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

 

War and Peace

 

MiSSS SScott

shows the class

photographs

 

of a burned, naked girl

running, crying

down a dirt road

 

of people climbing, screaming,

desperate to get on

the last helicopter

out of Saigon

 

of skeletal refugees,

crammed aboard a

sinking fishing boat,

reaching up to the heavens

for help

 

of mounds of combat boots

abandoned by soldiers

of the losing side.

 

She’s telling the class

where I’m from.

 

She should have shown

something about

papayas and Tt.

 

No one would believe me

but at times

I would choose

wartime in Saigon

over

peacetime in Alabama.

October 29

 

 

Pancake Face

 

Pem is dressed

in a skirt to the floor

like the pioneers

in our textbook.

 

SSsì-Ti-Vân

wears a beard

like President Lincoln.

 

I didn’t know

today is pretend day.

 

Pink Boy keeps asking,

What are you?

 

By the end of school

he yells an answer:

She should be a pancake.

She has a pancake face.

 

It doesn’t make sense

until

it does.

 

I run,

hearing laughter

loud loud loud,

which still echoes when Mother comes home.

 

I can’t keep the day inside anymore.

 

Mother asks,

What’s a pancake?

 

Tears gush

because I can’t

make myself explain

a pancake

is

very

very

flat.

October 31

Halloween

 

 

Mother’s Response

 

Mother strokes my head.

 

Chant, my child,

Breathe in, peaceful mind.

Breathe out, peaceful smile.

 

She strokes my back.

 

Chant, my daughter;

your whispers will bloom

and shelter you

from words

you need not hear.

 

Chant

Nam Mô A Di à Pht

Nam Mô Quan Th m B Tát.

 

She strokes my arm.

 

I chant,

wanting the gentle strokes

to continue forever.

 

I chant,

wanting Mother’s calmness

to sink into me.

October 31

Night

 

 

MiSSSisss WaSShington’s Response

 

I’m quiet

during my lesson

with MiSSSisss WaSShington.

 

For a long time

I stare at the floral wallpaper

and shelves full of books,

then I notice

a framed photograph

of a boy in uniform.

 

I had not known of her son Tom

or of his death as a

twenty-year-old soldier

in the very place

where I was born.

 

I never thought

the name of my country

could sound so sad.

 

I’m afraid to look

at MiSSSisss WaSShington.

You hate me?

 

Child, child.

 

She comes close

and hugs me.

 

Right then I tell her

about the pancake.

 

She hugs me tighter,

then pulls out a book.

 

A book of photographs:

a dragon dance at Tt,

schoolgirls in white áo dàis,

a temple built on a tree trunk.

 

Tom had sent home

these photographs

of a hot, green country

that he loved and hated

just the same.

 

I suck in breath:

a photograph of

a papaya tree

swaying broad,

fanlike leaves

 

in the full sun,

showing off a bundle

of fat orange piglets.

 

Excited, I yell,

u !

I’m stabbing at the image.

Best food.

 

Papaya?

Your favorite food is papaya?

 

By the time I teach her

u

and she teaches me

doo-doo

we’re laughing so hard

we’re hungry for pancakes.

 

She tells me

to take

the book home.

November 3

 

 

Cowboy’s Response

 

Before school

our cowboy shows up.

MiSSSisss WaSShington told him

about the pancake.

 

He whispers to Mother and Brother Quang.

All will escort me to school

with MiSSSisss WaSShington.

 

I do not feel good.

 

In the principal’s office

sit Pink Boy and his mother.

 

It’s very hot in here.

 

Lots of strained voices

holding in anger.

 

Finally all eyes

are on Pink Boy,

who wrestles out, Sorry.

 

I feel like throwing up.

 

Mother rescues him:

We know you’re from a proper family

and did not realize

the damage of your insult.

 

While Brother Quang translates,

Pink Boy’s eyes let me know

he hates me even more.

November 5

 

 

Boo-Da, Boo-Da

 

MiSSS SScott

shows photographs

of the S shape

of Vietnam,

of green mountains and long beaches,

of a statue of the Buddha reclining.

 

She asks me,

Would you like to say anything?

 

I know Buddha.

 

I hear laughter

and a murmur building:

Boo-Da, Boo-Da.

 

MiSSS SScott hushes them.

 

All day I hear whispers:

Boo-Da, Boo-Da.

 

I watch the clock,

listen for the final bell,

and dash.

 

Pink Boy and friends follow,

releasing shouts of

Boo-Da, Boo-Da

as I put one leg

in front of the other

faster

faster

but not fast enough

to not hear them

scream

Boo-Da, Boo-Da.

 

I turn down

the wrong street,

away from the corner

where Brother Khôi would be.

 

I have no choice

but to run.

 

I turn right where purple flowers

curve like baby moons

over butterfly bushes.

 

Footsteps pound

right behind me.

