Silent Candles
Illustrating the importance of communication and speaking up through an anecdote from my eleventh birthday.
Golden-rimmed dew drops embroidered the leaves and sharp blades of grass, while sweet chirps of baby sparrows emerged out of the rush of cars down the freeway. I paused on the stairs, observing the thriving world around me, letting the sunlight linger on my skin. Perhaps this average, spring day seemed prettier than usual because I convinced myself it was—giving meaning to an otherwise meaningless day.
A soft, morning breeze combed through my hair as I raced up the rest of the steps. My dance company was tucked away on the second floor of a large building filled with rows of varying businesses. Despite dancing at this school for almost ten years, I suddenly became interested in every one of the shops, observing the massive weights and treadmills in the gym to the cute socks and pens in the stationary store. The other shops’ lights were off, which didn’t help in distracting me from the giddiness bubbling inside of me and the selfish smile creeping up my cheeks.
I braced myself for the moment: the off-key voices enthusiastically belting out a song, the smiles, and wishes of happiness, the thrown-aside grocery bag revealing a sweet treat, the enthusiasm and fun of a party—the thrill of being remembered.
8:10 A.M. I was already late, but that meant more of my class had already arrived. They must have made the plan and designated roles like they always do. Yet, as my mind kept racing faster and faster, whirlwinds of thoughts spirling upon each other again and again, for a single moment a sliver of doubt appeared in the mix. What if no one knows? What if there is no grand celebration or wishes? But at heart, I was an optimist. The weather was beautiful. The day was perfect, or so I told myself. And perhaps hoping everything was perfect was my first mistake.
The scintillating beams of light shone through the windows of my dance school. Palms dampened with a fizzing concoction of excitement, anticipation, and sweat, I loosened my grip on my dance bag and planted my hand onto the handle of the glass door. My eyes squeezed tightly closed and my breath sucked into my chest, I pulled the door open.
Silence.
No singing voices or shouts or giggles of celebration. No treats or chaos or party. My eyes opened one by one. My breath released.
None of my dance friends remembered my birthday.
I wallowed in my emotions, sinking into deep caverns within my mind. The vibrant whirlwinds of enthusiasm and blissful childhood joy whittled down to a barren quiet. I didn’t expect myself to be the kind of person who would be so affected by something as trivial as a birthday wish, yet at that moment, it dragged me into a new, dim perspective of myself. Who was I—so self-absorbed—to believe that the day I was born was important? I was just another human among nearly eight billion people, one trillion organisms. Merely, an invisible speck of dust compared to the galaxies and the vastness of spacetime. Insignificant.
What’s the point of birthday celebrations anyways, I thought as I joined my friends to stretch on our charcoal, marley floor. I’m just a day older than I was yesterday. Why is that such a big deal? The rays of sunlight now seemed to pierce into our studio, the outside now appeared soggy from humid rain. Today was just like any other blistering hot day in Texas. Only today, it was as if I was a flake of snow among this heat—small, unnoticeable, and not belonging to the world around me.
Dance class proceeded as it usually did: running through choreography for competition, practicing our technique, and attempting some new lifts and tricks. So, I embraced the average, lackluster day, telling no one about my new age. After the morning of dance practice, I refused to go to eat at a restaurant or get frozen-yoghurt. Candles were never lit, and my birthday passed just as every day before.
It would have been easy for me to mold my emotions into one of resentment and betrayal toward those in my dance school. But, perhaps I already knew that it wasn’t their fault for not knowing the day I was born. We meet three times a week, yet I never once brought my birthday up. I foolishly hoped that they could somehow read my mind and know to have a mini-celebration in class like they do for the other members of our team. Even on the day of my birthday, I could have easily mentioned it, and without a doubt, we would have had a party! A bit too shy to bring attention to myself and slightly embarrassed that I even cared about my birthday in the first place, I couldn’t speak up for what I wanted and now regret not celebrating a milestone in my life.
Despite this blister of regret, I am still trying to find my voice. At times, amongst the haze of words and conversation, I wish that people could just know what I desired, making situations so much easier; while at others, I am embarrassingly confident and direct. Regardless, after the storm of emotion passed on the day of my birthday, I’ve realized that in this beautiful world with nearly eight billion people, one trillion organisms—a universe where seemingly invisible specks of stardust are important and have little need for shyness—communication is fundamental, whether it be for my future education or job or simply to light candles for my birthday.