Inside Out and Back Again (7 page)

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 S
n 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

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

Uncle S
n visits

and whispers to Mother.

We follow Mother

who follows Uncle S
n

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 S
n 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

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 V
ng T
u,

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

At Sea

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 S
n

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

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.