The Middle of Everywhere (19 page)

I asked about the future. Walat announced he would be an engineer. Fatima said she would like to be a bride in a beautiful white American dress. Ly said she would be a doctor in Vietnam. Khoa said he would be a criminal, but when nobody laughed, he changed his future career to fireman.

Grace and Walat pulled the shades, turned off the lights, and turned on the video. We got to see a movie of
The Lotus Seed,
which began with a poem.

Nothing that grows in a pond
Surpasses the beauty of a lotus flower,
With its green leaves and silky yellow styles
Amidst milky white petals.
Though mired in mud, its silky yellow styles,
Its milky white petals and green leaves
Do not smell of mud.

—A
NONYMOUS

In the film, women in traditional gowns sell flowers along the Perfume Paver in Hue. But the hero is a young girl who tells the story of the lotus. All of the kids were spellbound, but especially Khoa, Mai, Ly, and Trinh. The lotus seed could survive cold and fire, last a hundred years, and still grow all over the world. The lotus was a good symbol for Ly. She had been through so much, in so much metaphorical mud, and yet, she was emerging clean and beautiful.

Khoa loudly said, "When this movie ends, I will explain everything to you." Mai said, "I come from a town like that one." Twice Khoa shouted out, "I know her." Once Ly said, "That is my friend." For the first time all year, Trinh's eyes were sparkly and her face shone.

I thought how rarely Trinh saw a face like hers on TV, how rarely the hero of any story was a ten-year-old Vietnamese girl. This was too bad since many girls like Ly and Trinh were heroes and deserved to be recognized. Also, it helped all girls to see themselves reflected in that great mirror of life, the television. Being represented signaled the girls that their story mattered. As I watched Trinh become animated, I realized how badly she needed to hear that message.

We need to hear refugee stories; they are more interesting and hopeful than many of the stories we do hear. We Americans watch more movies about space aliens and serial killers than we do about Vietnamese children. But today Trinh blossomed. She spoke for the first time in class. She said, "That little girl looked like me."

As the children left, I handed out "lisi," the special red-and-gold packets with dollar bills. Grace was smiling. I was temporarily cured of my seasonal affective disorder.

February 16, 2000

Before all the kids arrived, Grace talked about Abdul. She was thinking of getting a translator for a meeting with his parents. She wanted to ask how Abdul was at home and if he was different since the family had been bombed crossing the mountains.

As we talked, Abdul arrived wearing a new blue-and-white-checkered shirt. With his creamy skin and big liquid eyes, his appearance was perfect but his psyche had been damaged. The pathology of the world had injured this boy. How different the Gulf War must have looked to Abdul than it had to me.

In fact, all the historical events these kids had experienced seem different to me now. I am much more aware now that many Vietnamese paid a terrible price for being our friends during what they call the American War. The wars in Croatia and Bosnia seem much sadder now that I know children from those countries. Now, every war has a human face. Nothing is abstract and faraway anymore.

Ly raced into die room and handed me a beautiful handmade valentine that said "I love Miss Mary." I almost wept.

This week the spelling words were about feelings. Grace read them out: "Happy," "sad," "mad," "surprised," and "scared." The word "sad" triggered Pavel to bring up the rat's death. Deena said quickly, "We are happy to have a new rat." Fatima said, "I was scared to fly to America."

I asked about anger. Abdul said, "I'm mad at my father for shouting at me." Grace and I exchanged looks. Ignazio said, "I am mad when we don't have enough to eat." Mai said, "I am mad when my father doesn't come home from work."

Grace read a book entitled,
What Would You Do?
The first question was, "What would you do if you went home from school and were locked out?" Khoa joked he would pee in the bushes. Deena said, "I would be scared and sad." Ly said, "I would pray for my mother to return." Pavel said, "I would break in."

This led to another animated round of robbery stories. The kids thought that in America all robbers were African Americans. Grace worked to dispel this myth, but there was a big issue here. Fatima said she had seen blacks stab people on television, and Abdul said his parents were afraid of blacks and wouldn't go out at night for fear black people would rob them. This fear came mostly from watching television and movies where so often African Americans are portrayed as criminals.

