Home of the Brave
Page 7
She hands me a shiny little heart.
Perfect.
We stand in a long line.
When I give the lady my money
for the dishes and the heart,
my own heart grows so big with pride
I fear it might pop open
like a ripe seedpod.
I earned this money, I tell her.
I take care of a cow.
It’s a fine job.
The lady smiles politely.
If you say so, hon.
Again I’m learning
that America people
don’t understand the wonder of a cow.
Maybe if they had more cows
on the TV machine,
people would begin to feel
as Ganwar and I do.
You can have your dogs and cats,
your gerbils and hamsters
and sleek sparkling fish.
But you will have lived
just half a life
if you never love a cow.
WHITE GIRL
In front of our apartment,
I give the shiny heart to Hannah.
Happy birthday and Happy Valentine’s Day, I say,
to my good friend, Hannah.
Three boys walk past
just as Hannah slips the silver heart
into the pocket of her coat.
They glare at us with eyes that shoot poison.
Leave the white girl alone, one yells.
Hands off, boy.
Just ignore them, Hannah whispers.
She pulls me inside
and slams the door shut.
A moment later,
she opens it a crack
and peers out.
They’re gone, she says.
I shake my head. I don’t understand, I say.
Me neither, Hannah says.
Me, neither.
You shouldn’t have pulled me inside, I mutter.
They’re jerks. Hannah yanks off her mittens.
I didn’t want you to get hurt.
I am a man, I say, standing tall.
Sure you are, Hannah says.
I just … you know,
didn’t see the point
in a fight.
Why does it matter?
I can’t explain.
Suddenly I feel tired of using words
that don’t belong to me.
Never mind, I say.
I trudge up the stairs.
My aunt is surprised to see
the box from me.
A present, she keeps saying,
a present for me?
She opens the dishes
and hugs me hard.
You are such a fine boy, Kek, she says.
I feel happy about the dishes
and bad about the angry boys.
It’s hard to feel two things at once
so I try not to feel anything.
I sit next to Ganwar on the sofa.
Together we watch the TV machine
tell its happy, easy stories.
SCARS
Every weekend and other days sometimes
Ganwar and I go to Lou’s.
It feels good to go
somewhere simple,
to work and sing
and eat cookies with chocolate.
Ganwar doesn’t say so,
but I think he is calmer
on these days.
Sometimes he even
whistles a radio song,
or tells me jokes in English
that I don’t understand.
Always, though, I laugh
to make him happy.
One afternoon Ganwar and I
rebuild a gate that’s rotted away
at the edge of the field.
It’s long work
and we sweat under our thick coats.
The sun is still weary and weak,
like a traveler too long on the road.
But each day it’s trying harder
to warm the world.
Ganwar wipes away sweat with his arm.
The six lines
etched in his forehead
glisten.
I will never have the gaar, I say suddenly.
My words surprise me.
It’s an idea I’ve never let myself
think about until now.
The initiation ceremony is
part of another place—
a place I may never return to.
You’re lucky, Ganwar says.
Why would you want such scars?
Here they mean nothing.
There they meant everything, I say.
I lean on the fence.
How will I know when I’m a man?
Ganwar keeps hammering.
When you own a fine car
and a house with many bathrooms,
then you’re a man in this country,
he answers with a smile.
It isn’t so funny, I say.
You’ve been tested, and I haven’t.
You were brave.
I look away. I don’t want him to see
my eyes and what lies hidden there.
Me, I haven’t been.
Sure you have, Ganwar replies.
You were in the camp alone,
you came here alone.
That’s plenty brave.
It doesn’t take a knife in the hand
of a village elder for you to prove
yourself.
I pick up my hammer
and slam it hard against a
rusty nail sticking out of the wood.
That’s easy for you to say.
After that, I won’t talk anymore.
But I hammer many nails
as hard as I can.
Even with my gloves on,
I have a good, hurting blister
to show for it.
BAD NEWS
More weeks pass. Something strange
is happening to the world.
I hear birdsong now, where only
silence filled the air before.
Tiny green hints
dot the trees and bushes.
The snow is getting smaller and grayer,
like an old person whose time is past.
