by Lisa Grekul
A few minutes after I sit down, the adjudicators announce that our Senior Girls’ Lemko Ribbon Dance has been disqualified. The judges say that the Lemko costumes are inauthentic. The girls aren’t even allowed to compete. There is some confusion offstage as the adjudicators talk privately to our dancers and parent chaperones, the Demkiws and the Farynas. Mrs. Demkiw and Mrs. Faryna put their arms around some of the girls to comfort them. Mr. Demkiw shakes his head while he listens to the judges. Mr. Faryna storms away. Sophie looks out into the crowd, trying to find our faces. Kalyna signals to her by waving her arms wildly over her head.
Later in the day, our Intermediate Girls’ Bukovynian Wedding Dance comes in fourth. The girls – girls I dance with all the time – stand side by side onstage, holding hands while they listen to the adjudicator’s comments. Some of them look as though they’re about to cry. I admit, I’m not upset to see Carla Senko being criticized onstage along with the other dancers. I’ve hardly spoken to her since she dropped my mother’s Ukrainian class to sign up for French. I don’t mind seeing her lose. In fact, I enjoy it. But my heart aches for the other girls. I dance with them every week. They’re my friends, and I don’t want to see them humiliated like this, with the whole world watching. A few of our dancers in the audience boo when the medals are presented.
After the competition ends for the day, on our way back to our motorhome at the campsite, Mom and Dad whisper to each other about the judging. I walk behind them with my sister Sophie, and the Yuzko girls, Tammy and Tanya. We can’t understand it. No one in our dance club has ever taken less than silver away from competition, and we’ve competed a lot, at festivals in Hafford and in Vegreville.
Then, on the second day of competition, our Senior Boys’ Hutsul Dance takes bronze, and our Senior Group’s Hopak comes in last in its category. Something is wrong. The dancers are devastated, the chaperones livid. On the second evening of the festival, the Demkiws and Farynas walk over from their campsite to our campsite for an emergency meeting. All of the adults slip into the Yuzko motorhome, locking the door behind them.
Maybe they needed to have an emergency meeting sooner. Sitting in lawn chairs at the Yuzko campsite, Tammy, Tanya, Sophie and I can hear drinks being poured inside the motorhome. The men say, “Dai Bozhe.” There is quiet conversation and some laughter. But after a few minutes, Mrs. Demkiw starts raising her voice. Tammy and Tanya look at each other, Sophie raises her eyebrows.
Mrs. Demkiw yells, “Inauthentic costumes? Kevin Kowalchuk is a good instructor. He did six months of research in Ukraine. In Ukraine! Six months in Ukraine and they’re going to tell me our costumes are inauthentic?”
Mrs. Demkiw is head of the Desna Costume Committee. She must feel responsible.
“This is discrimination!” she hollers. “Did you notice how many Manitoba groups took gold today? It’s because we’re from Alberta. It’s discrimination!”
Then Mr. Faryna starts up. “I never trusted that Kowalchuk, never from day one. I even told my wife. I told Freda. I told her there’d be trouble with him. I know Kowalchuks from way back, I went to school with Kowalchuks. You know what they are? Goddamn Poles is what they are. Our kids have been dancing in goddamn Polish costumes because their instructor is a goddamn Pole!”
I don’t like what Mr. Faryna is saying about our dance instructor. It’s not fair. Kevin isn’t even here to defend himself. Someone should remind Mr. Faryna that Kevin is on tour right now – in Ukraine – with Cheremosh, the professional group he belongs to. That’s why he couldn’t be with us in Dauphin. Right this very minute, Kevin is in Ukraine.
After Mr. Faryna has had his say, Mrs. Demkiw pipes up again. She says that Mr. Faryna doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. Then Mrs. Faryna joins in, defending her husband and calling down Mrs. Demkiw. I hear Dad trying to break in, trying to calm everybody down. He suggests that maybe the competition is a bit stiffer here in Dauphin than at other festivals. It is the National Festival, after all. For the first time ever, our dancers are coming up against the best in the country.
Mr. Faryna bangs his fist on the motorhome table. “We are the best in the goddamn country!”
The inside of the Yuzko’s motorhome becomes quiet for a moment. We can hear the murmuring of voices, the clinking of glasses.
