“Oh, Chanrithy. Why didn’t you shake Minh’s hand?” the teacher asks sympathetically.
I reply, smiling. “I will next time.” It serves him right for smirking at the girls earlier. I look at Minh. His face is still red.
A week after our arrival, we were told to see the immigration officers. Bang Vantha walked in the opposite direction of their offices. Sitting on chairs at the immigration office with other families, we wait for him to come. Ry and Than blame Ra for not berating bang Vantha for his behavior. Ra says, he’ll come. He’s an idiot, she admits, to play around on a day like today. We keep looking at the doors, but there is no sign of him. As soon as his name is called, we all stand up, frowning at each other. Suddenly his smirking face appears at one of the doors. This is not the first time he has played with our emotions. He seems to take pleasure in making us mad.
After the meeting with immigration, bang Vantha says that he has changed his mind. He doesn’t want us to be with Uncle Seng. Instead of going to Portland, Oregon, he says he is happy to relocate. He will go anywhere the immigration authorities send us, and we will have to go also.
He smirks. Ra ignores him, holding Syla in her arms. Ry’s angry, her face red. Than keeps his thoughts to himself. Savorng and Map frown at bang Vantha. Many Cambodian refugees desperately want to go to a country like the United States, sending letters and applications for resettlement to the embassies of America, France, Australia, Canada, and any other country who might be willing to take them. They worry about their fates and pray that they will be remembered, yet my own brother-in-law is ungrateful for his own good luck.
My friend Sothea takes me to Phase I, a medical clinic that provides medical care to refugees. It looks just like a clinic in Phnom Penh, and is surrounded by lush flowers and plants. There are concrete sidewalks. Paved roads. It’s been a long time since I saw such a place.
Inside the building Sothea gives me a tour, showing me examination rooms with chairs, posters, and equipment I’ve never seen before. The front desk, where patients are received, has a long, smooth counter with a few nice chairs behind it. There are even telephones. Never before have I seen a place for refugees that is so—so modern, so well established. And the pharmacy is also nice. It has shelves along the walls with boxes and bottles of medicine neatly arranged, the variety of labels and names of medicine catch my eye. Suddenly a shadow of a memory comes to mind. I’m taken back in time to Phnom Penh, to Pa’s medicine desk. The times when he took care of me when I was sick with asthma.
Sothea introduces me to some of the staff: Dr. Sophon, a Cambodian from Canada; Mary Bliss, an American registered nurse, and Dr. Tran, a former medical doctor from Vietnam. Surprisingly, I find myself shaking hands with them naturally. All of a sudden I feel like an adult, so mature.
Sothea is going to America and needs someone to take her place as a medical interpreter. She asks if I am interested in the job. I am more than interested, I tell her! She laughs, tickled by my excitement.
Now one of my dreams is about to be realized. In Khao I Dang, I wanted so much to speak English. I wanted so badly to be a medical interpreter. Sometimes I daydreamed while I studied English. I envisioned myself translating for patients, working with doctors and nurses. It would be rewarding to help my fellow refugees who have gone through so much. Now this dream is coming true. Perhaps my other dreams will come true also, when I go to America. I remember what I promised during Chea’s burial: Chea, if I survive, I will study medicine. I want to help people because I couldn’t help you. If I die in this lifetime, I will learn medicine in my next life.
Than complains that no one has thought of teaching Map Cambodian. Than thinks Map, seven, should learn Cambodian because it’s his own language. He will teach Map, he says, since we don’t have Mak or Pa to take that role anymore. I’m proud of him for thinking of Map. I listen to him and glance at him teaching Map as I study medical terminologies from the Cambodian medical manual Sothea gave me. I watch Than scribble something in a notebook. It’s fascinating to see my older brother take this responsibility upon himself.
Than recites the Cambodian alphabet, then he tells Map to say it after him. After a few times, Than has Map repeat it on his own. Map looks bored, uninterested. Map tells Than that he wants to go out and play. Than says he has to study Cambodian and scolds Map to repeat after him. Map mumbles what Than said. Than asks him to recite the alphabet on his own. Map can only remember a few letters. That makes Than mad, so Than hits him on the shoulder.