 

Turn left where flowers grow blue.

 

I wish I could control it,

but the plates of flowers

are now blue smears

from my near tears.

 

Boo-Da, Boo-Da

breathes into the back

of my neck.

 

Faster, faster.

My legs try,

but the shouts are upon me.

 

Someone pulls my hair,

forcing me to turn

and see

a black hole in a pink face:

Boo-Da, Boo-Da Girl.

 

My palms cover my eyes.

 

I run.

 

All the while

surging from my gut:

 

fire

sourness

weight

anger

loneliness

confusion

embarrassment

shame.

November 7

 

 

Hate It

 

I don’t make it inside the house,

but sit

under the willow tree,

dig a hole

and into it

scream scream scream

 

I hate everyone!!!!

 

A lion’s paw rips up my throat,

still I scream

 

I hate everyone!!!!

 

Hands grip my shoulders.

 

MiSSSisss WaSShington

is on her knees.

 

Child, child, come with me.

 

I hate everyone!!!!

 

She hoists me up

by my armpits

 

and drags me across

the yard.

 

You poor child,

tell me, tell me.

 

It hurts too much

to keep screaming,

but it feels good

to thrash about

like a captured lizard.

 

Inside her house,

MiSSSisss WaSShington throws

her body on mine.

 

Hush, hush,

hush, hush.

 

She says it over and over

like a chant,

slowly.

Slowly

the screams that never stopped

inside my head

cool to a real whisper.

 

I hate everyone!

 

Even your mama?

 

She crosses her eyes,

puckers her lips.

 

I stop myself from laughing.

 

She pats my hand.

 

That one gesture

dissolves the last

of my hate spell.

November 7

After school

 

 

Brother Quang’s Turn

 

Brother Quang comes home

with happy shouts.

 

He did it,

repairing a car

no one else could.

 

From now on

he’s to work

only on engines.

 

Mother smiles so hard

she cries.

 

I pout.

 

When is it going to be

my turn?

November 12

 

 

Confessions

 

It’s time to tell Mother

why misery

keeps pouncing on me.

 

I used to buy less pork

so I could buy fried dough.

 

I know.

 

You do?

 

What else?

 

I used to like making the girl

who shared my desk cry.

 

She tilts her head.

 

I know, Mother, I know, very bad.

 

She nods.

 

Now they make me cry.

Will I be punished forever?

 

Forever is quite long.

 

There’s more;

it’s really bad.

 

She lifts an eyebrow.

 

At dawn on Tt

I tapped my big toe

to the tile floor

first.

 

She widens her eyes.

 

I hate being told I can’t do something because I’m a girl!

 

She doesn’t scold me,

just nods.

 

Did I ruin the luck

of the whole family?

Is that why we’re here?

 

My child,

how you shoulder the world!

 

I was superstitious,

that’s all.

If anything,

you gave us luck

because we got out

and we’re here.

 

Lucky

to be here?

 

Just wait,

you’ll see.

 

I don’t want to wait.

It’s awful now.

 

Is it really so unbearable?

 

They chase me.

They yell “Boo-Da, Boo-Da” at me.

They pull my arm hair.

They call me Pancake Face.

They clap at me in class.

And you want me to wait?

Can I hit them?

 

Oh, my daughter,

at times you have to fight,

but preferably

not with your fists.

November 14

 

 

NOW!

 

Brother Quang takes us

to the grocery store.

Mother buys everything

to make egg rolls

for a coming holiday

when Americans eat a turkey

the size of a baby.

 

She has me ask the butcher,

Please grind our pork.

 

I’m sure I said it right,

but the butcher

sharpens his face,

slams down our meat,

and motions us away.

 

Mother wrinkles her brows,

thinking, pausing,

then rings the buzzer again.

 

Please, she says.

It comes out, Peezzz.

 

The butcher turns away

without a word.

 

Mother presses the buzzer

for a long time.

 

When the butcher returns,

he hears a lot of Vietnamese

in a voice stern and steady,

from eyes even more so.

 

Mother ends with a clear, NOW!

 

The butcher stares

then takes our meat

to the grinder.

November 22

 

 

u Face

 

Again they’re yelling,

Boo-Da, Boo-Da,

but I know to run

toward Brother Khôi

two corners away.

 

Enough time

for them to repeat

hundreds of Boo-Das.

 

Enough time

for me to turn and yell,

Gee-sus, Gee-sus.

 

I love how they stop,

mouths open.

 

My heart lifting,

I run and shout,

Bully!

Coward!

Pink Snot Face!

 

Words I learned from them

on the playground.

 

I turn to see

Pink Boy coming

close to me.

 

No longer pink,

he’s red,

blood-orange red

like a ripe papaya.

 

u Face!

 

It’s not my fault

if his friends hear

Doo-doo Face

and are laughing

right at him.

