by Thanhha Lai
We smile
and unpack
the two outfits
we each own.
One look at
our cowboy’s wife,
arms, lips, eyes
contorted into knots,
and we repack.
August 15
English Above All
We sit and sleep in the lowest level
of our cowboy’s house,
where we never see
the wife.
I must stand on a chair
that stands on a tea table
to see
the sun and the moon
out a too-high window.
The wife insists
we keep out of
her neighbors’ eyes.
Mother shrugs.
More room here
than two mats on a ship.
I wish she wouldn’t try
to make something bad
better.
She calls a family meeting.
Until you children
master English,
you must think, do, wish
for nothing else.
Not your father,
not our old home,
not your old friends,
not our future.
She tries to mean it
about Father,
but I know at times
words are just words.
August 16
First Rule
Brother Quang says
add an s to nouns
to mean more than one
even if there’s
already an s
sitting there.
Glass
Glass-es
All day
I practice
squeezing hisses
through my teeth.
Whoever invented
English
must have loved
snakes.
August 17
American Chicken
Most food
our cowboy brings
is wrapped in plastic
or pushed into cans,
while chicken and beef
are chopped and frozen.
We live on
rice, soy sauce,
canned corn.
Today our cowboy brings
a paper bucket of chicken,
skin crispy and golden,
smelling of perfection.
Brother Khôi recoils,
vowing to never eat
anything with wings.
Our cowboy bites on a leg,
grins to show teeth and gums.
I wonder if he’s so friendly
because his wife is so mean.
We bite.
The skin tastes as promised,
crunchy and salty,
hot and spicy.
But
Mother wipes
the corners of her mouth
before passing her piece
into her napkin.
Brother V gags.
Our cowboy scrunches
his brows,
surely thinking,
why are his refugees
so picky?
Brother Quang forces
a swallow
before explaining
we are used to
fresh-killed chicken
that roamed the yard
snacking on
grains and worms.
Such meat grows
tight in texture,
smelling of meadows
and tasting sweet.
I bite down on a thigh;
might as well bite down on
bread soaked in water.
Still,
I force yum-yum sounds.
I hope to ride
the horse our cowboy
surely has.
August 20
Out the Too-High Window
Green mats of grass
in front of every house.
Vast windows
in front of sealed curtains.
Cement lanes where
no one walks.
Big cars
pass not often.
Not a noise.
Clean, quiet
loneliness.
August 21
Second Rule
Add an s to verbs
acted by one person
in the present tense,
even if there’s
already an s sound
nearby.
She choose-s
He refuse-s
I’m getting better
at hissing,
no longer spitting
on my forearms.
August 22
American Address
Our cowboy
in an even taller hat
finds us a house
on Princess Anne Road,
pays rent ahead
three months.
Mother could not believe
his generosity
until Brother Quang says
the American government
gives sponsors money.
Mother is even more amazed
by the generosity
of the American government
until Brother Quang says
it’s to ease the guilt
of losing the war.
Mother’s face crinkles
like paper on fire.
She tells Brother Quang
to clamp shut his mouth.
People living on
others’ goodwill
cannot afford
political opinions.
I inspect our house.
Two bedrooms,
one for my brothers,
one for Mother and me.
A washing machine,
because no one here
will scrub laundry
in exchange for
a bowl of rice.
The stove spews out
clean blue flames,
unlike the ashy coals
back home.
What I love best:
the lotus-pod shower,
where heavy drops
will massage my scalp
as if I were standing
in a monsoon.
What I don’t love:
pink sofas, green chairs,
plastic cover on a table,
stained mattresses,
old clothes,
unmatched dishes.
All from friends
of our cowboy.
Even at our poorest
we always had
beautiful furniture
and matching dishes.
Mother says be grateful.
I’m trying.
August 24
Letter Home
As soon as we have an address
Mother writes
all the way to the North
where Father’s brother
anchors down the family line
in their ancestral home.
It’s the first time
Mother has been allowed
to contact anyone in the North
since the country divided.
It’ll be the first time
Father’s brother
learns of his disappearance.
Unless,
Father has sent word
that he’s safe
after all.
I shiver
with hope.
August 25
Third Rule
Always an exception.
Do not add an s
to certain nouns.
One deer,
two deer.
Why no s for two deer,
but an s for two monkeys?
Brother Quang says
no one knows.
So much for rules!
Whoever invented English
should be bitten
by a snake.
August 26
Pa
ssing Time
I study the dictionary
because grass and trees
do not grow faster
just because
I stare.
I look up
Jane: not listed
sees: to eyeball something
Spot: a stain
run: to move really fast
Meaning: _______ eyeballs stain move.
I throw the dictionary down
and ask Brother Quang.
Jane is a name,
not in the dictionary.
