Inside Out and Back Again (11 page)

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

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

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

Nh
t Linh?

But then,

who here knows

who he is?

August 27

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

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

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

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

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

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

that flag’s colors.

I put down the tray

and wait

in the hallway.

September 2
11:30 a.m.

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

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

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