Dave says it’s called spring.
One morning, Lou calls
us to come into her kitchen.
A plate of warm chocolate cookies
waits for us.
I’m happy about this,
until I see Lou’s ankle,
covered by a thick white bandage.
Sprained the dang thing last night, she says.
Slipped in the barn.
Do you have many pains? I ask.
Nah. She waves away the question
like a troublesome insect.
But it’s gotten me to thinking, boys.
Even with your help, I just can’t keep
this place running anymore.
Wish it weren’t that way.
I’ve been here a long, long time.
It’s time to sell and move on.
Ganwar nods. He doesn’t look surprised.
It’s OK, Lou.
We knew it probably wouldn’t last.
I stare out the window.
Where will you go, I ask in a whisper,
when the farm is sold?
Lou lifts her shoulders. I’m not sure.
This has been my home so long,
I don’t know anywhere else.
I have a sister in Los Angeles.
She makes a face.
Not sure I could stand all that nice weather.
What would I complain about?
We can stay on
as long as you need us, Ganwar says.
He doesn’t sound mad at all.
He sounds like he is used to being disappointed.
But what about Gol? I ask.
My voice has a crack in it.
&nbs
p; Lou looks out the window, too.
I don’t know, Kek.
They’re going to build a strip mall.
Won’t be needing a cow, I’m guessing.
She sighs.
Gol is a very old, tired animal.
I don’t think we’ll probably be able
to find anyone who wants her.
I’m sorry, hon.
I leap to my feet.
My chair falls back with a loud thud.
I hate it here! I scream.
I want to go home!
I run out the door and across the field
toward the bus stop.
I’m glad that Lou can’t follow me
with her sore foot.
I’m sorry that I’m glad.
And I’m mad that Ganwar isn’t mad enough.
NO MORE
I stop working at Lou’s.
Ganwar keeps going to the farm.
But he doesn’t say anything to me about it.
When he comes home with hay and mud
stuck to the bottom of his running shoes,
I leave the room.
Lou calls for me on my aunt’s telephone
to see if I will change my mind,
but I won’t talk to her.
She tells my aunt I’m a hard worker.
She says she and Gol miss my smile.
One morning Mr. Franklin says,
Hey, Cowboy,
and I almost start to cry.
I say, Please don’t call me that
anymore.
I am just Kek now.
But I don’t tell him why.
Hannah says I am
cutting off my nose to spite my face.
I don’t know what this means,
so she explains:
It means you are being a stubborn
moron boy.
She looks a little sad when she says this,
so I don’t get mad at her.
Why don’t you at least keep going
for a while? she asks.
It could be months before she leaves.
Because at the end I know
Lou and Gol and the farm
will be gone forever, I say.
Can’t you understand this feeling?
Hannah chews on her lip.
Yeah, I guess I can, she says at last.
I wonder if maybe she is
thinking about her mother
who is not a foster.
But I don’t ask.
LAST DAY
The days warm and the world
begins again.
I think of Gol nosing the ground,
grateful to find tender grass
appearing at her feet.
After spring, Ganwar says,
comes the time called summer
and no school
and sun strong
as a young man.
He says Lou may not leave until summer ends.
But I close my ears to his words.
The last day of school
Ms. Hernandez and Mr. Franklin
put our desks into a circle.
Ms. Hernandez stands in the middle.
Here comes a speech, she says.
We all groan.
That noise is the same in all languages.
She laughs.
I promise it’ll be a very short speech.
I just want you to know
that I’m very proud of all of you.
You have learned much and
come far this year.
She makes a funny sound in her throat,
but I do not think she has a cold.
Like so many immigrants before you,
I know you’ll help make this country
a better, stronger place.
She wipes her eyes. OK.
Speech over.
Mr. Franklin brings over a big box
and places it on a desk.
Inside is a cake,
an amazing long cake.
I wonder if maybe it’s the
biggest cake in the world.
Ta-da! he says.
In the middle of the cake
is a green lady with her arm
in the air.
She’s holding
a green candle.
Anybody recognize this ol’ gal?
Mr. Franklin asks.
