Inside Out and Back Again Read online

  Soft as a yam

  gliding down

  after three easy,

  thrilling chews.

  April 5

  Unknown Father

  I don’t know

  any more about Father

  than the small things

  Mother lets slip.

  He loved stewed eels,

  paté chaud pastries,

  and of course his children,

  so much that he

  grew teary

  watching us sleep.

  He hated the afternoon sun,

  the color brown,

  and cold rice.

  Brother Quang remembers

  Father often said

  tuyt sút,

  the Vietnamese way

  to pronounce the French phrase

  tout de suite

  meaning right away.

  Mother would laugh

  when Father followed her

  around the kitchen

  repeating,

  I’m starved for stewed eel,

  tuyt sút, tuyt sút.

  Sometimes I whisper

  tuyt sút to myself

  to pretend

  I know him.

  I would never say tuyt sút

  in front of Mother.

  None of us would want

  to make her sadder

  than she already is.

  Every day

  TV News

  Brother Quang races home

  from class,

  throws down his bicycle,

  exhausted,

  no longer able to afford

  gasoline for his moped.

  Unbelievable,

  he screams,

  and turns on the TV.

  A pilot for South Vietnam

  bombed the presidential palace

  downtown that afternoon.

  Afterward the pilot flew north

  and received a medal.

  The news says the pilot

  has been a spy

  for the Communists

  for years.

  The Communists

  captured Father,

  so why would

  any pilot

  choose their side?

  Brother Quang says,

  One cannot justify war

  unless each side

  flaunts its own

  blind conviction.

  Since starting college,

  he shows off even more

  with tangled words.

  I start to say so,

  but Mother pats my hand,

  her signal for me to calm down.

  April 8

  Birthday

  I, the youngest,

  get to celebrate

  my actual birthday

  even though I turned

  a year older

  like everyone else

  at Tt.

  I, the only daughter,

  usually get roasted chicken,

  dried bamboo soup,

  and all-I-can-eat pudding.

  This year,

  Mother manages only

  banana tapioca

  and my favorite

  black sesame candy.

  She makes up for it

  by allowing

  one wish.

  I dye my mouth

  sugary black

  and insist on

  stories.

  It’s not easy

  to persuade Mother

  to tell of her girlhood

  in the North,

  where her grandmother’s land

  stretched farther than

  doves could fly,

  where looking pretty

  and writing poetry

  were her only duties.

  She was promised to Father

  at five.

  They married at sixteen,

  earlier than expected.

  Everyone’s future changed

  upon learning the name

  H Chí Minh.

  Change meant

  land was taken away,

  houses now belonged

  to the state,

  servants gained power

  as fighters.

  The country divided in half.

  Mother and Father came south,

  convinced it would be

  easier to breathe

  away from Communism.

  Her father was to follow,

  but he was waiting for his son,

  who was waiting for his wife,

  who was waiting to deliver a child

  in its last week

  in her belly.

  The same week,

  North and South

  closed their doors.

  No more migration.

  No more letters.

  No more family.

  At this point,

  Mother closes her eyes,

  eyes that resemble no one else’s,

  sunken and deep like Westerners’

  yet almond-shaped like ours.

  I always wish for her eyes,

  but Mother says no.

  Eyes like hers can’t help

  but carry sadness;

  even as a child

  her parents were alarmed

  by the weight in her eyes.

  I want to hear more,

  but nothing,

  not even my pouts,

  can make Mother open her eyes

  and tell more.

  April 10

  Birthday Wishes

  Wishes I keep to myself:

  Wish I could do what boys do

  and let the sun darken my skin,

  and scars grid my knees.

  Wish I could let my hair grow,

  but Mother says the shorter the better

  to beat Saigon’s heat and lice.

  Wish I could lose my chubby cheeks.

  Wish I could stay calm

  no matter what

  my brothers say.

  Wish Mother would stop

  chiding me to stay calm,

  which makes it worse.

  Wish I had a sister

  to jump rope with

  and sew doll clothes

  and hug for warmth

  in the middle of the night.

  Wish Father would come home

  so I can stop daydreaming

  that he will appear

  in my classroom

  in a white navy uniform

  and extend his hand toward me

  for all my classmates to see.

  Mostly I wish

  Father would appear in our doorway

  and make Mother’s lips

  curl upward,

  lifting them from

  a permanent frown

  of worries.

  April 10

  Night

  A Day Downtown

  Every spring

  President Thiu

  holds a long long long

  ceremony to comfort

  war wives.

  Mother and I go because

  after President Thiu’s

  talk talk talk—

  of winning the war,

  of democracy,

  of our fathers’ bravery—

  each family gets

  five kilos of sugar,

  ten kilos of rice,

  and a small jug of

  vegetable oil.

  Inside the cyclo

  Mother crosses her legs

  so I can fit beside her.

  The breeze still cool,

  we bounce across the bridge

  shaped like a crescent moon

  where I’m not to go by myself.

  Mother smells of lavender

  and warmth;

  she’s so beautiful

  even if

  her cheeks are too hollow,

  her mouth too dark with worries.

  Despite warnings,

  I still want her sunken eyes.

  Before I see it,

&nb
sp; I hear downtown,

  thick with beeps,

  shouts, police whistles.

  Everywhere,

  mopeds and bicycles

  race down the wide road,

  moving out of the way

  only when a truck

  honks and mows straight down

  the middle of the lane.

  We get out

  in front of an open market.

  We push our way to

  a bánh cun stand.

  I love watching

  the spread of rice flour on cloth,

  stretched over a steaming pot.

  Like magic a crepe forms

  to be filled with shrimp

  and eaten with

  cucumber and bean sprouts.

