Inside Out and Back Again Read online

  I can no longer be your president

  but I will never leave my people

  or our country.

  Mother lifts one brow,

  what she does

  when she thinks

  I’m lying.

  April 21

  Watch Over Us

  Uncle Sn returns

  and tells us

  to be ready to leave

  any day.

  Don’t tell anyone,

  or all of Saigon

  will storm the port.

  Only navy families

  can board the ships.

  Uncle Sn and Father

  graduated in the same navy class.

  It was mere luck

  that Uncle Sn

  didn’t go on the mission

  where Father was captured.

  Mother pulls me close

  and pats my head.

  Father watches over us

  even if he’s not here.

  Mother tells me

  she and Father have a pact.

  If war should separate them,

  they know to find each other

  through Father’s ancestral home

  in the North.

  April 24

  Crisscrossed Packs

  Pedal, pedal

  Mother’s feet

  push the sewing machine.

  The faster she pedals

  the faster stitches appear

  on heavy brown cloth.

  Two rectangles

  make a pack.

  A long strip

  makes a handle

  to be strapped across

  the wearer’s chest.

  Hours later

  the stitches appear

  in slow motion,

  the needle a worm

  laying tiny eggs

  that sink into brown cloth.

  The tired worm

  reproduces much more slowly

  at the end of the day

  than at the beginning

  when Mother started

  the first of five bags.

  Brother Khôi says too loudly,

  Make only three.

  Mother goes

  to a high shelf,

  bringing back Father’s portrait.

  Come with us

  or we’ll all stay.

  Think, my son;

  your action will determine

  our future.

  Mother knows this son

  cannot stand to hurt

  anyone,

  anything.

  Look at Father.

  Come with us

  so Father

  will be proud

  you obeyed your mother

  while he’s not here.

  I look at my toes,

  feeling Brother Khôi’s eyes

  burn into my scalp.

  I also feel him slowly nodding.

  Who can go against

  a mother

  who has become gaunt like bark

  from raising four children alone?

  April 26

  Choice

  Into each pack:

  one pair of pants,

  one pair of shorts,

  three pairs of underwear,

  two shirts,

  sandals,

  toothbrush and paste,

  soap,

  ten palms of rice grains,

  three clumps of cooked rice,

  one choice.

  I choose my doll,

  once lent to a neighbor

  who left it outside,

  where mice bit

  her left cheek

  and right thumb.

  I love her more

  for her scars.

  I dress her

  in a red and white dress

  with matching hat and booties

  that Mother knitted.

  April 27

  Left Behind

  Ten gold-rimmed glasses

  Father brought back from America

  where he trained before I was born.

  Brother Quang’s

  report cards,

  each ranking him first in class,

  beginning in kindergarten.

  Vines of bougainvillea

  fully in bloom,

  burgundy and white

  like the colors

  of our house.

  Vines of jasmine

  in front of every window

  that remind Mother

  of the North.

  A cowboy leather belt

  Brother V sewed

  on Mother’s machine

  and broke her needle.

  That was when

  he adored

  Johnny Cash

  more than

  Bruce Lee.

  A row of glass jars

  Brother Khôi used

  to raise fighting fish.

  Two hooks

  and the hammock

  where I nap.

  Photographs:

  every Tt at the zoo,

  Father in his youth,

  Mother in her youth,

  baby pictures,

  where you can’t tell whose bottom

  is exposed for all the world to see.

  Mother chooses ten

  and burns the rest.

  We cannot leave

  evidence of Father’s life

  that might hurt him.

  April 27

  Evening

  Wet and Crying

  My biggest papaya

  is light yellow,

  still flecked with green.

  Brother V wants

  to cut it down,

  saying it’s better than

  letting the Communists have it.

  Mother says yellow papaya

  tastes lovely

  dipped in chili salt.

  You children should eat

  fresh fruit

  while you can.

  Brother V chops;

  the head falls;

  a silver blade slices.

  Black seeds spill

  like clusters of eyes,

  wet and crying.

  April 28

  Sour Backs

  At the port

  we find out

  there’s no such thing

  as a secret

  among the Vietnamese.

  Thousands

  found out

  about the navy ships

  ready to abandon the navy.

  Uncle Sn flares elbows into wings,

  lunges forward

  protecting his children.

  But our family sticks together

  like wet pages.

  I see nothing but backs

  sour and sweaty.

  Brother V steps up,

  placing Mother in front of him

  and lifting me

  onto his shoulders.

  His palms press

  Brothers Quang and Khôi

  forward.

  I promise myself

  to never again

  make fun of

  Bruce Lee.

  April 29

  Afternoon

  One Mat Each

  We climb on

  and claim a space

  of two straw mats

  under the deck,

  enough for us five

  to lie side by side.

  By sunset our space

  is one straw mat,

  enough for us five

  to huddle together.

  Bodies cram

  every centimeter

  below deck,

  then every centimeter

  on deck.

  Everyone knows the ship

  could sink,

  unable to hold

  the piles of bodies

  that keep crawling on

  like raging ants

  from a disrupted nest.

  But no one

  is heartless enough

  to say

  stop


  because what if

  they had been

  stopped

  before their turn?

  April 29

  Sunset

  In the Dark

  Uncle Sn visits

  and whispers to Mother.

  We follow Mother

  who follows Uncle Sn

  who leads his family

  up to the deck

  and off the ship.

  It has been said

  the ship next door

  has a better engine,

  more water,

  endless fuel,

  countless salty eggs.

