Inside Out and Back Again (13 page)

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

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

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

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

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 Ph
t

Nam Mô Quan Th
Âm 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,

needing amethyst-ring twirls

and her lavender scent.

I’m not as good as Mother

at making do.

Finally she comes in

and turns from me,

her signal for more

time alone.

I lie frozen,

sniffing for

traces of lavender.

Too faint

yet I dare not roll closer.

She sighs,

extends it

into a sniffle.

Where are you?

Should we keep hoping?

She thinks

I am asleep.

More sniffles,

so gentle

I would miss them

by inhaling too deeply.

Come home,

come home and see how

our children have grown.

All my life

I’ve wondered

what it’s like

to know someone

for forever

then
poof

he’s gone.

Another sigh.

It’s more difficult here

than I imagined.

I thought so,

despite her own rule

Mother can’t help

yearning for Father

any more than I can help

tasting ripe papaya

in my sleep.

September 21
Late

Sometimes

the spelling changes

when adding an
s
.

Knife
becomes
knives.

Sometimes

a
c
is used

instead of a
k,

even if

it makes more sense

for
cat
to be spelled
kat.

Sometimes

a
y
is used

instead of an
e,

even if

it makes more sense

for
moldy
to be spelled
molde.

Whoever invented English

should have learned

to spell.

September 30

Our cowboy likes

to bring us gifts.

The breathing catfish

was Mother’s favorite.

I couldn’t watch Vu Lee

kill and clean it,

but it tasted so good.

After getting us dipped at church,

our cowboy brought gifts

even more often.

Vu Lee always asks for beef jerky,

pointing to his muscles.

I prefer really fat grapes.

Today our cowboy brings

chips and chocolate.

My brothers and I

finish the chips

in a flash.

Later Mother

throws away

what’s left of the candy.

After she falls asleep,

I retrieve the bars.

They’ll be better

than hard rolls

for lunch.

October 4

My word for today

is
delicious,

ì lít-sì-ishss.