Not a moment later, the door opens. It’s Dad asking us to fetch his bottle of Lemon Hart rum.
“And pour yourselves a little shot,” he says, winking. Sometimes Dad puts a tablespoon of rum into our Cokes. “You’re going to have your work cut out for you, Colleen. You’ll show them who’s best in the country.”
Dad’s words echo in my ears as I sip my rum and Coke. Tanya, Tammy, and Sophie all give me dirty looks.
There are still hard feelings between us. The fact is, their trip to Dauphin was ruined long before it even began, and I ruined it. Our parents were never planning to come to Dauphin. Sophie, the Yuzko girls, and I were going to Dauphin in the fancy Greyhound with all of the other dancers, and it was going to be one big party. But three weeks before we were scheduled to leave, after I hurt my knee, the plans changed. Mom and Dad came up with the idea that I go to Dauphin anyway; that I enter the vocal competition. I sing in Ukrainian all the time – at family weddings, anniversaries, birthday parties – so it made sense. Why not sing in Dauphin? Since non-dancers aren’t allowed to travel with dancers on the bus, Mom and Dad decided to take the whole family in our motorhome. Why not make a holiday of it? There was no stopping them. Why not invite the Yuzkos to travel with us in a caravan? John Yuzko – J.Y. – is Dad’s best friend. Dad and J.Y. teach at the same school; they bought identical motorhomes three years ago. And then the final straw. Why not bring along my cousin Kalyna, give Auntie Mary and Uncle Andy a little break from watching her?
You’re going to have your work cut out for you, Colleen. You’ll show them who’s best in the country.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that Dad is right. I start to see the gravity of the situation. Tanya, Tammy, and Sophie might not see it, but if things continue the way they are going, if the dancers continue to lose, then I have to win. Not for my own sake. For the sake of the group, for the sake of the team. For the glory of Desna. My gold medal will prove that we are good, authentic Ukrainians after all. I’ll mend the wounds of the Costume Committee. Sophie, Tammy, and Tanya will forgive me for ruining their trip. They’ll see that it was all worthwhile in the end.
In my head, I go over the introduction to my song, the words of my song, the guitar chords of my accompaniment. I compete on the sixth and final day of the festival.
But I’m not just competing.
I am going to do battle with the best this country has to offer.
Two
The next morning, Day Three, shortly after we’ve had breakfast, I excuse myself from the group. Everyone from Desna is heading over to the mainstage to watch our Senior Boys do their Zaporozhian Kozak Character Dance. I tell Mom and Dad that I’m not feeling well – a touch of sunstroke probably – and that I’d like to rest. But I’m not going to sleep, and I’m not feeling sick. In fact, I’ve never felt better. A lot is riding on my performance now, and I have to rise to the occasion. My plan this morning is to dress in my Podillian costume, a bright white, two-piece fitted suit, embroidered with burgundy thread, with matching burgundy boots and a white satin pillbox hat. I’m going to walk around the festival grounds in costume, taking deep breaths. Taking in the spirit of the competition. This will get me in the right mood, help me psych up for what’s to come.
My Podillian costume is new. It’s never been worn. Our dance group has just started learning the Podillian Polka. According to our instructor, Kevin, no Ukrainian dance club in the country has ever done a Podillian dance.
Poltava is the norm. At Ukrainian festivals in Vegreville and Hafford, Poltava is everywhere. Girls in velvet vests, boys in baggy pants. Spins, acrobatics, it’s passé. On occasion, we’ve seen a Transcarpathian dance, and Lemko is gaining
in popularity. For a while, Hutsul was in vogue – leather moccasins instead of boots, personalized sheepskin vests. Boys performed Hutsul dances with wooden axes. One year in Veg, an all-male dance group from Canmore danced the Hutsul Arkan around a fake fire – charred logs, orange crepe paper, Christmas tree bulbs – to replicate the ambiance of the Carpathian mountains. Then the Hutsul trend caught on, and the Hutsul costumes of dancers from every dance club started to look the same because all of the mothers took the same Hutsul-vest-making seminar in Saskatoon. I know. My mother made three.
