by Thanhha Lai
that flag’s colors.
I put down the tray
and wait
in the hallway.
September 2
11:30 a.m.
Loud Outside
Another bell,
another line,
this time outside.
Every part
of the rainbow
surrounds me,
shouting, pushing.
A pink boy with white hair
on his head
and white eyebrows and
white eyelashes
pulls my arm hair.
Laughter.
It’s true my arm hair
grows so long and black.
Maybe he is curious
about my long, black arm hair
like I was curious
about the golden fuzz
on the arm
of the rescue-ship sailor.
He pokes my cheek.
Howls from everyone.
He pokes my chest.
I see nothing but
squeezed eyes,
twisted mouths.
No,
they’re not curious.
I want to pluck out every white hair
to see if the boy’s scalp
matches the pink of his face.
I wish this
but walk away.
September 2
Afternoon
Laugh Back
The pink boy and two loud friends
follow me home.
I count each step
to walk faster.
I won’t let them
see me run.
I count in English,
forcing it
to the front
of my mind.
I can’t help but
glance back.
The pink boy shouts,
showing a black hole
where sharp teeth glow.
I walk faster,
count faster
in English.
Not that I care
to understand
what Pink Boy says,
but I have to
if I’m to laugh back
at him
one day.
September 2
After school
Quiet Inside
Brother Khôi is home,
not talking.
We sit together
shelling peanuts.
I keep my day inside.
Mother comes home
with two fingers
wrapped in white.
The electric machine
sews so fast.
Brother Quang comes home,
throws down his uniform shirt,
goes to the bathroom.
At dinner
his fingernails are still
rimmed in black oil.
Brother V comes in
whistling.
He eats
two, three, four
pork chops.
I eat
one, two chops.
I have a feeling
having muscles
makes whistling
possible.
September 2
Evening
Fly Kick
I sneak into
my brothers’ room.
The full moon shines on
the bulkiest lump.
I shake it awake.
Outside!
Brother V swats my hand
but follows me.
Moonlight turns us silver.
They pulled my arm hair.
They threw rocks at me.
They promised to stomp on my chest.
Brother V yawns.
A boy did pull my arm hair!
Brother V pats my head.
Ignore him.
It’s not like I follow him around.
Why were you whistling?
Someone called me Ching Chong.
Is that good?
Didn’t sound good.
Then he tripped me,
so I flew up and
almost scissor-kicked him
in the face.
You missed?
I wanted him to stop,
not hurt him.
I didn’t even like
seeing him scared.
I would have kicked him.
Teach me to fly-kick, please.
Not with your temper.
I shout, I’m so mad.
I shouldn’t have to run away.
Tears come.
Brother V
has always been afraid
of my tears.
I’ll teach you defense.
How will that help me?
He smiles huge,
so certain of himself.
You’ll see.
September 2
Late
Chin Nod
Next morning
halfway down the block,
away from Mother’s eyes,
I hear the clink clank
of Brother Khôi’s bicycle.
He stops and pats
the upper bar
of the triangle frame.
I sit sidesaddle,
holding on to the handlebar.
The edges of our hands
touch.
As we glide away
I ask,
Every day?
I feel his chin
nod into
the top of my head.
After school too?
Another chin nod.
We glide
and I feel as if
I’m floating.
September 3
Feel Dumb
MiSSS SScott
points to me,
then to the letters
of the English alphabet.
I say
A B C and so on.
She tells the class
to clap.
I frown.
MiSSS SScott
points to the numbers
along the wall.
I count up to twenty.
The class claps
on its own.
I’m furious,
unable to explain
I already learned
fractions
and how to purify
river water.
So this is
what dumb
feels like.
I hate, hate, hate it.
September 10
Wishes
I wish
Brother Khôi wouldn’t
keep inside
how he endures
the hours in school,
that Mother wouldn’t
hide her bleeding fingers,
that Brother Quang wouldn’t
be so angry after work.
I wish
our cowboy could be persuaded
to buy a horse,
that I could be invisible
until I can talk back,
that English could be learned
without so many rules.
I wish
Father would appear
in my class
speaking beautiful English
as he does French and Chinese
and hold out his hand
for mine.
Mostly
I wish
I were
still
smart.
September 11
Hiding
Brother V
now makes everyone
call him
Vu Lee,
a name I must say
without giggling
to get defense lessons.
I need the lessons.
I’m hiding in class
by staring at my shoes.
I’m hiding during lunch
in the bathroom,
eating hard rolls
saved from dinner.
I’m hiding during outside time
; in the same bathroom.
I’m hiding after school
until Brother Khôi
rides up to
our secret corner.
With Vu Lee
I squat in
ng tn,
weight on legs,
back straight,
arms at my sides,
fingers relaxed,
eyes everywhere at once.
I’m practicing
to be seen.
September 13
Neighbors
Eggs explode
like smears of snot
on our front door.