The Statue of Liberty!
everyone yells at once.
Why is she falling over?
Jaime asks.
Hey, I’m a teacher, not a baker,
says Mr. Franklin.
Maybe she’s tired,
Ms. Hernandez suggests.
She has a big job, after all.
Why does she have a dog? Pedro asks.
Mr. Franklin sighs loudly.
That isn’t a dog.
It’s a cow.
It’s supposed to be Gol.
He shrugs. I thought it would
be a nice touch.
I look away.
I still haven’t told anyone at school
that Gol will soon be gone.
There are words all over the cake
in green letters. Many words in squiggles.
Before we eat,
Ms. Hernandez says,
we read.
Everyone groans again,
but she holds a finger to her lips
and you know that means business.
Mr. Franklin lights the candle,
and Ms. Hernandez
makes her voice extra soft
so that we will pay attention.
That is a trick teachers like to use.
These are important words, she says.
They mean that
this is your country,
now and forever:
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
The candle glows
in the green lady’s hand,
and I don’t understand all the words,
but somehow I know
they’re strong and fine.
I wonder if someday it will feel
like they are meant for me, too.
And then we eat the cake.
All of it.
Except Gol.
SUMMER
I would not be truthful
if I said that winter
is my favorite time.
Winter is wet and heavy work.
True, I learned to make snowballs
like perfect moons
and to catch a snowflake
on my tongue.
But I grew weary of looking
for missing gloves.
After such a winter,
summer comes like a present with a bow.
Summer is ice cream and skateboards
and sweet grass under your
free toes.
And just as Dave promised,
the not-dead trees had been teasing me.
Their leaves stop hiding
and over my head they weave
a cool roof of green.
Ganwar says that the farm will
have its new owner at the end of summer.
Lou can stay till fall,
and then they will tear down the buildings.
Lou is sad, he says.
She misses me.
I say he can tell Lou and Gol
that I miss them.
But I will not be coming back.
Hannah tries to take my mind off the farm.
She knows all the secret summer things.
We take the bus to a swimming hole
shaped like a giant brick.
It’s filled with blue water and
laughing children.
First hot sun is on your skin,
then you jump in!
For a while,
you are a fish
in a warm, pretending lake.
She takes me to the library, too,
like the one at school,
only with enough books
for the whole world to read.
They give me a card with my name on it,
and let me look at book after book.
The library workers don’t even know me,
and yet they promise I can take books home.
To be trusted with such precious gifts
is a great honor.
My father would have sung me
a song of pride
to see his son so trusted.
Hannah helps me find books
with pictures of Africa.
They don’t seem real, these flat colors
smooth to my fingers. They make me
happy but also sad.
I see a picture of a woman,
tall with strong arms and sunny eyes,
and for a moment,
a crazy moment,
I think it might be my mother.
She’s like her,
I say to Hannah.
But not.
She’s very beautiful, Hannah says.
I’m starting to not remember,
I whisper. Sometimes I can’t
see her face in my mind.
Only when I’m asleep now
is she real.
I know, Hannah says.
It’s the same for me, too.
The words steal her smile away,
like clouds over sun.
On the library table is paper
in little pieces in a box,
and a cup filled with short yellow pencils.
I give a pencil to Hannah.
You can still send a letter to her, I say.
I wait. She doesn’t speak.
I say, You can, but
I cannot.
Hannah lets air out slowly
from her mouth.
She looks at me with her
leave-me-alone face.
But she takes the pencil.
It’s a very small paper, I say.
It can be a very short letter.
She chews on the pencil.
She twirls hair around her finger.
She makes another face at me.
But when she starts to write,
she can’t stop.
She fills paper after paper
with words.
At last she’s done.
There, she says.
Happy?
I smile. Yes.
Now we’ll go mail it.
Fine. She makes another
sighing noise.
And then I’ll whip your butt
at basketball.
I don’t mind that so much.
She’s mad, but it’s a
good kind of mad.
Besides, she always
beats me at basketball.
MORE BAD NEWS
One hot day, Dave comes by to see how we are doing.
Hannah and I are in the parking lot.
She’s teaching me how to skateboard.