Across the Mekong River (16 page)

Through classes and homework, as I washed the dishes and tried to go to sleep, the allure of
a new life dangled before me. My mind filled with improbable fantasies of transformations, schemes to reinvent myself. At fourteen, my optimism knew no bounds. Then, the idea came to me: I would take an American name. I would say goodbye to Nou, the timid, lonely Hmong girl who struggled to survive in Minneapolis.

I searched my favorite books and wrote out lists of names in my notebook, trying them on, listening to the rhythm as I sai
d them out loud. I could be anyone I wanted. No one in California would know the difference.

PAO

The first week of March 1988, we left Minneapolis for Sacramento. Uncle Boua and Chor had finally negotiated a deal to lease thirty acres of farmland, and we needed to arrive in time for the spring planting. The excitement and promise of a new life in California rippled through the family. I saw it in Yer when she sang to little Nao and in the way she laughed at Boa and Tong bouncing up and down on our bed. Nou showered me with questions. Where would we live? Where would she go to school? How big was Sacramento? How far away was the ocean?

We left behind little of consequence, only a
small group of friends from the Hmong community center. Kia regretted leaving her job and friends at work. We sold the old pick up and bought a used van that seated nine. In a rented U-Haul truck we packed all our worldly belongings: two color TVs, a stereo and tape player, Uncle Boua’s shaman tools, two wood tables, eight chairs, a sofa, three armchairs, five mattresses, a crib, two dressers, four boxes of pots and dishes, and ten garbage bags full of towels, blankets, and clothes. Kia, Tou, John, and Adam rode in the truck cab with Shone. I drove everyone else in the van. The younger children sat on laps and straddled two coolers full of food.

I gazed back at our apartment building one last time and pulled the van out into the street. If there were good memories to carry with me, they
seemed too faint to remember. A seedy looking man in a torn jacket darted out from between two parked cars in the middle of the block. I had to throw on the brakes to avoid hitting him. He flipped me the finger. Goodbye Minneapolis.

Shone followed us
down the freeway in the truck. A light veil of snow made the pavement icy and slowed our progress. The drive stretched through the flat, forested landscape of Minnesota and into South Dakota. Nou perched in the seat behind me and traced our progress on the map I had bought at the bookstore downtown, counting off the miles. We pulled off at rest stops to eat the food we had packed and to take short naps. The sun came out the second day as we reached Wyoming. That night we shared two rooms at a Motel 6 outside Jackson, sleeping on the beds and floors.

We had to put chains on the tires through part of Idaho and again as we crossed the Sierras. My hands gripped the wheel, shoulders hunched over, as
the van swerved, the chains clicking and slapping against the icy asphalt. I had never driven in the mountains. The tension gathered in my neck until I had a wrenching headache. When we crossed the border from Nevada into California, we all cheered.

Somehow we made it without an accident or flat tire
or break down. Late Thursday afternoon, we arrived in Sacramento, coming out of the foothills onto the valley floor. The area was larger than I had expected with houses, shopping malls, and gas stations spreading in all directions. A gray drizzle spread from dark, tangled clouds to the glistening pavement. The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm. We were almost there.

I pulled off at the exit and turned down the first street that
ran parallel to the freeway. A group of rental storage sheds and a Budget Hotel lined the right side of the street. A gas station and convenience store sat on the left corner next to a vacant lot overgrown with weeds and garbage. Beyond this an electrical substation sprouted a string of transmission lines that headed off into the distance. Midway down the road we found our new home, the sole residence on the block, a two-story, rectangular structure made of crumbling plaster and concrete painted the color of dead leaves. Lia’s brother had found the apartment building for us. It was a stroke of luck, Chor had said, and the rent very cheap. There were six units, all vacant, so the whole family could live together. Now I could see why the building had been empty. We piled out of the van and were hit by the roar of the freeway rising from behind the building. I wondered how we would ever sleep.

A door on the ground floor
flew open. Chor, Lia, Uncle Boua, and Auntie Khou spilled out. We melted into a mass of hugs and tears, children racing in and out of the circle, tugging at our legs. We met Gia’s new wife Ia and four little ones born since we had left Ban Vinai. We could hardly think of what to say, how to start after the years of separation. Words stuck in my throat with the strength of my emotions. Such joy. After six long years, our entire family was finally together and safe. Free. In California.

We picked our apartments and began unloading the truck, the children creating chaos as they
raced up and down the stairs. Yer got busy scrubbing counters and wiping out cabinets in the kitchen as Auntie Khou unwrapped our box of dishes and pans.

We were clearing out coolers and trash from the van when Nou turned to Uncle Boua.

“Where is the ocean, Uncle?” she asked.

