Inside Out & Back Again
— written by Thanhhà Lai and narrated by Doan Ly —

 

Twisting Twisting

 

Mother measures

rice grains

left in the bin.

Not enough to last

till payday

at the end of the month.

 

Her brows

twist like laundry

being wrung dry.

 

Yam and manioc

taste lovely

blended with rice,

she says, and smiles,

as if I don’t know

how the poor

fill their children’s bellies.

April 13

 

 

Closed Too Soon

 

A siren screams

over Miss Xinh’s voice

in the middle of a lesson

on smiley and bald

President Ford.

 

We all know it’s bad news.

 

School’s now closed;

everyone must go home

a month too soon.

 

I’m mad and pinch the girl

who shares my desk.

Tram is half my size,

so skinny and nervous.

 

Our mothers are friends.

She will tell on me.

She always tells on me.

 

Mother will again

scold me to be gentle.

 

I need time

to finish this riddle:

A man usually rides his bike

9 kilometers per hour,

yet the wind slows him

to 6.76 kilometers

for 26 minutes

and 5.55 kilometers

for 10;

how long until he gets home

11.54 kilometers away?

 

The first to solve it

gets the sweet potato plant

sprouting at the window.

I want to plant it

beside my papaya tree,

where vines can climb

and shade ripening fruit.

 

Again I pinch Tram,

knowing the plant

will be awarded

today

to the teacher’s pet,

 

who is always

skinny and nervous

and never me.

April 14

 

 

Promises

 

Five papayas

the sizes of

my head,

a knee,

two elbows,

and a thumb

cling to the trunk.

 

Still green

but promising.

April 15

 

 

Bridge to the Sea

 

Uncle Sn,

Father’s best friend,

visits us.

 

He’s short, dark, and smiley,

not tall, thin, and serious

like Father in photographs.

Still, when classmates

ask about my father,

sometimes short and smiley

come to mind

before I can stop it.

 

Uncle Sn goes straight

to the kitchen,

where the back door opens into

an alley.

Unbelievable luck!

This door bypasses the navy checkpoint

and leads straight to the port.

 

I will not risk

fleeing with my children

on a rickety boat.

 

Would a navy ship

meet your approval?

 

As if the navy

would abandon its country?

 

There won’t be a South Vietnam

left to abandon.

 

You really believe

we can leave?

 

When the time comes,

this house

is our bridge

to the sea.

April 16

 

 

Should We?

 

Mother calls a family meeting.

 

Ông Xuân has sold

leaves of gold

to buy twelve airplane tickets.

 

Bà Nam has a van

ready to load

twenty-five relatives

toward the coast.

 

Mother asks us,

Should we leave our home?

 

Brother Quang says,

How can we scramble away

like rats,

without honor, without dignity,

when everyone must help

rebuild the country?

 

Brother Khôi says,

What if Father comes home

and finds his family gone?

 

Brother V says,

Yes, we must go.

 

Everyone knows he dreams

of touching the same ground

where Bruce Lee walked.

 

Mother twists her brows.

I’ve lived in the North.

At first, not much will happen,

then suddenly Quang

will be asked to leave college.

Hà will come home

chanting the slogans

of H Chí Minh,

and Khôi will be rewarded

for reporting to his teacher

everything we say in the house.

 

Her brows twist

so much

we hush.

April 17

 

 

Sssshhhhhhh

 

Brother Khôi shakes me

before dawn.

 

I follow him

to the back garden.

In his palm chirps

a downy yellow fuzz,

just hatched.

 

He presses his palm

against my squeal.

 

No matter what Mother decides,

we are not to leave.

I must protect my chick

and you your papayas.

 

He holds out his pinky

and stares

stares

stares

until I extend mine

and we hook.

April 18

 

 

Quiet Decision

 

Dinnertime

I help Mother

peel sweet potatoes

to stretch the rice.

 

I start to chop off

a potato’s end

as wide as

a thumbnail,

then decide

to slice off

only a sliver.

 

I am proud

of my ability

to save

until I see

tears

in Mother’s

deep eyes.

 

You deserve to grow up

where you don’t worry about

saving half a bite

of sweet potato.

April 19

 

 

Early Monsoon

 

We pretend

the monsoon

has come early.

 

In the distance

bombs

explode like thunder,

slashes

lighten the sky,

gunfire

falls like rain.

