Glisten
Pandemic forced us to drive
Twelve hours forever up the five
Through California Oregon Washington
Loaf of rye bread on her lap
and raw ginger in her hand
Chewing, taking naps, closed eyes
Foot on the dashboard taps
The motion makes her sick
Worth it for the snow
White, fluffy, thick
Glistening in her eyes
She told of trying times
A thousand worse than mine
Humanity on the line
Man Overboard
She had once saved a man
On her journey from Vietnam
His name was Quang
His family had given his uncle gold to buy his ticket
But his uncle had shaved some off the top
And so Quang was short and they threw him overboard
Seeing this, she quickly offered all the gold
she had brought for her own journey
to this stranger — compassion kindness
He was grateful to her
so she gave him her heart
‘Til death do they part
Little did they know
It was doomed from the start
Signal
Sickly sucking sour limes
Twenty days at sea
Rocking, rising, roaring
Shaky flooring
Small wooden boat,
like sardines tightly packed
Prisoner of the waves
Stench, suicide, shark
Yet “not all those who wander are lost”
– but some really are lost
out of food, out of water
Sick of the shelter sea
Scout skills: sending signals, sewing flags
T-shirts doused in oil, on top of the boat
Survival flames ignite
She waved them in the night
Telling of their plight
Finally Kilauea spewing
hope and sun
on fateful day
twenty one
“The [road] less traveled by
And that has made all the difference” – Robert Frost
Singapore
Waiting for sponsorship in Singapore
Waiting to move once more
to the land of the free
home of the brave
All her gold she gave away
Still making it day by day
Happy to be alive
Content to survive on four dollars a week
Weekly stipend on which to depend
A pig’s head she ate – dense in fat, high in calories
Dreaming happy memories
When rice was scarce but with her family
New York
Her and her new beau, opportunity in tow
Mind elated as the elevation grew high
Soul touching the sky, stomach laying low
How would their sponsor be?
Rough, scruffy, and tough
Kind, gentle, and meek
Either way, anything goes
As if they had a choice anyway
In life, all is fated — elated
But she would not know that day, the sponsor never showed
Landing JFK, they met a stranger, he helped them find the way
He paid for their hotel where kindness and fortune fell
And now she needed a new voice
And once again her eyes became moist
The Ring
She’ll never forget the ring that he stole from her
To give to another
He said it was the kindness of his heart
But was it just lust?
After all she had done for him
How could he?
It was just as much about the love as it was the pride
At some point they had a child
And they exchanged rings with hurtful smiles
It forever weighs on her heart,
sinking and heavy in the darkness of the sea
like on that 20th day before love came spewing
Wedding Day
I asked “mommy, is this your wedding picture?”
She was wearing a white traditional Vietnamese dress and veil
She said it was her first communion
And I believed her because I also had a first communion, 2nd grade
Where I wore a white dress and a veil
My uncle told me the tale later — and it was her wedding
But out of wedlock, she would not talk
Alone
At first it was just my mommy and me
My mom, I call her mẹ
A heavily pronounced “men” without the “n”
When I was born, my father was not there
I’m sure my mom cried —
happiness, loneliness, all tightly wrapped up in a bundle
He was in San Jose, my mom in Pittsburgh
California, not Pennsylvania
I later found out from reading my birth certificate
I was actually born in Martinez, not Pittsburgh
I took my mom’s last name — Doan,
and as my father was not physically present,
neither was he present on paper — his name is not on my birth certificate
Pretty peculiar for as long as I can remember I’ve gone by my father’s last name — Hoang
In true Vietnamese tradition
But I did not ask, I was a quiet and polite child
and children did not ask about about the past
and with hands folded
I learned that we were also not supposed to ask about the future
even our own
for their future was unclear and mine was set in stone
Not a single mother, but an alone mother
Not knowing new norms nor language
She continued to navigate her way through migration
She strapped me to her back, walked and took the bus all over town
Subsisted on $500 a month of government assistance
Most of which went to shelter, the rest for food
One month she was mugged and ate instant noodles for the remainder of the month
Maybe that’s why I like them so much — the smell bringing back hidden imprints of tough yet happy times
The thief eventually returned her purse to her sans money
Left it at her front door, an ironic act of kindness
She tells this story often and I often wonder what part of it really resonates with her
Twenty-five, still young at heart — even after being driven from her country and having to grow up so fast
She believed America stood for freedom, democracy – a place where books would never burn
She felt lucky to have been rescued by an American ship, given opportunities of the American Dream
In some ways, she is more American than me
Had she known she’d end up in America someday maybe she would have taken English instead of French
But she chose French, cause she is a hopeless romantic
and had the luxury of being one at the time
Floating
Remember when you wrapped me
in a blanket
with a high fever?