Just dumb kids,
says our cowboy.
Bathroom paper hangs
like ghosts
from our willow.
More dumb kids,
says our cowboy.
A brick
shatters the front window,
landing on our dinner table
along with a note.
Brother Quang
refuses to translate.
Mother shakes her head
when Vu Lee pops his muscles.
Our cowboy
calls the police,
who tell us
to stay inside.
Hogwash,
our cowboy says,
then spits a brown blob
of tobacco.
I repeat, Hogwash,
puckering for the ending of
ssssshhhhhh.
Mother decides
we must meet
our neighbors.
Our cowboy leads,
giving us each a cowboy hat
to be tilted
while saying,
Good mornin’.
Only I wear the hat.
In the house
to our right
a bald man
closes his door.
Next to him
a woman
with yellow hair
slams hers.
Next to her
shouts reach us
behind a door unopened.
Redness crawls across
my brothers’ faces.
Mother pats their backs.
Our cowboy leads us
to the house on our left.
An older woman
throws up her arms
and hugs us.
We’re so startled
we stand like trees.
She points to her chest:
MiSSSisss WaSShington.
She hugs our cowboy
and kisses him.
I thought only
husbands and wives
do that when alone.
We find out
MiSSSisss WaSShington
is a widow and retired teacher.
She has no children
but has a dog named Lassie
and a garden that takes up
her backyard.
She volunteers
to tutor us all.
My time with her
will be right after school.
I’m afraid to tell her
how much help I’ll need.
September 14
New Word a Day
MiSSSisss WaSShington
has her own rules.
She makes me memorize
one new word a day
and practice it
ten times in conversation.
For every new word
that sticks to my brain
she gives me
fruit in bite sizes, drowning in sweet, white fluff;
cookies with drops of chocolate small as rain;
flat, round, pan-fried cakes floating in syrup.
My vocabulary grows!
She makes me learn rules
I’ve never noticed,
like a, an, and the,
which act as little megaphones
to tell the world
whose English
is still secondhand.
The house is red.
But:
We live in a house.
A, an, and the
do not exist in Vietnamese
and we understand
each other just fine.
I pout,
but MiSSSisss WaSShington says
every language has annoyances and illogical rules,
as well as sensible beauty.
She has an answer for everything,
just like Mother.
September 16
More Is Not Better
I now understand
when they make fun of my name,
yelling ha-ha-ha down the hall
when they ask if I eat dog meat,
barking and chewing and falling down laughing
when they wonder if I lived in the jungle with tigers,
growling and stalking on all fours.
I understand
because Brother Khôi
nodded into my head
on the bike ride home
when I asked if kids
said the same things
at his school.
I understand
and wish
I could go back
to not understanding.
September 19
HA LE LU DA
Our cowboy says
our neighbors
would be more like neighbors
if we agree to something
at the Del Ray Southern Baptist Church.
I’ve seen the church name
on a sign
where blaring yellow sun rays
spell GOD.
Our cowboy and his wife
wait for us
in the very first row.
He’s smiling;
she’s not.
A plump man
runs onto the stage
SHOUTING.
Everyone except us
greets him,
HA LE LU DA.
The more he SHOUTS,
the more everyone sings
HA LE LU DA.
Later a woman
smelling of honeysuckle
signals for all of us to follow.
Mother and I are told
to change into
shapeless white gowns.
We line up in a hallway
too bright and too bare,
where my brothers await us
frowning,
all wearing the same
shapeless white gowns.
I giggle.
Mother pinches me
then steps forward first.
The plump man
waits for her
in a tiny pool.
One hand holds her nose,
another hand on her back,
pushing her under.
I start to jump into the pool,
but Mother is standing again,
coughing,
hair matted to her face,
eyes narrowing
at me.
Each of my brothers
gets dipped.
My turn comes,
no matter how
I laser-eye Mother
to stop it.
And yet
it’s not over.
We must get dressed
and line up onstage
next to the plump man,
our cowboy,
and his smiling wife.
Her lips curl up even more
as people line up
to kiss our cheeks.
Drops from wet hair
drip down my back.
Bumps enlarge on
my chilled skin
as I realize
we will be coming back
every Sunday.
September 21
Can’t Help
Mother taps her nails
on the dining table,
her signal for solitude
to chant.
I shuffle off to our room
but am still
with her
through my ears.
She chants,
Nam Mô A Di à Pht
Nam Mô Quan Th m B Tát
Such quiet tones
after a day of
shouts and HA LE LU DAs.
Clang clang clang,
a spoon chimes
against a glass bowl.
Nothing like
clear-stream bell echoes
from a brass gong.
Instead of jasmine incense,
Mother burns dried orange peels.
Ashy bitter citrus
invades our room.
Nothing like
the floral wafts
that once calmed me.
I try
but can’t fall sleep,