 

Brother Khôi is waiting.

I jump on.

December 4

 

 

Rumor

 

Friday

 

SSsì-Ti-Vân heard it from Pem

who heard it from the honey-hair girl

who heard it from the dot-on-face girl

who heard it from the white-hair boy

who heard it from all three girls in braids

 

that

 

Pink Boy

 

has gotten his sixth-grade cousin,

a girl two heads taller than the tallest of us,

with arm muscles that run up and down like mice,

 

to agree

 

to beat me up

 

when we come back

 

Monday.

December 5

 

 

A Plan

 

I don’t have to tell Brother Khôi,

who heard in the halls

of his school

that my face

is to be flattened

flatter

tomorrow.

 

You don’t have a flat face,

he says.

Besides, I have a plan.

December 7

 

 

Run

 

Five minutes

till the last bell

I lean toward the door,

legs bouncing,

books left on the floor.

 

Rrriiinnggg

 

I run,

Pem and SSsì-Ti-Vân

close behind.

 

Outside

Pem and I exchange

coats with hoods.

 

Pem heads down

my usual path.

I zip to the left.

 

SSsì-Ti-Vân

stays to block the door.

 

Running so fast,

I fly above the sidewalk.

 

Alone.

 

They must all be with Pem.

 

I stop at the new corner

where Brother Khôi said to wait.

 

Where is he?

 

Footsteps explode

from the street

that smacks into mine.

 

Pink Boy!

December 8

3:36 p.m.

 

 

A Shift

 

Pink Boy plows

toward me.

 

I squat in ng tn,

facing him.

 

His right arm extends

in a fist.

 

When he’s close enough

for me to see

the white arm hair,

I shift my upper body

to the left,

legs sturdy,

eyes on the blur

that flies past me.

 

A thud.

 

Pink Boy writhes on the pavement.

 

I thought I would love

seeing him in pain.

 

But

he looks

more defeated than weak,

more helpless than scared,

liked a caged puppy.

 

He’s getting up.

 

If I were to kick him,

it must be

now.

December 8

3:38 p.m.

 

 

WOW!

 

A roar.

 

Pink Boy and I

turn.

 

A gigantic motorcycle.

 

The rider in all black

stops.

 

The helmet comes off.

 

VU LEE!

 

WOW!

 

Pink Boy disappears.

 

Brother Khôi runs up,

out of breath,

pushing a bicycle

with a flat.

 

Vu Lee flicks his head.

 

I climb on first,

wrap my arms around a waist

tight as rope.

Brother Khôi climbs on next,

one hand holding

the handlebar of his bike.

 

We fly home.

December 8

3:43 p.m.

 

 

The Vu Lee Effect

 

Vu Lee

now picks me up

after school.

 

So

someone is always

saving lunch seats

for me, Pem, and SSsì-Ti-Vân;

 

someone is always

inviting us

to a party;

 

someone is always

hoping Vu Lee

will offer her a ride,

as he did the huge cousin,

who now not only smiles

but waves at us.

 

Pink Boy

avoids us,

and we’re glad.

December 16

 

 

Early Christmas

 

Mother invites our cowboy

and MiSSSisss WaSShington

for egg rolls.

 

They brought gifts,

not saying

Early Christmas,

not wanting

to embarrass us

for not having anything

to exchange.

 

From our cowboy

to Mother: two just-caught catfish

to Brother Quang: tuition for night college

to Vu Lee: jerky in ten flavors

to Brother Khôi: two fighting fish in separate jars

to me: a new coat

 

We laugh and say,

Perfect!

 

From MiSSSisss WaSShington

to Mother: a gong and jasmine incense

to Brother Quang: an engineering textbook

 

to Vu Lee: jerky in ten flavors

to Brother Khôi: a hamster

to me: three packages of something orange and dried

 

My family claps and says,

Perfect!

 

I frown.

December 20

 

 

Not the Same

 

Three pouches of

dried papaya

 

Chewy

Sugary

Waxy

Sticky

 

Not the same

at all.

 

So mad,

I throw all in the trash.

December 20

Night

 

 

But Not Bad

 

Mother slaps my hand.

Learn to compromise.

 

I refuse to retrieve the pouches,

pout

go to bed,

stare at the photograph of a real papaya tree,

wonder if I’ll ever taste sweet, tender, orange flesh

again.

 

GOOONNNNGGGGG

rings out;

how soothing a real gong sounds.

 

Swirls of incense

reach me,

hovering like a blanket,

tugging me in.

 

I wake up at faint light,

guilt heavy on my chest.

 

I head toward the trash can.

 

Yet

on the dining table

on a plate

sit strips of papaya

gooey and damp,

having been soaked in hot water.

 

The sugar has melted off

leaving

plump

moist

chewy

bites.

 

Hummm…

 

Not the same,

but not bad

at all.

December 20–21