Map cries. Than raises his hand to hit Map again. Map cringes. Map looks at me for help, but I don’t want to say anything because Than is eighteen, older than I am. He wouldn’t listen to me because I never thought of teaching Map and he has.
Sobbing, Map repeats after Than again. Than tells him to recite the alphabet on his own. Map says a few characters, then he stops, his eyes braced for more slaps. Than hits him on his shoulder, then says, “Why can’t you remember? It’s not that hard. You’re stupid.” Than glares at Map.
“He’s not stupid!” I tell Than. My voice comes out louder than I intended. “He’s just starting to learn, and you want him to know everything. What kind of a teacher are you?”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Than snaps at me. “I want to teach him. If nobody teaches him, how is he going to learn?”
“You’re not teaching him, you’re torturing him.” I’m amazed at how the words fly out of my mouth.
Ry appears at the top of the stairs, and I don’t hesitate to tell her what has transpired. I tell her what I think of Than, of the way he teaches Map and disciplines him. Map gets up and walks over to Ry. Than glares at me. He says that I am good at criticizing but don’t help to teach Map. For a moment I don’t know what to say because it’s true that I haven’t taught Map anything.
Then I remember what the Cambodian elders used to say, “A good teacher has to have patience in order to teach students.” From watching Than I know he doesn’t have patience, and he is not a good teacher. Instead, he is an overbearing brother. Appalled by what Than has done, Ry, twenty, tells Than not to worry about Map now. He’s only seven, she says. Since then Than has not taught Map.
Than is angry that I raised my voice to him. But how could I not raise my voice when he treats Map that way? Than expects me to act like a proper Cambodian girl. But I can no longer look the other way if I feel someone is being hurt.
The following evening, lying on my back with the medical manual sitting on my chest, I can’t stop chuckling. I’m so tickled and embarrassed at the same time. My stomach begins to hurt. My cheeks are getting tired. Tears spill out of my eyes.
“What are you laughing about?” Ry asks, grinning.
“Oh, nothing.” I say, laughing.
“If it’s nothing, why are you still laughing?”
I chuckle harder, shaking my head. Ry stands close to me, smiling, demanding to know. Finally I say, “Okay!” I tell her that I’ve been studying medical terminologies for my job at Phase I. She looks at me as if to say, What is so funny about that? I tell her that studying and memorizing the terms are not funny, but that I’m tickled because I’ll be embarrassed when I have to translate for men and women who have medical problems that relate to their reproductive systems, their private parts. “How am I going to translate for older patients if I’m so embarrassed to say these terms? I’m young, Ry,” I plead. I recite the terms that will be hard for me to translate. Ry laughs. She says perhaps over time, I’ll be less embarrassed. But I tell her that I’ll be mortified as I translate these words.
She smiles comically and says, “Well, you’re the one who wanted to volunteer in the medical field.”
“I know! I’ll just have to be professional and hope I won’t burst out laughing.”
I’m happy to volunteer at Phase I. When I’m there, I look forward to helping patients. I work like an eager salesperson. Through the rectangular barred window of the pharmacy, I watch for the customers: Cambodians, Cambodian-Chinese,
Vietnamese, and Chinese. As soon as I see them coming, I dash out to the front-desk area, inquiring as to their needs. If I’m not sure they’re Cambodians, I ask, “May I help you?” If they are Vietnamese, I let Dr. Tran know. With the Cambodians, I inquire about their medical problems, gathering information before they see whoever is on duty.
After translating, I help fill the patients’ prescriptions. I get good at reading the scribbling from Mary, Dr. Sophon, or Dr. Tran. When we are not busy, I stay in a pharmacy. I look out the window or read the labels on the medicine vials, boxes, and bottles, wondering about the ingredients in each medicine, and how they help patients feel better.
Sometimes I take my badge off my blouse and look at it admiringly. It has a small picture of me smiling which I cut out of a bigger picture taken at the party after I finished ESL. At sixteen, I’m proud of myself. I look at the badge again and again, so happy about the work I’m doing.
