Inside Out and Back Again Read online

  Neighbors complain,

  even the ones

  eight mats away,

  saying it’s bad enough

  being trapped

  in putrid, hot air

  made from fermented bodies

  and oily sweat,

  must everybody

  also endure

  something rotten?

  Finally Brother V

  holds Brother Khôi down

  and forces him

  to open his hand.

  A flattened chick

  lies crooked,

  neck dangling

  off his palm.

  The chick had not

  a chance

  after we shoved

  for hours to board.

  Brother Khôi screams,

  kicks everything off our mats.

  Brother Quang

  carries him

  above deck.

  Quiet.

  May 13

  Last Respects

  After two weeks at sea

  the commander calls

  all of us above deck

  for a formal lowering of

  our yellow flag

  with three red stripes.

  South Vietnam no longer exists.

  One woman tries to throw

  herself overboard,

  screaming that without a country

  she cannot live.

  As they wrestle her down,

  a man stabs his heart

  with a toothbrush.

  I don’t know them,

  so their pain seems unreal

  next to Brother Khôi’s,

  whose eyes are as wild

  as those of his broken chick.

  I hold his hand:

  Come with me.

  He doesn’t resist.

  Alone

  at the back of the ship

  I open Mother’s white handkerchief.

  Inside lies my mouse-bitten doll,

  her arms wrapped around

  the limp fuzzy body of his chick.

  I tie it all into a bundle.

  Brother Khôi nods

  and I smile,

  but I regret

  not having my doll

  as soon as the white bundle

  sinks into the sea.

  May 14

  One Engine

  In the middle

  of the night

  our ship stops.

  Mother hugs me,

  hearts drumming

  as one.

  If the Communists

  catch us fleeing,

  it’s a million times worse

  than staying at home.

  After many shouts

  and much time

  the ship moves forward

  with just one engine.

  Mother would not

  release me.

  The commander says,

  Thailand is much farther

  on one engine.

  It was risky to take

  the river route.

  We escaped bombs

  but missed the rescue ships.

  The commander decides

  the ration is now

  half a clump of rice

  only at morning and night,

  and one cup of water

  all day.

  Sip,

  he says,

  and don’t waste strength

  moving around

  because it’s impossible

  to predict

  how much longer

  we will

  be floating.

  May 16

  The Moon

  During the day

  the deck belongs

  to men and children.

  At nightfall

  women make their way

  up.

  In single files

  they sponge-bathe

  and relieve themselves

  behind blanket curtains.

  I always stand in line

  with Mother.

  Every night

  she points upward.

  At least

  the moon remains

  unchanged.

  Your father could be looking

  at the same round moon.

  He may already understand

  we will wait for him

  across the world.

  I feel guilty,

  having not once

  thought of Father.

  I can’t wish for him

  to appear

  until I know where

  we’ll be.

  May 18

  A Kiss

  The horn on our ship

  blows and blows,

  waking everyone

  from a week-long nap.

  A sure answer,

  honk honk,

  seems close enough

  and real enough

  to call everyone on deck.

  A gigantic ship

  with an American flag

  moves closer.

  Men in white uniform

  wave and smile.

  Our commander wears

  his navy jacket and hat,

  so white and so crisp.

  Now I realize

  why I like him so much.

  In uniform,

  he looks just like Father.

  He boards the other ship,

  salutes and shakes hands

  with a man whose hair

  grows on his face

  not on his head

  in the color of flames.

  I had not known

  such hair was possible.

  We clap and clap

  as the ships draw together

  and kiss.

  Boxes and boxes

  pass onto our deck.

  Oranges, apples, bananas,

  cold sweet bubbly drinks,

  chocolate drops, fruity gum.

  The American ship

  tows ours

  with a steel braid

  thick as my body.

  Our rescue now certain,

  the party blossoms

  as food suddenly

  comes up from below.

  Ramen noodles, beef jerky,

  dried shrimp, butter biscuits,

  tamarind pods, canned fish,

  and drums and drums of real water.

  Mother says,

  People share

  when they know

  they have escaped hunger.

  Shouldn’t people share

  because there is hunger?

  That night I stand behind

  blowing blankets

  and pour fresh water

  all over my skin.

  How sweet water tastes

  even when mixed with soap.

  May 24

  Golden Fuzz

  Water, water

  still everywhere

  but in the distance

  appears a black dot.

  We are told

  to pack

  our crisscrossed packs

  and line up in a single file.

  Twenty at a time

  board a motorboat

  heading toward the dot.

  An arm extends

  to help us board,

  an arm hairy with fuzz.

  I touch it,

  so real and long,

  not knowing if I will

  have another chance

  to touch golden fuzz.

  I pluck one hair.

  Mother slaps my hand.

  Brother Quang speaks quickly

  in the language I must learn.

  The fuzzy man laughs.

  I’m grateful the boat

  starts to rock,

  so Mother hasn’t

  the composure

  to scold me,

  not just yet.

  I roll my fuzzy souvenir

  between my thumb and finger

  and can’t help

  but smile.

  May 26

 
; Tent City

  We have landed

  on an island

  called Guam,

  which no one can pronounce

  except Brother Quang,

  who becomes

  translator for all.

  Many others arrived

  before us

  and are living

  in green tents

  and sleeping on cots.

  We eat inside a huge tent

  where Brother V

  becomes head chef,

  heating up cans of

  beef and potatoes

  tasting like salty vomit.