 

Distant

yet within ears,

within eyes.

 

Not that far away

after all.

April 20

 

 

The President Resigns

 

On TV President Thiu

looks sad and yellow;

what has happened to his tan?

 

His eyes brim with tears;

this time they look real.

I can no longer be your president

but I will never leave my people

or our country.

 

Mother lifts one brow,

what she does

when she thinks

I’m lying.

April 21

 

 

Watch Over Us

 

Uncle Sn returns

and tells us

to be ready to leave

any day.

 

Don’t tell anyone,

or all of Saigon

will storm the port.

Only navy families

can board the ships.

 

Uncle Sn and Father

graduated in the same navy class.

It was mere luck

that Uncle Sn

didn’t go on the mission

where Father was captured.

 

Mother pulls me close

and pats my head.

Father watches over us

even if he’s not here.

 

Mother tells me

she and Father have a pact.

 

If war should separate them,

they know to find each other

through Father’s ancestral home

in the North.

April 24

 

 

Crisscrossed Packs

 

Pedal, pedal

Mother’s feet

push the sewing machine.

The faster she pedals

the faster stitches appear

on heavy brown cloth.

 

Two rectangles

make a pack.

A long strip

makes a handle

to be strapped across

the wearer’s chest.

 

Hours later

the stitches appear

in slow motion,

the needle a worm

laying tiny eggs

that sink into brown cloth.

The tired worm

reproduces much more slowly

at the end of the day

than at the beginning

when Mother started

 

the first of five bags.

 

Brother Khôi says too loudly,

Make only three.

 

Mother goes

to a high shelf,

bringing back Father’s portrait.

 

Come with us

or we’ll all stay.

Think, my son;

your action will determine

our future.

 

Mother knows this son

cannot stand to hurt

anyone,

anything.

 

Look at Father.

Come with us

so Father

will be proud

you obeyed your mother

while he’s not here.

 

I look at my toes,

feeling Brother Khôi’s eyes

burn into my scalp.

 

I also feel him slowly nodding.

 

Who can go against

a mother

who has become gaunt like bark

from raising four children alone?

April 26

 

 

Choice

 

Into each pack:

one pair of pants,

one pair of shorts,

three pairs of underwear,

two shirts,

sandals,

toothbrush and paste,

soap,

ten palms of rice grains,

three clumps of cooked rice,

one choice.

 

I choose my doll,

once lent to a neighbor

who left it outside,

where mice bit

her left cheek

and right thumb.

 

I love her more

for her scars.

 

I dress her

in a red and white dress

with matching hat and booties

that Mother knitted.

April 27

 

 

Left Behind

 

Ten gold-rimmed glasses

Father brought back from America

where he trained before I was born.

 

Brother Quang’s

report cards,

each ranking him first in class,

beginning in kindergarten.

 

Vines of bougainvillea

fully in bloom,

burgundy and white

like the colors

of our house.

 

Vines of jasmine

in front of every window

that remind Mother

of the North.

 

A cowboy leather belt

Brother V sewed

on Mother’s machine

 

and broke her needle.

That was when

he adored

Johnny Cash

more than

Bruce Lee.

 

A row of glass jars

Brother Khôi used

to raise fighting fish.

 

Two hooks

and the hammock

where I nap.

 

Photographs:

every Tt at the zoo,

Father in his youth,

Mother in her youth,

baby pictures,

where you can’t tell whose bottom

is exposed for all the world to see.

 

Mother chooses ten

and burns the rest.

 

We cannot leave

evidence of Father’s life

that might hurt him.

April 27

Evening

 

 

Wet and Crying

 

My biggest papaya

is light yellow,

still flecked with green.

 

Brother V wants

to cut it down,

saying it’s better than

letting the Communists have it.

 

Mother says yellow papaya

tastes lovely

dipped in chili salt.

You children should eat

fresh fruit

while you can.

 

Brother V chops;

the head falls;

a silver blade slices.

 

Black seeds spill

like clusters of eyes,

wet and crying.

April 28

 

 

Sour Backs

 

At the port

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 Sn 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

 

 

One Mat Each

 

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

 

 

In the Dark

 

Uncle Sn visits

and whispers to Mother.

 

We follow Mother

who follows Uncle Sn

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 Sn 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

 

 

Saigon Is Gone

 

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 Vng Tu,

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