  It tastes even better

  than it looks.

  While my mouth is full,

  the noises of the market

  silence themselves,

  letting me and my bánh cun

  float.

  We squeeze ourselves

  out of the market,

  toward the presidential palace.

  We stand in line;

  for even longer

  we sit on hot metal benches

  facing the podium.

  My white cotton

  hat and Mother’s flowery umbrella

  are nothing

  against the afternoon sun,

  shooting rays into

  my short short hair.

  I’m dizzy

  and thirsty;

  the fish sauce

  in the bánh cun

  was very salty.

  Mother gives me a tamarind candy.

  I have never been

  so thrilled

  to drink my saliva.

  Finally President Thiu appears,

  tan and sweaty.

  We know you have suffered.

  I thank you,

  your country thanks you.

  Then he cries actual tears,

  unwiped, facing the cameras.

  Mother clicks her tongue:

  Tears of an ugly fish.

  I know that to mean

  fake tears of a crocodile.

  April 12

  Twisting Twisting

  Mother measures

  rice grains

  left in the bin.

  Not enough to last

  till payday

  at the end of the month.

  Her brows

  twist like laundry

  being wrung dry.

  Yam and manioc

  taste lovely

  blended with rice,

  she says, and smiles,

  as if I don’t know

  how the poor

  fill their children’s bellies.

  April 13

  Closed Too Soon

  A siren screams

  over Miss Xinh’s voice

  in the middle of a lesson

  on smiley and bald

  President Ford.

  We all know it’s bad news.

  School’s now closed;

  everyone must go home

  a month too soon.

  I’m mad and pinch the girl

  who shares my desk.

  Tram is half my size,

  so skinny and nervous.

  Our mothers are friends.

  She will tell on me.

  She always tells on me.

  Mother will again

  scold me to be gentle.

  I need time

  to finish this riddle:

  A man usually rides his bike

  9 kilometers per hour,

  yet the wind slows him

  to 6.76 kilometers

  for 26 minutes

  and 5.55 kilometers

  for 10;

  how long until he gets home

  11.54 kilometers away?

  The first to solve it

  gets the sweet potato plant

  sprouting at the window.

  I want to plant it

  beside my papaya tree,

  where vines can climb

  and shade ripening fruit.

  Again I pinch Tram,

  knowing the plant

  will be awarded

  today

  to the teacher’s pet,

  who is always

  skinny and nervous

  and never me.

  April 14

  Promises

  Five papayas

  the sizes of

  my head,

  a knee,

  two elbows,

  and a thumb

  cling to the trunk.

  Still green

  but promising.

  April 15

  Bridge to the Sea

  Uncle Sn,

  Father’s best friend,

  visits us.

  He’s short, dark, and smiley,

  not tall, thin, and serious

  like Father in photographs.

  Still, when classmates

  ask about my father,

  sometimes short and smiley

  come to mind

  before I can stop it.

  Uncle Sn goes straight

  to the kitchen,

  where the back door opens into

  an alley.

  Unbelievable luck!

  This door bypasses the navy checkpoint

  and leads straight to the port.

  I will not risk

  fleeing with my children

  on a rickety boat.

  Would a navy ship

  meet your approval?

  As if the navy

  would abandon its country?

  There won’t be a South Vietnam

  left to abandon.

  You really believe

  we can leave?

  When the time comes,

  this house

  is our bridge

  to the sea.

  April 16

  Should We?

  Mother calls a family meeting.

  Ông Xuân has sold

  leaves of gold

  to buy twelve airplane tickets.

  Bà Nam has a van

  ready to load

  twenty-five relatives

  toward the coast.

  Mother asks us,

  Should we leave our home?

  Brother Quang says,

  How can we scramble away

  like rats,

  without honor, without dignity,

  when everyone must help

  rebuild the country?

  Brother Khôi says,

  What if Father comes home

  and finds his family gone?

  Brother V says,

  Yes, we must go.

  Everyone knows he dreams

  of touching the same ground

  where Bruce Lee walked.

  Mother twists her brows.

  I’ve lived in the North.

  At first, not much will happen,

  then suddenly Quang

  will be asked to leave college.

  Hà will come home

  chanting the slogans

  of H Chí Minh,

  and Khôi will be rewarded

  for reporting to his teacher

  everything we say in the house.

  Her brows twist

  so much

  we hush.

  April 17

  Sssshhhhhhh

  Brother Khôi shakes me

  before dawn.

  I follow him

  to the back garden.

  In his palm chirps

  a downy yellow fuzz,

  just hatched.

  He presses his palm

  against my squeal.

  No matter what Mother decides,

  we are not to leave.

  I must protect my chick

  and you your papayas.

  He holds out his pinky

  and stares

  stares

  stares

  until I extend mine
>
  and we hook.

  April 18

  Quiet Decision

  Dinnertime

  I help Mother

  peel sweet potatoes

  to stretch the rice.

  I start to chop off

  a potato’s end

  as wide as

  a thumbnail,

  then decide

  to slice off

  only a sliver.

  I am proud

  of my ability

  to save

  until I see

  tears

  in Mother’s

  deep eyes.

  You deserve to grow up

  where you don’t worry about

  saving half a bite

  of sweet potato.

  April 19

  Early Monsoon

  We pretend

  the monsoon

  has come early.

  In the distance

  bombs

  explode like thunder,

  slashes

  lighten the sky,

  gunfire

  falls like rain.

  Distant

  yet within ears,

  within eyes.

  Not that far away

  after all.

  April 20

  The President Resigns

  On TV President Thiu

  looks sad and yellow;

  what has happened to his tan?

  His eyes brim with tears;

  this time they look real.