  We eat only

  canned fruit

  in thick syrup,

  and everyone wants extras

  but we get only a cup.

  Brother V somehow

  brings home

  a huge can,

  pumping it to work out

  his arm muscles.

  We eat

  straight from the can

  as I search for

  cherries and grapes.

  May 28

  Life in Waiting

  A routine starts

  as soon as we settle

  into our tent.

  Camp workers

  teach us English

  mornings and afternoons.

  Evenings we have to ourselves.

  We watch movies outdoors

  with images projected

  onto a white sheet.

  Brother Quang translates

  into a microphone,

  his voice sad and slow.

  If it’s a young cowboy

  like Clint Eastwood,

  everyone cheers.

  If it’s an old cowboy,

  like John Wayne,

  most of us boo

  and go swimming.

  The Disney cartoons

  lure out the girls,

  who always surround

  Brother V,

  begging him to break

  yet another piece of wood.

  I can still hear them begging

  when I go sit with Brother Khôi,

  who rarely speaks anymore

  but I’m happy to be near him.

  June to early July

  Nc Mm

  Someone

  should be kissed

  for having the heart

  to send cases of fish sauce

  to Guam.

  Everything is

  more edible

  with nc mm.

  Brother V

  sautés the beef-and-potato goo

  with onions

  and sprinkles on the magic sauce

  before serving the mess with rice.

  Lines extend to the beach.

  Someone catches

  a sea creature

  puffy and watery

  like a cucumber.

  Brother V slices it

  into slippery strips

  and stews it with

  seaweed

  and the magic sauce.

  So many appetites

  wake up

  that Brother V

  just has time

  to cook rice

  and serve it with

  plain fish sauce.

  People begin to cook

  as long as they

  can get a cup

  of nc mm.

  Brother Khôi hands it out

  in the same white cups

  as tea.

  Both dark brown,

  so of course

  I drink a gulp of the

  most salty,

  most bitter,

  most fishy

  tea

  ever.

  My head whirls

  and my breath stinks

  for days.

  I do not mind.

  July 1

  Amethyst Ring

  Mother wants to sell

  the amethyst ring

  Father brought back

  from America,

  where he trained

  in the navy

  before I was born.

  She wants to buy

  needles and thread,

  fabric and sandals

  from the camp’s

  black market.

  I have never seen her

  without this purple rock.

  I can’t fall asleep

  unless I twist the ring

  and count circles.

  Brother Quang says,

  NO!

  What’s the point of

  new shirts and sandals

  if you lose the last

  tangible remnant of love?

  I don’t understand

  what he said

  but I agree.

  July 2

  Choose

  Some choose to go to France

  because many Vietnamese

  moved there

  when North and South

  divided years ago.

  Uncle Sn says

  come with his family

  to Canada,

  where his sister lives

  and can help watch over us

  until Father returns.

  Mother knows his wife

  would mind.

  She tells him

  Canada is too cold.

  We stand in line

  to fill out papers.

  Every family must decide

  by tonight,

  when fireworks will explode

  in honor of America’s birth.

  Mother starts to write

  “Paris,”

  home of a cousin

  she has never met.

  The man behind us whispers,

  Choose America,

  more opportunities there,

  especially for a family

  with boys ready to work.

  Mother whispers back,

  My sons

  must first go to college.

  If they’re smart

  America will give them

  scholarships.

  Mother chooses.

  July 4

  Another Tent City

  We are flown

  to another tent city

  in humid, hot Florida,

  where alligators are shown

  as entertainment.

  The people in charge

  bring in Saigon-famous singers

  to raise refugee spirits,

  but faces keep twisting with worries.

  For a family to leave,

  an American must come to camp

  and sponsor a family.

  We wait and wait,

  but Mother says a possible widow,

  three boys, and a pouty girl

  make too huge a family

  by American standards.

  A family of three

  in the tent to our left

  gets sponsored to Georgia;

  the couple to our right

  goes to South Carolina.

  Newcomers leave before us.

  Mother can barely eat,

  while Brother Quang

  picks the skin at his elbows.

  I don’t mind being here.

  My hair is growing

  as I’ve become dark and strong

  from running and swimming.

  Then by chance Mother learns

  sponsors prefer those

  whose applications say “Christians.”

  Just like that

  Mother amends our faith,

  saying all beliefs

  are pretty much the same.

  July to early August

  Alabama

  A man comes

  who owns a store

  that sells cars

  and wants to train

  one young man

  to be a mechanic.

  He keeps holding up

  one finger

  before picking Brother Quang,

  whose studies in engineering

  impress him.

  Mother doesn’t
care

  what the man

  came looking for.

  By the time

  she is done

  staring, blinking,

  wiping away tears,

  all without speaking English,

  our entire family

  has a sponsor

  to Alabama.

  August 7

  Our Cowboy

  Our sponsor

  looks just like

  an American should.

  Tall and pig-bellied,

  black cowboy hat,

  tan cowboy boots,

  cigar smoking,

  teeth shining,

  red in face,

  golden in hair.

  I love him

  immediately

  and imagine him

  to be good-hearted and loud

  and the owner of a horse.

  August 8

  PART III

  Alabama

  Unpack and Repack

  We’re giddy

  when we

  get off the airplane.

  Our cowboy,

  who never takes off

  his tall, tall hat,

  delivers us

  to his huge house,

  where grass

  spreads out so green

  it looks painted.

  Stay until you feel ready.