Once I’ve put the finishing touches on my Podillian costume, once I’ve tied up my hair, and covered my head in a hairnet, and then pinned the hat to my hairnet, I make my way from the campground to the festival grounds. It’s a short walk, but the sun is rising and there is no breeze. I feel sweat form on my nose, on my back, under my blouse and vest. I probably won’t walk for long. I don’t want to stink up my clothes for the competition. The Podillian costume can’t be washed in a normal washing machine, like other costumes. It’s dry clean only.
I buy a pop from Baba’s Best because I can’t afford to get dehydrated before the competition. I might lose my voice. Ice-cold orange pop. I hold the can to my cheek, to my forehead. Then I open it and take one long drink. As I’m walking away from the trailer, I close my eyes, taking the odd sip, taking in the sound and the smell of the place. Maybe I’ll chat with a few strangers, get to know the people. If members of the audience recognize me on stage, they’ll cheer extra-hard. Which can only help my chances of winning.
And then, halfway between Baba’s Best and the outdoor toilets, I’m knocked over. Knocked right off my feet, orange pop spilling down the front of my body. Down my brand new, pure white Podillian vest.
“Damn!” says a guy in black jeans and an embroidered shirt.
He doesn’t help me up, but I think that he’s noticed the orange pop stain on my bright white Podillian vest. Or maybe he’s noticed the grass stains on the back of my bright white Podillian skirt. He feels bad, since he is the reason that my costume is ruined.
“Damn!” he says, again, and then, “Shit!”
“I know. These stains won’t wash out.”
“Wash out? I just lost two tapes! Some asshole swiped two of my tapes!”
“Who cares about your tapes? My whole costume is ruined, and I’m competing in three days.”
“So wash it.”
“It can’t be washed!”
“Not my problem,” he says, with a shrug. “I’m out twenty bucks.”
“Here,” I say, handing him a twenty-dollar bill. “Now your problem is solved. How about mine?”
He glares at me for a moment, then storms away, stuffing the twenty-dollar bill in his pocket as he goes.
For the next few minutes, I don’t move. I can’t move. I’m stunned. He wasn’t supposed to take my money. I only have forty dollars in total to spend at the festival. I was just trying to make a point: that, whereas he could be compensated for his loss, my costume has been ruined. There’s no compensation for that. But he just walked away. The jerk just walked away. With my money.
Now my costume is a mess, and Mom is going to kill me if I don’t clean it up before she gets back from watching the dancing.
It’s got to come clean. I’ve got all of Desna relying on me, and I can’t disappoint them. Back in the motorhome, I try a bit of Perfex on the stained part of my vest. The vest is white, after all, and Perfex is just bleach. The orange pop stain begins to fade. The more Perfex I apply, the more it fades, until the vest looks perfectly new. I sigh, relieved. Next, the grass stain on the skirt. Not so easy, as it covers the part of my skirt that’s embroidered. I can’t use bleach on the burgundy embroidery. Can I?
I do a little test on my vest. A tiny drop of Perfex on a tiny burgundy stitch. Nothing happens, no change in colour. I drop a tiny drop more. Still nothing.
The fabric of the skirt, though, is slightly different from the fabric of the vest. The Costume Committee couldn’t get enough of either fabric, so they used both. And on the fabric of my skirt, the Perfex spreads. It didn’t spread like this on the fabric of my vest. As it spreads, the burgundy embroidery starts to bleed burgundy onto the white part of the skirt. It bleeds quickly, the dye from the embroidery changing colour, from deep red to bright purple. I rinse and rinse, and scrub. I take hand soap to it, dish soap. My heart races. An sos pad. Anything to get the dye out of the fabric.
My family arrives at the motorhome for lunch as I am scrubbing, furiously, in the motorhome bathroom, and crying, my tears mingling with the reddish-purple water in the sink.
Sophie finds me first. She lets out a gasp as she steps into the motorhome. Then, not a split second later, my mother arrives. When she sees what I’m doing, she shrieks. Mom and Sophie both wonder why I tried to bleach my costume. Why didn’t I wait? We could have taken it to the dry cleaners in Dauphin.
I didn’t think of that. I was scared. I panicked.
But there’s no time for explanations, not right now. Sophie and Mom kick into emergency mode, grabbing the skirt from me and discussing what should be done. Meanwhile, I throw myself onto the bunk over the motorhome dashboard, crying my heart out over the ruined costume. Wes crawls up after me, putting his hand on my back.
