Gumbo

by E. Lynn Harris

  And so she set herself free. “Let him disown me, I thought,” she says, flipping her hands palms up. The ground as she got up off the floor of her father's house was solid beneath her feet. She would act without her father, without a husband, without anyone's approval. “I decided to have the baby, you.”

  Her voice drops, tender as a spring seedling. And it hits me, the message in my name. Despite fighting with my father and the entire town of Sunnyside over their staunch Christianity, despite claiming not to know why she chose the name—regardless of what she can or cannot remember—the evidence is there. It is the photograph she couldn't afford upon my arrival, the decision she made from her four options, the gift she prayed for—Faith.

  There was, as to be expected, much more to the tale of my origins that my mother would reveal when I was older. The story of whom she called and what happened in the home. Still later would be the stories I had to uncover for myself. The rest of my name and what happened to my father. Who knows how much I would have been able to comprehend, had she been able to recall it, that spring day in 1979? I was sixteen, my primary concern getting to Mexico.

  As if sensing this, my mother takes her arms from around me and offers to write a letter explaining that she is a single mother and have it notarized. I can give it, on the condition of secrecy, to the tour leader.

  I frown. This is degrading. Why lie? Why give power to some unknown tour leader of undetermined discretion?

  My mother turns to me. There will be no youth group praying for our souls in the church basement. “I confided in you,” she stresses, “because you're old enough to know the truth, but you have to swear not to tell a soul; I could lose my job.”

  I protest. “C'mon, this is 1979. You've been teaching forever. No one cares.”

  “This is still Sunnyside,” she replies. The town she had grown up in and tried to escape, then been cast out of. The town to which she eventually returned to raise me. A dip in the earth that resists each new decade with the fervor of the recently converted. A Christian holdout on the edge of the desert soon to be covered in 600,000 tons of volcanic ash. A mere forty-five minutes after the Lady of Fire blows, the sky will become black as night, and though it is only nine-thirty in the morning, all over Sunnyside, streetlights will sputter into light.

  I have heard my mother's friends in the living room. I know that one teacher lost his job for lingering too long in the high school parking lot with a woman who was not his wife. Another found himself jailed after admitting his sexual orientation. Careers have been lost on more suspicion.

  And so I inherit my mother's secret, continuing what is—though I do not know it then—a time-honored tradition among the women of our family. Neither of us has any way of knowing that this secret I force down my throat will turn out to be as bruising as the chunks of pumice that rain down from Loowit. My mother is mistaken—I am not old enough to know the truth. At least, not old enough to carry it, like my heavy, unpronounceable African name, out into the world alone.

  Like any good creation myth, the true tale of my origins is deceptive. Upon first telling, it seems harmless enough. The major themes endure: My parents cared for each other and loved me; my mother managed alone. The only differences, I tell myself, are simple matters of legality and geography—the absence of a marriage certificate, a birth at a forgotten address across town. But beneath the thin crust of the earth we think we know, the new world shifts and steams.

  Tan Son Nhut Airport,

  Ho Chi Minh City, 1997

  BY GENARO KY LY SMITH

  FROM The Land South of the Clouds

  To some extent I can understand their suspicions. Long before we boarded the plane in Los Angeles, Uncle Ngo told me this would happen. It's not every day that they see a Vietnamese man with an African American man in Ho Chi Minh City. Alone, he'd be fine. They could easily buy Uncle Ngo's story: He wants to return home, to see relatives he hasn't seen since leaving in 1972. In my case they might think I'm a Vietnam vet making a personal journey to heal emotional wounds, except that I'm only twenty-eight.

  So, when they asked me in English the nature of my visit, I told them the truth: I was here to see my mother. They became quiet, turning to one another with opened mouths. Then they both studied my passport. The woman looked up and pursed her lips to speak. I knew she wanted to say, “No. Really?” Instead she raised the passport up to her face and frowned into the black and white photo, at the name Long-Vanh Nguyen printed next to it. All the information was correct: place of birth (Nha Trang), date of birth (6/17/68), citizenship (U.S.); the name was distinctly Vietnamese, as was the long neck with the vulnerable Adam's apple, the large mouth. Everything checked out except the dark skin and the short, neatly cropped hairstyle worn by African Americans nowadays. They didn't match with everything else.