I sit on a stool in the pharmacy waiting for the Vietnamese patients whom Dr. Tran has just seen. A few young Vietnamese men approach the barred window of the pharmacy. They talk among themselves, smiling. Each gives me his prescription, peering at me earnestly. I pick one prescription. I read the name of the medicine. I search for it on the shelf. As I wrap up the white tablets, I hear the words “beautiful” and “I love you” spoken by one of them. As I hand the patient his medicine packet, my gaze rests on his sheepish, smitten face. I take refuge in another prescription, looking for the name of the medicine. When I’m done helping everyone, the smitten patient says to me “I love you” in Vietnamese. Though I understand the words, I simply give him a friendly smile, pretending I’m not aware of anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly he steps toward the window and says “I love you” in English. I don’t know how to react to that, so it is easy just to say nothing. His friends laugh softly, then say something to him in Vietnamese.
Strange yet fascinating to notice men being attracted to me. Maybe Om Soy is right. That even though I’m young, I look mature beyond my years. Thus people take me for a woman, not a girl, a teenager. I don’t want to be rude to anyone, but I don’t have any guidance on how to deal with men at this unsettled time.
Phlor Torrejos, my CO teacher, takes the whole class to a beautiful stream three miles from the camp. She is Filipino, short and a little chubby with straight black hair that comes to her chin. Her bangs drape down above her eyebrows. Her face is always ready to smile. She’s kind and personable. For this trip, she has brought food for the entire class. I admire her for sharing her personal life with us, telling us how she has persevered through hardships. Now she’s a senior writer/editor for the Communication Foundation for Asia.
In class, she says if we fail to accomplish our goals the first time, we have to try again. Many times it takes more than one attempt. She says it’s kind of like falling and getting up. If we fall, we have to get up. Sometimes we fall more than once, and we have to get up more than once. Sometimes getting up is hard, but we must do it, no matter how long it takes—we have to be strong, she says.
After a long hike, we take a rest on large rocks beneath the trees. When we are having lunch in the shade, I look at Phlor, grateful. She wants so much for us to succeed in our new lives in America. I think about the life that awaits me in America. I wonder how many times I will have to get up from falls when I’m there.
But I know myself—I will get up if I should fall. I always have. My mind relaxes. My ears tune in to the voices of my classmates, hiking along the stream. The sound of water running between rocks is soothing. With her eyes closed, Phlor rests peacefully in the shade. Her clothes are still wet from swimming in a clear pond. Lying on a flat rock near her and other women classmates, I feel the precious solitude of the Morong Bataan. I feel as if I’m connected to the calm, still earth. I feel as if today is a dream. The cool breeze touches my face. My arms. My soul. It has been a long time since I felt a sense of inner peace. Being in this camp has made that possible, for we’ve been given enough food to eat. We have running water. Electricity. We have school. We have clean, pretty apartments to live in. I don’t have to worry about the Filipino soldiers. I feel protected. I feel safe. I feel loved, accepted by the local people who work in the camp. I am finally free of life-threatening situations.
Ratha tells me that a doctor needs a translator. I hurry down the hall and check one examination room, but no one is there. I walk to the adjacent one, and the door is ajar. I hear a voice trying to speak Cambodian. I take a peek. Suddenly a set of big, dark eyes stare back at me. A new doctor? I ask myself. I’ve never seen him before. He wears a stethoscope around his neck. He looks Filipino and is cute—young with shiny black hair and dark eyes with long eyelashes.
Getting caught peeking, I need time to recoup. I take a deep breath, regain my composure, then knock on the door.
“Yes?”
I introduce myself, telling him my name and who I am. He stands up and says, “I’m Dr. Tanedo, Achilles Tanedo.” He reaches out to shake my hand. I shake his hand, and I’m not even embarrassed. Not a bit. Marie would have been proud of me.
I translate for the patient, but mention to the doctor that I haven’t seen him here before. He says that he works mostly at the hospital. A hospital? I didn’t know that this camp had a hospital. But I don’t ask for further clarification. All I want is to establish a rapport, and it isn’t hard to do so. I acquire the information from the patient regarding her illness. In about ten minutes, Dr. Tanedo writes her a prescription, and my mind is already at the pharmacy, trying to locate her medicine on the shelves.