He looked surprised and shrugged. “
It is far from here.”

“But can I take the bus there?
” Nou said, her forehead gathering in a frown.

“
It would take several hours, I believe,” Uncle said.

Her face fell as she let out a long sigh.

I smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. “One day soon, Nou, I will take you to see the ocean.” My intentions were true. Someday. When we had time.

NOU

The first week I watched and waited, observing the pace of my new school, the nuances of crowds that formed at lunch and after school. I recognized three Hmong boys immediately. They eyed me from the far side of the cafeteria where they huddled together on a bench, talking to a white boy with a crew cut and bad acne and a tall, skinny Hispanic kid. Would they give me away? I had no idea if the other Asian kids could recognize my features as distinctly Hmong. What amazed me was the way kids of different races mixed together. As if they didn’t see the differences.

I
n this new life I wanted American friends, to sit with the popular girls at the lunchroom table gossiping and giggling as the boys walked by. I spotted them right away, the chosen group, girls with long golden and auburn hair and pretty faces; girls with names like Emily and Molly who wore pressed jeans and gold hoop earrings. In the bathroom mirror at home, I could imitate them perfectly, smiling nonchalantly, tossing my hair over one shoulder, peeking out provocatively from slightly lowered eyes.

My experiences in Minneapolis had convinced me these girls would never accept someone with a past as troubled and different as mine, from a cu
lture so foreign to their own. I created the story of my new life from the made-for-television movies my family and I had watched as we tried to absorb the American dream. I would use an American name and tell them I was from Minneapolis, my family Chinese-American. I convinced myself these were only half-lies that held elements of truth. After all, our Hmong ancestors had migrated from China to Laos two hundred years ago.

I
needed an entrée, someone hovering on the periphery of the inner circle, welcomed some days and excluded others, depending on the leader’s whim. It must be a girl who needed a friend as well. The redhead from my French and geometry classes sat with the popular crowd for four days, tentatively joining in the banter, laughing too easily at their jokes. On Friday, she arrived to find the table filled. She stood a few minutes, tall and gangly, shifting from one foot to the other, clutching her lunch. One of the girls glanced up with a thin smile and shrugged an unconvincing sorry.

I followed the redhead as she stomped through the noisy room and escaped outside, flopping down on the wooden bench that ran the length of the cafeteria, her endless legs folding like
limp springs. Gray skies threatened rain. I pulled my denim jacket closer against the damp air, took a deep breath, and slipped quietly onto the bench a few feet away.

She pulled an apple from her brown
paper bag and bit down sharply. After a minute, she turned to me with her clear blue eyes. “You’re new.”

My heart skipped a beat. “No.”
How she could know my real name? Then I realized. “I mean yes. I moved from Minneapolis.”

“Oh.”
She tossed her half-eaten apple into the garbage can and searched her sack.

“California’s okay. At least it’s not snowing.”
I tried to sound friendly, but not desperate.

“It’s not exactly sunny.”
She opened a bag of corn chips and stuffed three in her mouth.

“You should try Minneapolis in January.”

I studied her heart-shaped face and tiny nose almost lost under the mass of freckles spreading like dirty rice across her cheeks. The bench burned hard and cold through my cotton pants, sending a shiver down my back. Her ski jacket looked warm.

I searched for someth
ing to say. “You’re in French class.”

“Yeah.”
She ran a hand through the wild tangle of red waves floating around her face and down her shoulders. “Oh my God, I’m completely lost in that class. Can you understand anything Mrs. Green says?”

I smiled
. “Can you believe she wears that stupid beret like she’s French or something?”

She let out a hearty laugh that drew st
ares from two boys walking by. Everything about her seemed untamed and slightly out of proportion. “You know anybody here?”

“Not exactly.”

She scrunched her mouth to one side. “My best friend since second grade moved to Texas this summer. It’s been a really shitty year.” She crushed her lunch bag against the bench and slammed it into the trash can.

“I’ve seen you with friends.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call them friends. The girls here are total bitches, always talking behind your back.”

I flinched.
I never said words like shitty or bitches. “I know. It’s like they think they’re so much better, but they’re really
stupid
.”

She smiled
and held out her bag of chips. “Want one?”

“Thanks.”

“I have to go to my locker.” She stood up, and my heart sank. “Wanna come?”

“Sure.
I’m Laura.” I offered the name with only the slightest hesitation.

YER

Kinder spirits inhabited this new place. They brought good luck. Happier dreams returned. Our second year in Minneapolis, I started to dream of my boys again. But frightening, terrible dreams. I chased them through the forest. They ran ahead, always just out of reach, disappearing into the sounds of gunfire. Other times they were wounded, blood dripping down their bodies. I could not wake from this horror. But here in California, the boys came to me happy and well. We walked together in peaceful fields. I stood straight and strong. Young again.