Rushed me to the emergency room
They stuck a long needle into my back
The fever subsided, but your pain did not
The pain of not knowing
The pain of not having
your own mother there
to tell you the anecdotal actions
one should take
when one’s child is sick
Remember when you found me?
In the pool
Almost drowning
You say you saw
my short black hair
wispy tufts
Body floating gently
as if in the womb
I was four, you twenty-nine
You saved me
and once again I
owed you my tiny fragile life
And Then There Were Four
I never knew that my mom once had a miscarriage after having me
She mentioned it casually, recently
Maybe that was the son my mom never got and so she kept trying
Mai, Kim, Tam came after – all girls
She likes to say all our names at once when she calls for us as if we were one — trimaikimtam
It just rolls off the tongue — sometimes she calls me by all four names
She tells us regardless of our sex, she loves us just the same
All she cared about is that we grew up healthy and plump
I believe her, but I also know how boys are treated in Vietnamese culture
Especially if you are the only one, rare and coveted
Granted many freedoms and much power
Even so, I would have loved him just the same
Yelling
Vietnamese mothers don’t tell, they yell
They don’t scream, they don’t lecture — they yell
And so she yelled until she could no more
I told her 2 + 2 = 5
She kept insisting four
All for my own good
Never cause of the mood
my father put her in
He kept insisting
we’re all living in sin
Never cause of the money
that was so hard to make
or the prosperity that was so easy to fake
To her family left behind
she had to prove leaving was worth
the time, her being, her soul
the yelling took its toll
it aged her throughout time
and then it all became mine
Context
2+2 = 5 is reference to how my mom used to yell at me all the time when I did not get schoolwork right – especially when I was struggling with math, it is also a radiohead song
Pictures of Me
My mom loves taking pictures
Not for vanity —
she doesn’t wear makeup
isn’t sharing them on Facebook
I went to Vietnam and found
It’s just “the thing” people do
For memories, perhaps for permanence
She brought home a shockingly large pork rind one day
It was as big as a Chihuahua
When we asked, “who’s going to eat all that?”
She responded, “It’s for all of you to take pictures with.”
She made my sister hold the pork rind
and pose in front of the flowers in our front yard
A peculiar site to see, but didn’t really surprise me
— that’s just mom’s idea of fun
One time she made me take her to park
to take a proper picture
for her alter for when she passes
She smiled, tried to look natural
But it was awkward —
awkward for me to take the photos
and awkward of her to ask me to
I thought I don’t want to remember my mother this way
Old, with a forced smile
Awkwardly posed, stiff
I want to remember as if
She were mid-twenties and I were two
In the park, sitting on a green grassy field
Yellow dandelions all around us —
She used to make rings out of them for me
Cool breeze bending everything ever so softly
I was fixated on something, looking down
My Red Riding Hood shawl
Her mid-seventies sweater
Her hair — short, curling inward
I want to remember her
wide beautiful eyes, staring softly
not at the camera — at me
Candidly, naturally, happily
By far my favorite picture of us
Even though I don’t remember
Menopause