  Uncle Ngo and I are now in a room with a picture of a gaunt-looking Ho Chi Minh hanging on the wall, his white goatee covering the buttoned collar of his shirt. Standing side by side Uncle Ngo and I watch as the customs officers slide and wriggle their hands inside tight-fitting latex gloves, snap them against their wrists, then pull neatly folded shirts and jeans from our suitcases one by one, and shake them free of their perfect creases. Their hands plunge inside the pockets, front and back, and when they are through with each article of clothing, they pile them on the table. The woman opens my jar of Noxzema and sniffs it. Scrunching up her nose, she holds it out to us and asks, “Cái gi dây?”

  “Dê rua mat,” Uncle Ngo says, making a circular motion with his hands in front of his face. He turns to me and asks, “Better than soap, huh?”

  “Ah, yes. It cleans the pores.” I clear my throat.

  The woman stares at my face as if to see how well it has worked on my complexion. They peer inside the jar, frowning at the white substance. Replacing the cap, she sets the jar to the side.

  I want to look behind me and count the number of officers standing in front of the closed door. At times I hear them opening and closing the door, and only when they come and go can I hear other people walking about, dragging their luggage behind them, and a woman speaking over the intercom in a language I never learned. But I am afraid to turn my head. However many there are, I can feel them staring at the back of my head, and my neck burns from their constant gaze. Sweat forms on my forehead, and I wish they'd turn on the fan. There are no windows in the room.

  I watch Uncle Ngo from out of the corners of my eyes. He's standing still, and I do the same, leaving my arms at my side and staring straight ahead, but my arms tremble. The way the officers go through our things with such intense concentration on their brows convinces me they'll find something I overlooked. Maybe something in my Noxzema doesn't smell right. Perhaps the ammonium level is too high by Vietnamese standards. And part of me wishes they were crooked enough to plant an ounce of coke or dried-up buds in my suitcase. Anything to keep me from that moment I drive into Nha Trang and see my mother for the first time in the seventeen years since she left Los Angeles.

  When I got the phone call several weeks ago, I hadn't expected it to be Mother. How could I? I hadn't thought she had been dead these past seventeen years, but when I hadn't heard from her once, I'd simply accepted the fact that I had no mother, dead or alive. But there was her voice at the other end just as I remembered it from my childhood, stern and absent of feelings. And I thought, How can she speak that way? After so much time?

  But I was only able to say “Mother.” I'm not sure if I stammered, or if my voice echoed in the receiver within the walls of white noise caused by long distances.

  That was all I could say, over and over, before Uncle Ngo took the phone out of my hand. I stood beside him and listened as he spoke to her in Vietnamese, his voice low. I could not understand a word. All I heard were the rise and fall of syllables, mere sounds. Then he hung up, and we stared at each other without saying a word.

  The customs officer continue to go through our things quietly. When the man uncaps a tube of Crest too
thpaste and squeezes enough of it to cover the tip of his finger, Uncle Ngo lets out a low grunt. The woman shakes the can of Gillette shaving cream and presses the tab until her hand cups foam. Holding it up to her nose, she sniffs before wiping her hand on the table. The male officer tears open a box of Irish Spring soap. With a switchblade he pares layers off the way one would a fruit.

  I reach inside my shirt pocket, take out my pack of Marlboros, and jerk one free with a quick flick of the wrist. Before I even have a chance to put it in my mouth, the woman says, snapping each syllable, “Dep di. Cam hut tuoc.”

  I raise both hands, and hear the officers stirring behind me, but I don't look back. The man hurries from around the table and snatches the pack out of my one hand and my cigarette from the other. Uncle Ngo reaches inside his denim pocket and produces his pack of cigarettes.

  “Nó chì la thuòc´ lá thôi. Coi. See.” Uncle Ngo holds his pack out to the officer but doesn't look at him.