Ry is excited, calling my name as if memorizing it. “Athy, Athy, I’ve got a letter, I’ve got a letter. We’re going to be with Uncle Seng.”
I look at her, overwhelmed by her exuberance. I’m between excitement and confusion. Ry catches her breath, calming down to explain. She says, “Do you remember I told you about my friend helping me write a letter? About bang Vantha saying he wanted us to go anywhere?” She pauses as if letting me digest what she has just said.
I reach for the letter in her hand, remembering what she is talking about. She asked a friend to write a letter on our behalf so that we could go to Uncle Seng in Portland and not be randomly placed, as bang Vantha has threatened. I open the thin letter and read the response: “Please tell these kids that the P.A. listed Mr. Leng Seng as a possible sponsor and did not say ‘anywhere.’ [signed] TP.” I gape, eyes widened. A burst of joy tumbles out of my mouth—I scream.
We didn’t have many patients today, yet I’m tired, and hungry. I slowly walk toward home. The day is still bright. Some families sit outside in front of their apartments. Then a person, a woman wearing a long skirt, darts out of an apartment, my apartment. She runs as if she is in a race with herself, heading toward me. Ry?
Smiling, I pause, watching her run. I’m amused—my older sister runs like an excited little girl. Her face beams radiantly. She is jubilant. Ry grabs my shoulders, she shakes me, she croons: “We’re going to America, we’re going to America—”
“Really?”
Ry nods, then hops, and so do I. We don’t care how foolish we look in front of our neighbors. We are oblivious, absorbed in ourselves. As we calm down, I ask her if she heard our family name and our BT number (a number assigned to each family) called over the loudspeakers. She nods repeatedly.
Facing the sky, I close my eyes and smile. Suddenly I’m in a whole new world, a world that gives me hope and makes me float. Every part of my body savors these exalted, indescribable feelings. My feet lift me up. I dance on the concrete sidewalk. Ry watches me, grinning…. Today I just want to shine, to celebrate.
I look forward to our new life, yet I’m nervous, scared. Everything seems hopeful, yet abstract. The unknown scares me. It doesn’t help thinking of American or Cambodian girls my age who have parents. In America I won’t have Mak or Pa. I feel uncertain, unstable because my life has been so different. I wish I could plan it, laying it out like a calendar.
&
nbsp; It’s only six more days until we leave for America. I make a mental list of friends to whom I want to bid good-bye. For the past few days, I’ve been thinking about this sweet old woman, a patient who has problems with her eyesight and legs. She can’t see or walk well. When I translate for her, she calls me “daughter” in a gentle tone of voice. I address her as Om, great-aunt, since she is, perhaps, older than Mak. When she saw Mary Bliss, she complained of a numb sensation in her legs. Since I haven’t seen her for a few weeks and she has missed her follow-up appointment, I have to visit her.
It’s about seven o’clock in the evening. I arrive at her apartment and peek inside. There she is sitting. Her legs folded on a mat, her face dark but pale. She looks up. She says, “Oh, there you are. Good. You’ve come. Come on in. You can sit anywhere you’d like. Sit down, sit down. I’ll get some cakes.” She gets up with difficulty, her legs seem heavy.
On the wall of her apartment is a poster of Buddha sitting on the lotus blossom beneath a tree in a beautiful, colorful forest. In front of him are angels in golden clothes, their legs folded, the palms of their hands pressed together reverently. Below the poster is a can of burned incense and four candles that have melted down to half their original length.
Om staggers toward me. Her mouth widens to form a weak smile. She hands me a bag of steamed cakes, made of sweetened sticky flour and beans wrapped in banana leaf, which she sells in the makeshift market in the camp.
At Phase I, when I last saw her, she had urged me to look for her in the market or to go to her home so she could give me cakes. She kept thanking me and God after I translated for her and filled her prescription, then brought it to her and helped her out the door. Today I’ve brought her a package of medicine which she would have gotten if she had gone to her follow-up appointment.
When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Page 30
