When You Come From Water

On Saturdays

feet bare on the dusty road, 

my sisters and I would run to the Mekong River. 

Pulsing through the heart of my town, 

straw boats anchored along the river beds, 

many would come to the water's edge, 

its steady flow our life force. 

Some cleaning soiled sheets and plates, 

some awaiting fish to catch their bait. 

We held hands as we would wade 

into the warmth of the sun-soaked stream, 

the water enveloping me in a hug.

When you come from water, 

you feel its abundance, 

its desire to give and its nature to love. 

In the dead of the night

feet quiet on the dusty road, 

my sister and I would run to the Mekong River.

heart pulsing as we snuck across the surveilled town.

A straw boat anchored along the river bed,

many aboard stuffed to the edge. 

We held hands as we would wade 

into the cold of the moonlit stream, 

unable to see what lurked beneath, 

what lurked beyond, what lurked for me. 

For four days and three nights, 

the water kept me off-kilter and unsteady

as I longed for a sense of solid ground 

and dreamed of being home-bound. 

When you come from water, 

you battle the hardships of a rocky boat 

and you do what you need to stay afloat. 

In the Hollywood lights

feet unfamiliar on a foreign road 

surrounded by strangers speaking in tongues, 

my sister and I would begin a new life. 

With nothing but the clothes on our back, 

we had to learn to survive and adapt. 

But when you come from water,

you learn a few things. 

Like water has a way of flowing around boulders

Like water can carry weight 

and continue to flow. 

Like water, I have a way of flowing around boulders.

Like water, I can carry weight and continue to flow.

_____

We stood atop the rocky cliff, a chill breeze nipping at our faces. We watched the cotton candy and lilac of the sky merge with the silver of the ocean. Surrounded by silence except for the lull of soft waves lapsing onto shore and muted calls of seagulls in the distance. 

 "It's different when you're out there," my dad suddenly broke the silence. He looked at my mother and me and continued, "When you're out there, when all you see is endless water, it feels entirely different." 

We were standing just a few feet apart but in that moment, the distance between us was staggering. That view. That majestic view. That view with the power to put me in a state of such peace and serenity. For my parents, that same view cast in shadow by a looming memory. 

They lived through a war that pushed them out of their home, traversed a dangerous journey seeking refuge in a foreign land, and were forced to recreate a new life with minimal knowledge of the language, a few belongings, and no connection to the land. They learned to not talk about it, to put their heads down and keep pushing forward because processing trauma was not a privilege they could afford. 

But their trauma and their stories make up who they are and therefore who I am. And yet, I know close to nothing about it. I wasn't taught the story of my people. I faintly recall one line of a textbook that broached the subject of my parents' immigration. As if it was a blip in American history meant to be ignored. As if the story of the Vietnamese community wasn't important enough to acknowledge, as if the Vietnamese people weren't important, period. 

Spawning from this sense of erasure was a desire to highlight my parents' story. When my friend asked me to join a poetry event for The Chapter House centering around Samoan poet, Terisa Siagatonu's Atlas, this poem of mine was born. Through sharing my mother's initial escape out of Vietnam from Châu Duc to Malaysia (the first trek of her immigration to the US), I discuss the evolution of my parents' relationship to water pre- and post- immigration and the resiliency that came from being a boat person.