  The inspector snaps the cigarette at the filter, sniffs it, and rubs one end between two fingers so that the tobacco spills onto the floor. Again, Uncle Ngo shows the officer his pack of cigarettes, talking at the same time. The officer nods his head, walks back behind the table, and sets my pack down.

  “Dây,” Uncle Ngo gives me a cigarette from his pack. “You take mine.” He fishes inside his pocket for his Zippo lighter; at the same time he flips the lid open, it lights; a trick I can't do.

  I puff until the cigarette catches, then I take a drag, holding it in for a moment before exhaling. The officers go back to inspecting our luggage. Uncle Ngo lights up a cigarette. After my third drag I start to feel dizzy, so I hold the cigarette between my fingers and stare at it, thinking how lucky Uncle Ngo is that he gets to keep his pack. But I can only stare at my cigarette for so long.

  Our suitcases lie wide open and empty. The officers feel around the edges, smooth the palms of their hands against the lining. Ho Chi Minh sits high on the wall, staring over our heads toward the back. I continue to smoke despite how it makes me feel.

  Then the male officer does something that makes me gasp. He stoops down to pick up a rectangular box and sets it on the table. I turn to Uncle Ngo then, but he only smokes his cigarette. Opening his switchblade, the officer cuts the string that holds it all together, then slices the box right down the middle, parting the seams and corners where I've taped it.

  He pockets the switchblade, opens the flaps, and together, he and the female officer bring out the ao dais, long-sleeved satin gowns, and the black pantaloons that go with them. They turn them over with their gloved hands, smooth their palms over the length of the dresses, rub the material between their fingers, fondle the hem. The woman even holds one up against her body, checking the length. Thus, as though remembering who she is and what her duties are, she catches herself and looks at me, bringing the ao dai away from her body.

  “They're my mother's. She left them behind.”

  She merely blinks her eyes several times before folding the ao dai in half and setting it on top of everything else. The man takes out two bundles of letters bound by rubber bands. He inspects the cover of one of them reading the addresses in the center and lefthand corner. He sets them aside and proceeds to the manila envelope. He digs his hand inside and extracts Polaroids of me and Mother and Dad. The man says something that I take to mean look because the woman leans in and together they gaze at each photo, frowning for long moments, most likely dissecting Mother and Dad to see their features in me. After they are through, he puts them back in the envelope. Catching sight of one he missed, he takes it out. It is an eight-by-ten photograph, the only big one in the set. He raises it to his face, and his eyes widen.

  “Ba Nguyen,” I say. “My grandfather.”

  The man looks up at me and he says something to the woman. She nods her head and frowns, and it's as if the darkness of my skin has turned pale for them, and my hair became straight and gray. And I want them to say it, admit how much I look like my grandfather despite my dark skin and hair, admit that I am one of you. But the man simply replaces the photo in the envelope and closes the flap.

  Stepping away from the table, the officers yank the latex gloves off their hands. They speak to Uncle Ngo, and he nods his head eagerly. He tosses his cigarette on the floor and crushes it with the heel of his shoe. I let mine burn between my fingers.

  “Come on Long-Vanh.” Uncle Ngo waves me forward as he walks up to the table.

  Uncle Ngo picks up a pair of jeans and begins to fold them. I set what's left of my cigarette at the edge of the table and sort through the pile. Both officers are speaking to Uncle Ngo. He nods his head at times, says “um-hm” as he folds the sleeves of his shirts behind their backs before doubling them at the torsos. Still, they continue to speak, and like Uncle Ngo, I don't look up at them. One of them, the male officer, extends his hand out and Uncle Ngo drops a pair of boxers onto the table to shake it. He pumps it several times while exchanging words. He even smiles. When Uncle Ngo lets go of his hand, the woman extends hers and he shakes it. The officers come from around the table with the box and leave the room.

  “What's happening? Where are they going with Mother's things?” I whisper.

  “Later,” Uncle Ngo says. “Just fold clothes.”

  We continue to untangle long shirt sleeves from around pant legs.

  “What next?” I ask.

