The Language Inside (48 page)

and then in the darkness

behind my closed eyes and amid

the flickering lights and my aphasia

there is playing out in my head . . . 

music

and I see with such clarity

hip-hop moves

and the
soran bushi
dance

and the
tanko bushi
dance

and flowing circles

of people all ages

dancing

raising money

for Tohoku

it’s early afternoon when I rise

in the foggy afterwards

and slowly pad downstairs

sit at the kitchen table

and drink some tea

that YiaYia sets before me

Mom sits down opposite

oh, sweetie
she says

I’m so sorry if my situation

is too much for you

I manage a smile, say

it’s okay

even though I feel

like a train wreck

I feel empty of all that energy

I had before the migraine

during the migraine

I chew the chicken salad sandwich YiaYia makes for me

but it tastes like bland mashed baby food

what I’d love is an
onigiri
with salmon or ume

what I want is a hot bowl of soba noodles

topped with sesame and
kizami
nori

what I want is a cup of green tea, not Lipton

what I want is to go home

suddenly I’m not so sure I can handle

my big dance-club fund-raising idea

I put my head down on my arms

by my plate

on the kitchen table

but then the doorbell rings

it’s Samnang

and I’m in my pajama sweats

plus a fleece top and slippers

and my hair’s all over the place

and YiaYia walks him right

into the kitchen

hey
he says to me

and when YiaYia gestures

he sits down at the table

between me and Mom

and YiaYia pours him

a cup of tea

I want to crawl away

and brush my hair

and clean my teeth

but Samnang doesn’t seem to care

just talks to YiaYia

and my mom

like it’s an everyday occurrence

to drop in

they leave us alone

and I explain about the migraine

and in his eyes

I read concern

Samnang speaks softly

like he knows sound hurts me

says he brought me a book

sets it on the table

the cover has a grim painting

but a subtitle says it’s poetry

of Cambodian refugee experiences

he flips through and says

they’re long

but maybe you can read some of these poems

to Zena

then he has to leave for dance

feel better
he says

I go to the porch with him

and wave when he drives off

and I realize in the surprise of his visit

my head full of the murky afterwards

and refugee poetry

I forgot to mention dance

and then it comes back to me

the whole program

that I saw so clearly in my migraine—

               hip-hop to kick things off

               
soran bushi
by dance club members

               more hip-hop

               another folk dance

               then the audience

               in expanding rings

               of
tanko bushi

               to finish up

but now in real time

post creative migraine burst

the program seems too short

I shower

and while I’m under the hot water

I think about staying the full year

               I can go to Vermont in winter

               I can do Model UN in Boston

               I can work with Zena for longer

               I can create a Dance for Tohoku project

               and maybe learn Cambodian dance

               and at least be friends with Samnang

and I realize I’m starting to feel positive

and even when I think of Madoka, and her family

the guilt that runs through me is diluted

knowing I’m going to help from here

I do homework for the rest of the day

counting the hours till tomorrow

when I can find Samnang at school

to ask him, what if

               a non-Cambodian wanted to learn

               Cambodian dance

right before I go to sleep

I remember the book

and I read one of the long poems

that tells the story of refugees at the border

tricked by Thai soldiers into crossing

back into Cambodia

bullets chasing them

land mines in front of them

and I think of the Japanese proverb

nanakorobi yaoki

seven times fall down, eight times get up