Inside Out and Back Again (8 page)

Mother firmly

shakes her head.

She looks so sad

as she pats

my hand.

May 2

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

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

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 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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