Spot is a common name
for a dog.
(Girl named) Jane sees (dog named) Spot run.
I can’t read
a baby book.
Who will believe
I was reading
Nht Linh?
But then,
who here knows
who he is?
August 27
Neigh Not Hee
Brother Quang
is tired of translating.
Our sponsor takes me
to register for school alone.
As my personal cowboy
for the day,
he will surely
let me ride his horse.
I start to climb
into his too-tall truck
but his two fingers
walk in the air.
This means
I’m to walk to school.
Turn right where flowers
big as dinner plates
grow strangely blue.
Turn left where
purple fluffy wands
arch on tall bushes
inviting butterflies.
Sweat beads plump up
on my cowboy’s upper lip.
My armpits embarrass me.
I must remember
to not raise the reins high.
We walk and walk
on a road
where the horizon
keeps extending.
Finally,
we stop at
a fat, red
brick building.
Paperwork, paperwork
with a woman who
pats my head
while shaking her own.
I step back,
hating pity,
having learned
from Mother that
the pity giver
feels better,
never the pity receiver.
On the walk home
I take a deep breath,
forcing myself to say,
You, hor-ssssse?
Hee, hee, hee.
I go, go.
My personal cowboy
shakes his head.
I repeat myself
and gallop.
He scrunches his face.
I say, Hor-ssssse
and Hee, hee, hee,
until my throat hurts.
We get home.
Brother Quang
has to translate,
after all.
No, Mr. Johnston
doesn’t have a horse,
nor has he ever ridden one.
What kind of a cowboy is he?
To make it worse,
the cowboy explains
horses here go
neigh, neigh, neigh,
not hee, hee, hee.
No they don’t.
Where am I?
August 29
Fourth Rule
Some verbs
switch all over
just because.
I am
She is
They are
He was
They were
Would be simpler
if English
and life
were logical.
August 30
The Outside
Starting tomorrow
everyone must
leave the house.
Mother starts sewing
at a factory;
Brother Quang begins
repairing cars.
The rest of us
must go to school,
repeating the last grade,
left unfinished.
Brother V wants
to be a cook
or teach martial arts,
not waste a year
as the oldest senior.
Mother says
one word:
College.
Brother Khôi
gets an old bicycle to ride,
but Mother says
I’m too young for one
even though I’m
a ten-year-old
in the fourth grade,
when everyone else
is nine.
Mother says,
Worry instead
about getting sleep
because from now on
no more naps.
You will eat lunch
at school
with friends.
What friends?
You’ll make some.
What if I can’t?
You will.
What will I eat?
What your friends eat.
But what will I eat?
Be surprised.
I hate surprises.
Be agreeable.
Not without knowing
what I’m agreeing to.
Mother sighs,
walking away.
September 1
Sadder Laugh
School!
I wake up with
dragonflies
zipping through
my gut.
I eat nothing.
I take each step toward school evenly,
trying to hold my stomach
steady.
It helps that
the morning air glides cool
like a constant washcloth
against my face.
Deep breaths.
I’m the first student in class.
My new teacher has brown curls
looped tight to her scalp
like circles in a beehive.
She points to her chest:
MiSSS SScott,
saying it three times,
each louder
with ever more spit.
I repeat, MiSSS SScott,
careful to hiss every s.
She doesn’t seem impressed.
I tap my own chest:
Hà.
She must have heard
ha,
as in funny ha-ha-ha.
She fakes a laugh.
I repeat, Hà,
and wish I knew
enough English
to tell her
to listen for
the diacritical mark,
this one directing
the tone
downward.
My new teacher tilts
her head back,
fakes
an even sadder laugh.
September 2
Morning
Rainbow
I face the class.
MiSSS SScott speaks.
Each classmate says something.
I don’t understand,
but I see.
Fire hair on skin dotted with spots.
Fuzzy dark hair on skin shiny as lacquer.
Hair the color of root on milky skin.
Lots of braids on milk chocolate.
White hair on a pink boy.
Honey hair with orange ribbons on see-through skin.
Hair with barrettes in all colors on bronze bread.
I’m the only
straight black hair
on olive skin.
September 2
Midmorning
Black and White and Yellow and Red
The bell rings.
Everyone stands.
I stand.
They line up;
so do I.
Down a hall.
Turn left.
Take a tray.
Receive food.
Sit.
On one side
of the bright, noisy room,
light skin.
Other side,
dark skin.
Both laughing, chewing,
as if it never occurred
to them
someone medium
would show up.
I don’t know where to sit
any more than
I know how to eat
the pink sausage
snuggled inside bread
shaped like a corncob,
smeared with sauces
yellow and red.
I think
they are making fun
of the Vietnamese flag
until I remember
no one here likely knows