“Don’t worry, C’lleen,” he says. “Mom will fix it. She can fix anything.”
Of course, Mom can’t fix my skirt. It’s wrecked. And since I didn’t bother to bring another costume, I’ve got to wear it in the vocal competition. Mom is an angel. She doesn’t scold me. No harsh words at all. Eventually, once she’s determined that there’s no hope for the skirt, she joins Wes and me on the motorhome bunk.
“It’s all right, honey,” says Mom. “Accidents happen. When we get home, we’ll get a whole new skirt made. Okay? Don’t fret about it. Don’t worry yourself.”
Mom doesn’t understand the seriousness of the situation, though, and there’s no use trying to explain it to her. Performers from the Podillia region are supposed to be regal and aristocratic. Kevin said that when we put on our Podillian costumes, we’re supposed to keep our upper bodies stiff, our arms rigid; shoulders back, chin up. How can I keep my chin up knowing that I’m the only Podillian to get onstage with a bright purple bum? How can I put my shoulders back knowing that the fate of Desna is sealed? All because of me. I’m their last chance, and I screwed up.
I just can’t stop crying. I’m going to fail the whole group. And on top of everything else, I’ve given twenty dollars to the jerk who did this to me.
I tell Mom and Sophie about him, once I’ve calmed down enough to speak. The way he ploughed into me and swore at me and walked away, my money in his pocket, without so much as a “thank you” or an “I’m sorry.” Sophie calls him a coward. Mom says that I should go out right now and find him. Give him a piece of mind. Get my twenty dollars back.
“The girls will go with you,” says Mom. “Sophie, Tammy, and Tanya. All four of you – go! Stand up to that bully!”
But I insist on going alone. I got into this mess, I’ll get out of it. On my own. I put my damp, ruined costume back on, so that I can show him what he’s done. “See?” I’ll say, pointing to the stains. “See what you’ve done?”
I find him in the musicians’ area of the festival grounds, in a tent filled with weird instruments – Ukrainian instruments that I’ve heard about but never seen before. There are several men playing banduras, upright stringed instruments with dozens of strings. Like a cross between a guitar and a harp. Another guy blows into a trembita, a long, thin horn, something like the horns that they play in the Swiss alps. His face turns bright red when he blows. An old, grey-haired, prune-faced man plays sweet, high-pitched tunes on his sopilka. Which is basically a wooden flute. Beside him, another old man turns the handle on a box, making the saddest sound I’ve ever heard, almost like a bagpipe. I don’t know what his instrument is called. I can’t even figure out how the sound is made. At the far end of the tent, I s
pot the guy who knocked me over. He’s playing a tsymbaly, a hammer dulcimer. Cassette tapes are on display beside him.
When he see me coming, he stops playing. This is it, then. My moment of reckoning. I’m going to speak calmly – no yelling or swearing – but I’m going to get my point across nonetheless. I want my money back and I want an apology.
The guy speaks first.
“You’re that girl, right? The one from this morning? Look, I’m sorry. I got kind of riled up by that prick who stole my tapes. I’m really sorry. I don’t make much money at these things, you know, so every tape counts.”
“Yeah, well.”
I catch myself stammering. I notice for the first time that he’s cute.
“You gave me some money,” he says, standing up, reaching into the pocket of his jeans.
His jeans are snug in the hips and crotch.
“Here.” He hands me the twenty-dollar bill. “I’m not taking your money.”
“Oh, but you did. You did take my money. And if I hadn’t found you, you’d still have my money.”
“No, no. I looked for you. Honest. I checked out all the competition tents. You said you were dancing but I couldn’t –”
“Singing,” I say, lifting my skirt so that he can see the tensor bandage around my knee. “I’m singing, not dancing. I wanted to dance but, well. You know. It didn’t work out.”
“Oh,” he says. “Wow. That sucks.”
There is a moment of awkward silence between us.
“Maybe you’d like to take a couple of my tapes? Free. No charge. You can just have them. I mean – I don’t know if you’d be interested. It’s me playing the tsym – uh – dulcimer. I don’t know if you like, you know, tsym – dulcimer music.”