Grace explained 911 and also what to do if your parents are not home after school—look for a Neighborhood Watch house sign in a window, go to that house, and call the police. The kids were clearly skeptical. Many came from countries where the police were associated with violence against ordinary people.

We moved back to "sad." Deena felt sad in Bosnia whenever she heard gunfire. Mai said, "I felt sad when my mother died." Grace hugged her and said, "I am glad you told us that." Khoa said, "I would feel sad if a dog barfed on me." Everyone laughed.

Pavel said, "I am sad when kids pick on me." That led to a discussion of bullies and prejudice, which all of the kids had experienced. It was hard to sort out which were usual school bully stories and which were stories of prejudice. These kids, like the African Americans they feared, were sometimes unfairly pegged as having a host of undesirable qualities.

Grace talked about prejudice, about how it came from fear and ignorance and about how it could hurt people's feelings. She asked the class to promise her they wouldn't be prejudiced and hurtful of others. They solemnly nodded.

She said that if the kids were picked on, they should tell a teacher. Abdul made his fists like boxing gloves and said, "I would fight the bullies." All of the boys loudly agreed. Ly said, "I don't think a teacher could help." Silently, I had to agree with Ly.

Khoa said that he had bad dreams after he stayed up watching horror movies with his brothers. I wished his brothers were a little more protective of him. Better role modeling at home could make a big difference. Pavel and Ignazio also had been frightened by "bad movies." The kids interrupted each other with stories of scary things. I thought of Adrienne Rich's line, "That which cannot be spoken becomes unspeakable." Better to speak here where the kids had Grace, myself, and the pets to calm them down afterward.

Grace handed out paper and crayons and asked the kids to draw pictures of bad dreams they'd had. Trinh drew a picture of a car following her home from school. Ignazio drew a picture of big dogs chasing him and wrote, "A dog chased me." Then he said to Grace, "That's me. I have a gun." Grace said, "I hope it's a tranquilizer gun."

Mai drew a house fire with her baby brother and stepmother on the second floor looking out a window and she and her father standing outside. After all his statements about having no fear, Abdul could think of nothing to draw. I reflected on the irony that he'd been bombed and seen his brother freeze to death. Yet, he insisted he had no fear. Walat, who had been quiet during the discussion, drew a picture of airplanes with bombs dropping from their bellies. I wondered if he, like Abdul, had been bombed.

Khoa, the best artist in the class, drew himself in bed with two ghosts and a glittery disco ball above him. He drew himself sleeping with a sword by his side. He said, "I'm not scared. I boogie with the ghosts." Then he danced salaciously for the benefit of us all.

Grace looked through the drawings then said, "Before you go today, I think we should draw a happy picture." All the students spent a few minutes drawing something that made them smile.

March 15, 2000

It was a gorgeous spring morning. The sycamore hadn't yet leafed out, but soon it would. Fatima waved her cast-free arm at me. Ly came over to hug me and she kept hugging me. Khoa asked me to sit by him. Much to my surprise, Trinh smiled at me. She must have had a wild bout of spring fever.

I asked Abdul how he was. He said proudly that he was working on pipes in the boys' bathroom. He said, "I don't have time to come to class. I should be helping Mr. Trvdy."

Grace whispered about the conference with Abdul's mother, who had come with a translator. The mother was pregnant, due in May. Grace told her that Abdul wasn't ready to pass into the next grade. The mother told Grace that in the old country kids were beaten if they didn't learn and she recommended that the school whip Abdul. When Grace explained that we don't do that in America, the mother hadn't been pleased.

When the mother talked about the war, she broke into sobs. When Grace gendy asked if Abdul had experienced any toxic chemicals, his mother beat her breasts and tried to run out of the room. Grace apologized for upsetting her and told her about Abdul's work with the maintenance man. The mother asked if the school was working her son instead of teaching him. As Grace told me this story, she rolled her eyes.

That morning Grace explained about St. Patrick's Day and reminded the kids to wear green. Mai had heard that if they didn't wear green they would be pinched. Deena had heard that boys chased the girls and kissed them. These rumors led to whispers and worried looks. Grace said that she didn't think they' would get pinched or kissed, but to wear green just to be safe. The scared looks reminded me just how vulnerable these kids were. Everything here was new, and until they experienced events, they had no way to know they were safe.