  Uncle Ngo lights his cigarette, snaps shut the Zippo, takes a long drag, and exhales before he sits back into the bench.

  “They keep our passports, your Mother's ao dais, the letters, pho-to-graphs. For two days . . . maybe three. For now, we stay here.”

  “Here in the airport?” I point at the floor.

  “No. Here. Ho Chi Minh City. We stay. Besides, we cannot go an-ee-where without passport,” he says slowly, enunciating each syllable so that he's not misunderstood.

  I rub my hands together and look about the airport. Our luggage is beside us. In a room that looks like a warehouse, people stand behind a queue with slips of papers in their hands, the same slip they gave me to claim the items they are holding for further inspection. Officers stand on the other side and shelved behind them are the people's luggage. Other officers retrieve luggage from off the shelves and hand them it to people.

  Often, the officers point at the luggage they hand the patrons, insisting that it is theirs. And it's funny. It's funny because even though they've spent so much time packing their belongings into suitcases, once the suitcases have been taken from them, they forget which is theirs despite differences in color, size, and weight. Confused, they are doubtful that they've been handed the right suitcase until they think to check the tags.

  After they get their luggage, the people make their way past Uncle Ngo and me, and every one of them stares. I nod my head, even give a slight wave of my hand, but they don't return a greeting of any kind. They just continue parading past us, some even bumping into the person in front of them. One man is videotaping as he walks along, and he turns his Camcorder in our direction, giving commentary. He, along with everyone else, makes his way to the far end of the lobby to where guards stand with holstered firearms. Behind them, men, women, and children wait. Most of them hold up signs with names written on them, and I recognize some of the names: Phuong, Lop, Thanh, Huang. And although I know Mother is not here to meet us, I search each card, expecting to find my name on one of them. But I don't see Long-Vanh, and even if she were here, I wonder if Mother will look the same or if the only way I'll recognize her will be by seeing a sign bearing my name in the hands of a woman I don't know.

  Between Black and White

  BY NICOLE BAILEY-WILLIAMS

  In my father's dreams, there is no color, only varying shades of black. And the blackness haunts him. So, in every waking moment, he runs to whiteness.

  That's how he met my mother.

  She seemed everything he was not. She was everything he desired. Her skin, like cream, contrasted his coal color. Her hair, like cor
n silk, was silent as his raged. Her voice, like tiny bells, tinkled; his boomed. She was everything the women of his past were not, and he wanted to possess her. But, like the child who cradles a wounded bird too tightly, he crushed her. Almost. In the split second it took him to reposition his hands to get a tighter hold, she saw the crack of light from the outside world and rushed toward it. Leaving him. Leaving me. And I'm not enough for him.

  My memories of them together come in like waves, and like the waves, they threaten to drown me. But I gasp and struggle through, remembering that always there is a surface, and with the surface comes air, and in the air, I'll be okay.

  THE EQUATION

  We had lived in Mt. Airy from the time I was born. The cozy community was far enough from what my father called “North Philly Nigga Shit” and close enough to chic Chestnut Hill for it to feel like a real home. Mt. Airy was a cauldron of cultures, bubbling and stewing until they became one. One common way of speaking. One common style of dress. One common way of thinking. My father believed that Mt. Airy was the place where he and my mother would live as one forever. And they did, we did, for a time.

  I REMEMBER

  I remember my first day of school. My mother stood at the corner bus stop, waving to me. She looked like an angel, only she was crying. I never thought that angels cried, but when I looked at my mother's face, I knew that God's helpers shed tears from time to time.

  I remember that until I started school, I lived in racial oblivion. I was just another shade in my community, just another shade in my family. I just was. Then I boarded the school bus heading toward Rush Elementary School in Chestnut Hill.

  I remember marching toward the bus bravely like a big girl, knowing that my mother was watching me. I wanted her to be proud, so I raised my chin like I had seen actors do before showdowns. I didn't know, I couldn't know, that that one act, the slight lifting of the chin, would define people's reactions to me forever. Forever. Forever different. Forever an outsider. Forever alone.