Sacramento, California.
The words grated harsh on my ears like all English words. I tried to form the sounds. But my tongue and lips could not find the tones. The children giggled at my efforts and slowly repeated the words. It was no use. I would never speak this strange language.

So wonderful was our new apartment
. Even though it creaked and sagged with peeling paint and faded carpet the color of a soldier’s uniform. It did not matter. Our apartment had two bedrooms so the children could be more comfortable. Our six families filled the complex like a small village. I spent every day with my sister-in-law and cousins, sharing the shopping and caring for little ones. A yard behind the building gave the children a safe place to play near where we kept chickens. No Americans lived near us. No one cast disapproving eyes or called us ugly names when we performed ceremonies and offered sacrifices to the other world.

My heart sang at the sight of my children preparing for school each morning, chattering nonsense and bouncing around like the little monkeys tha
t played in the trees of Laos. Fear and worry left their faces, replaced by smiles. Every Saturday morning my daughter Houa, seven years old, babbled on.
When can I go back to school, Mother? I read another book and played jump rope yesterday.
My teacher says I’m smart.

And Nou, my oldest
, finally she could be young. Lightness lifted her step. A blush touched her cheeks. No mother should admit this, but she occupied a special corner of my heart for the suffering and burdens she had endured in her young life. Perfection came naturally to her--obedience and respect for elders, helpfulness with chores and caring for the younger children. What more could a mother ask for? No one would deny her beauty, the fair, smooth skin like the porcelain doll I had once seen on a Chinese trader’s cart, and her delicate nose and chin, which came from my father. Her long black hair streamed down her back like a powerful waterfall. When my eyes gazed upon her, I felt a rush of pride and happiness. But I dared not speak these thoughts out loud and risk making the evil spirits jealous.

Her
world opened wider every day. As we prepared the evening meals, words tumbled out. You should see the school library, Mother. There are more books than you can imagine, and I want to read them all. Mrs. Lincoln, the librarian, is really nice and helped me find a book for my report on Greece. Today at school we had a pep rally. It’s a kind of party to get kids excited about the basketball game. The band played and everyone cheered. It was fun. I have a new friend, Mary.

I
nodded and smiled as she spoke. But what could I answer? I had no knowledge of school and learning. I was not an educated woman. None of this made sense to me--her life at school, the friend she called on the phone each night. I could only say,
yes, Nou, I am glad.
Pao said our children needed school to be successful. But sometimes, a small edge caught in my chest. I did not know where this path would lead her.

The first morning I went to our la
nd, I woke before first light. My heart raced, and my mind filled with all that must be done. I prepared a special soup with bitter melon and onions for breakfast and picked up the house. The younger children had to be dressed for school. Ia and cousin Yer took the babies that day.

Seven of us crowded into the van an
d drove fifteen minutes south. The air was cool, but the sun shone. Kia chatted with Auntie Khou about the big market that was opening at the shopping center across the freeway. Maybe she would try to get a job there. I listened and watched out the window. Hundreds of new houses, some still being built, spread out from the highway. Soon these gave way to open land. We passed over a muddy river that meandered slowly to the west. Ducks with shiny brown feathers swam through the reeds along the banks. Everything was green. Tall grasses dotted with yellow and pink wildflowers. Groves of giant oak trees and cottonwoods. Wisps of early morning fog drifted across the land and curled around trees. A man on a tractor was turning his field into long, even rows.

Shone turn
ed the van onto a narrow road. After five minutes he pulled over. Here was our land, unkempt and abandoned, calling out for care. Beautiful land. Birds sang from the oleander bushes and willows that lined the borders, welcoming us. I walked into the rutted, overgrown field and crouched down, feeling almost shy, as if greeting an old friend I had not seen in many years. I dug my hands deep into the ground, grasping clumps of dirt. The soil crumpled into fine strands and ran through my fingers like silk caressing my skin. The loamy scent of earth and peppery weeds filled my nostrils until I could taste them on the back of my tongue. Tears welled in my eyes. At last, a place where I belonged.

I passed the day hoeing and weeding, pulling rocks and old roots from the dirt, careful not to hurt the squirming brown w
orms that tunneled in the soil. I hummed to myself, enjoying my solitude, relishing the warming sun and the ache in my back that grew each hour. The earth called to my soul and radiated life into my body. The loosened dirt was ready to receive tiny sprouts of squash, spinach, and beans, ready to breathe life into roots, to nourish and support healthy plants that would bear rich harvests. I would water and keep the weeds away. Shoo the bugs off and tie the vines to stakes. And in time I would pick the bounty of our labor. Once more I was useful.