Grace gave the kids the assignment of unscrambling their spelling words. Abdul asked for my help. Even though we spoke very little, I was starting to feel a connection with him. I would be hard-pressed to explain why. It was something about the way he smiled at me, a more connected smile. Together we finished ahead of some of the others.

He lifted his paper high above his head and announced loudly that he was finished. It was the first time all year he had truly completed work early. Grace made him an award that was covered with ribbons and stars and said, "To Abdul, for paying attention in class and doing his work." Abdul held the award up for all to see. In fact, he held his award all morning.

Trinh worked slowly and twice Deena leaned over to help her. Ly wore new glasses today. They made her look more serious; still, when she saw me looking at her, she broke into her usual grin. Neither Ignazio nor Pavel finished their work. Abdul lorded his finished piece over them. Khoa gave up halfway through and poked at Pavel. Pavel almost punched him, but then he just made a joke and looked away. Grace said, "Thank you, Pavel, for using your head not your fists." Fatima, Trinh, and Deena worked together and soon had their papers done perfectly. Abdul bragged to Walat, "I got a hundred on that paper."

Class ended with the kids inviting me to the St. Patrick's Day party. I suspected they wanted a protector in the event they were attacked by kissing or pinching kids.

As the class left, Grace told me sadly that Sycamore had "lost points" because the students didn't score well on standardized tests. Resources would be cut and they'd lose their media specialist and their music and art staff. Grace said that she'd have to teach to the tests which she hated to do, especially with these kids who needed practical knowledge, socialization, and help with trauma.

May 3, 2000

It was a beautiful spring day. Today the sycamore had lime green leaves rustling against its gold-and-white-streaked trunk. As I walked into school, I thought, where has the year gone? How could it have disappeared so quickly?

Class began with our flower ceremony for those we loved who were gone. The kids had brought locally blooming flowers—lilacs, daffodils, tulips, jonquils, and forsythia. Everyone had someone they wanted to remember and Grace asked each child to say what they liked about that person. Then they could put the flowers in a communal vase.

Deena said, "My uncles carried me whenever we went to the market." Mai said, "My mother would be happy I have a Big Sister." Trinh said, "My parents took good care of me." Ignazio said, "My grandmother made great tamales and dulces." Khoa said first, "My grandfathers had lots of girlfriends with big boobies." Grace frowned at him and he changed his story: "My grandfathers worked hard so that we could have rice to eat."

Abdul's eyes were faraway and when it came time for him to put his lilac in the vase he plopped it in without saying anything. He spilled some water from the vase. Grace put her arm on his shoulder and said, "That flower was for your brother. I am sure he was a good boy like you."

Afterward the class was silent. Pavel was reading a book about a steam shovel. Abdul noticed this and bragged to no one in particular that he could drive a steam shovel. Ignazio was wearing an Outback Steakhouse T-shirt. I wondered if he'd actually been there or if this shirt showed up in a Goodwill barrel. Ignazio's English was only marginally better, but only Abdul would be held back in the same classes next year. Even Trinh would move forward, thanks mainly to Deena's tutoring.

To celebrate Cinco de Mayo, Grace read about Mexico. Ignazio interrupted her constantly to say that his family celebrated with a fiesta. When she finished the book, Grace located Mexico for the students on her big wall map. Ignazio described the delicious food—pineapple, ceviche, and enchiladas.

Abdul began pounding on his desk. Walat said loudly, "Excuse me, Abdul," and he stopped.

Grace asked Ignazio to tell about Cinco de Mayo. Before he could begin, Khoa asked in a way that made kissing sound naughty, "Do you kiss your girlfriend on that day?" Ignazio ignored him and said that in Mexico the boys play basketball and light firecrackers. The grown-ups have a dance at night. Khoa shouted, "Do you dance dirty with girls?" Ignazio looked at the floor, embarrassed.

Grace asked Ignazio to teach the kids a few Spanish words. Ignazio wrote the word for "cow" in Spanish, and Grace asked about this word in Vietnamese and Arabic. Everyone was eager to share information about their cultures of origin. They liked knowing things the teacher and the other kids didn't know. As I said good-bye, Ignazio shouted, "
Adios,
Señora Maria."