basics of matching a physical movement to a piece of music. That had been years ago, though, and I didn’t remember much. Also, I wanted the piece to have a lot of ballet in it, because I knew that would make Dad proud, and I didn’t know anywhere near enough ballet to choreograph a number like that on my own. And the only teacher I thought I could ask—Tad—couldn’t see me anymore.
Right after Dad died, my family and I went to California for over a month, this time with my auntie Kristin and uncle David and my dad’s family. It felt good to be close to them. We were able to go because my mom had finished teaching summer school. When we returned to Iowa City, we found out that Tad was worried I wasn’t going to continue dancing after Dad’s death, because I’d been gone for so long.
“Tad won’t be teaching you anymore,” Mom told me after they spoke.
“What?” I asked, shocked. “Why?”
“He says he can’t, and he had to take another student in your place while we were away,” Mom said. I could tell she was disappointed.
I didn’t know what to say. I felt lost. Tad had been the only anchor I had left in the dance world. I’d thought he was going to be my mentor in ballet, and now he wasn’t even going to be my teacher. I opened my mouth to ask Mom a question, but she beat me to it.
“We’ll find you a new teacher,” she said. “You need a male role model. And we’re going to find you one.” She hugged me hard to her chest. Her strength convinced me she could make everything right.
Without Tad, it wasn’t just my ballet education that ground to a halt. I was left without someone to help me craft my memorial to Dad. But I knew I couldn’t do it alone. I went to my mom.
