Inside Out and Back Again Read online

  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,