  Uncle Sn lingers

  without getting on

  the new ship;

  so do we.

  Hordes pour

  by us,

  beyond us.

  Above us

  bombs pierce the sky.

  Red and green flares

  explode like fireworks.

  All lights are off

  so the port will not be

  a target.

  In the dark

  a nudge here

  a nudge there

  and we end up

  back on the first ship

  in the same spot

  with two mats.

  Without lights

  our ship glides out to sea,

  emptied of half its passengers.

  April 29

  Near midnight

  Saigon Is Gone

  I listen to

  the swish, swish

  of Mother’s handheld fan,

  the whispers among adults,

  the bombs in the ever greater distance.

  The commander has ordered

  everyone below deck

  even though he has chosen

  a safe river route

  to connect to the sea,

  avoiding the obvious escape path

  through Vng Tu,

  where the Communists are dropping

  all the bombs they have left.

  I hope TiTi got out.

  Mother is sick

  with waves in her stomach

  even though the ship

  barely creeps along.

  We hear a helicopter

  circling circling

  near our ship.

  People run and scream,

  Communists!

  Our ship dips low

  as the crowd runs to the left,

  and then to the right.

  This is not helping Mother.

  I wish they would stand still

  and hush.

  The commander is talking:

  Do not be frightened!

  It’s a pilot for our side

  who has jumped into the water,

  letting his helicopter

  plunge in behind him.

  The pilot

  appears below deck,

  wet and shaking.

  He salutes the commander

  and shouts,

  At noon today the Communists

  crashed their tanks

  through the gates

  of the presidential palace

  and planted on the roof

  a flag with one huge star.

  Then he adds

  what no one wants to hear:

  It’s over;

  Saigon is gone.

  April 30

  Late afternoon

  PART II

  At Sea

  Floating

  Our ship creeps along

  the river route

  without lights

  without cooking

  without bathrooms.

  We are told

  to sip water

  only when we must

  so our bodies

  can stop needing.

  Mine won’t listen.

  Mother sighs.

  I don’t blame her,

  having a daughter

  who’s either

  dying of thirst

  or demanding release.

  Other girls

  must be made

  of bamboo,

  bending whichever way

  they are told.

  Mother tells Uncle Sn

  I need a bathroom.

  We are allowed

  into the commander’s cabin,

  where the bathroom is

  so white and clean,

  so worth the embarrassment.

  May 1

  S-l-o-w-l-y

  I nibble on

  the last clump

  of cooked rice

  from my sack.

  Hard and moldy,

  yet chewy and sweet

  inside.

  I chew each grain

  s-l-o-w-l-y.

  I hear others chew

  but have never seen

  anyone actually eating.

  No one has offered

  to share

  what I smell:

  sardines, dried durian,

  salted eggs, toasted sesame.

  I lean toward

  the family

  on the next mat.

  Mother firmly

  shakes her head.

  She looks so sad

  as she pats

  my hand.

  May 2

  Rations

  On the third day

  we join the sea

  toward Thailand.

  The commander says

  it’s safe enough

  for his men to cook,

  for us to go above deck,

  for all to smile a little.

  He says there’s enough

  rice and water

  for three weeks,

  but rescue should happen

  much earlier.

  Do not worry,

  ships from all countries

  are out looking for us.

  Morning, noon, and night

  we each get

  one clump of rice,

  small, medium, large,

  according to our height,

  plus one cup of water

  no matter our size.

  The first hot bite

  of freshly cooked rice,

  plump and nutty,

  makes me imagine

  the taste of ripe papaya

  although one has nothing

  to do with the other.

  May 3

  Routine

  Mother cannot allow

  idle children,

  hers or anyone else’s.

  After one week

  on the ship

  Brother Quang begins

  English lessons.

  I wish he would

  keep it to:

  How are you?

  This is a pen.

  But when an adult is not there

  he says,

  We must consider the shame

  of abandoning our own country

  and begging toward the unknown

  where we will all begin again

  at the lowest level

  on the social scale.

  It’s better in the afternoons

  with Brother V,

  who just wants us

  to do front kicks

  and back kicks,

  at times adding

  one-two punches.

  Brother Khôi gets to monitor

  lines for the bathrooms,

  where bottoms stick out

  to the sea

  behind blankets blowing

  in the wind.

  When not in class

  I have to stay

  within sight of Mother,

  like a baby.

  Mother gives me

  her writing pad.

  Write tiny,

  there’s but one pad.

  Writing becomes

  boring,

  so I draw

  over my words.

  Pouches of pan-fried shredded coconut

  Tamarind paste on banana leaf

  Steamed corn on the cob
/>
  Rounds of fried dough

  Wedges of pineapple on a stick

  And of course

  cubes of papaya tender and shiny.

  Mother smoothes back my hair,

  knowing the pain

  of a girl

  who loves snacks

  but is stranded

  on a ship.

  May 7

  Once Knew

  Water, water, water

  everywhere

  making me think

  land is just something

  I once knew

  like

  napping on a hammock

  bathing without salt

  watching Mother write

  laughing for no reason

  kicking up powdery dirt

  and

  wearing clean nightclothes

  smelling of the sun.

  May 12

  Brother Khôi’s Secret

  Brother Khôi stinks;

  we can’t ignore it.

  He stews and sweats

  in a jacket

  he won’t take off.

  Forced to sponge-wipe

  twice a day,

  he wraps the jacket

  around his waist.

  He keeps clutching something

  in the left pocket,

  where the stench grows.