Inside Out and Back Again Read online

  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