The Last Surviving Child

by Thuy Rocco

  My favorite holiday was Halloween, not Christmas. I felt like Halloween was a free-for-all and a time where I felt normal. Everyone was in a costume. Everyone was scary, weird, and different. Everyone gave out treats and money for FREE. It was like we were in Candyland and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, a kid’s dream come true.

  We couldn’t afford Halloween costumes, but we had masks from yard sales. I would put my mask on with a hoodie and walk around the neighborhood trick or treating with a pillow case. We loved the haunted houses and would repeatedly return to get more scares. My brothers and I walked everywhere. We were out close to midnight sometimes. Apparently, this was okay in the eighties and nineties. My little brothers and I raked up giant bags of candy and money. One Halloween, a group of teenagers threatened us, so we had to give them all of our candy. My younger brothers and I were too scared to fight back, but not my stepbrother. The four teenagers towered over him, but he still fought. He punched and kicked them. He didn’t win, but I remember he walked back with us and said, “Don’t worry. We will get more candy next time.”

  My stepbrother was about six years older than me. He dropped out of high school to work at a Chinese restaurant, a chicken factory, at the flea market, and at nail shops to support our family. When he saved up enough money to buy a car, he took us siblings everywhere. On my birthday, he took me to a fancy sushi restaurant called Virago in downtown Nashville. At fourteen, I had never seen or eaten sushi before in my life. I tried one of the salmon rolls. I didn’t really like it because I didn’t like fish. My stepbrother told me to dip it into the wasabi sauce and I did. Big mistake. My nose and mouth started burning. I loved Asian chiles, but this was burning my nose off. He laughed at me and told me eventually I’d like it. Sure enough, every year, he would take me to a different sushi restaurant and he was right. Somehow, my taste buds changed, but I still do not like wasabi. He always made me try new things.

  After college, I started working for a computer sales company. It was one of the worst jobs I ever had. I worked a ten-hour shift where they monitored all my breaks and calls. When there was a high call volume, we would get free pizza so we could work through lunch. There was no overtime pay. This corporation did whatever it wanted.

  After a year of working there, I fell into a deep depression. I thought I finished college so I could get a great job and start my adult life. I was still living at home because my mom still had power over me. She didn’t let me move out, even though I could afford to. The stress of it all really made me suicidal. My younger brothers were off to college and I was home with my parents, who argued 24/7.

  My stepbrother found ways to get me out of the house. Even though he never went to college, he had good friends from the local university. He took me to their parties and to the discotheques. Sometimes I would end up being designated driver, but at least I was having fun. My stepbrother always made sure I was safe. He’d warn me about strangers giving me drinks or if I left a cup on the table I was not to drink it. He was always cheering me up, even though he himself was suffering. I could not have gone through those years of depression without him.

  My stepbrother was generous and the best cook. He would share his new clothes with my younger brothers or give them to them. He could cook anything improv and it would taste phenomenal. He used to cook and invite everyone (friend or enemy) to his feast of pho, galbi, and papaya salad. No matter how bad the situation was, he would tell me, “Just forget about it and move on.”

  To this day, he is the only one who never criticizes me or anyone. He told me he forgave my mom a long time ago and that he just wanted to relax and be free. He worked so the rest of us could go to college. He sacrificed a lot.

  I have no blood relationship to him, but I am alive today because of him.

  Knives in the Drawer

  How many times have I looked at the kitchen drawer and thought which knife could I use? Where would I put it so it wouldn’t hurt as much? I look at the butcher knife and see my reflection. I can hear my parents arguing in the background. I feel sick and disgusted as I look at the back door. The old garage is now a living place for the pedophile. When my family moved from the tiny duplex to a bigger house, a white Victorian a few streets away, my mom continued to let that pedophile live with us. Every day, I see him doing perverted things with all of his porn magazines. I have no place to go. I can’t always avoid him and when I can’t, he always says something sexual to me or exposes himself. When he tries to reach out to me, I run and lock the door.

  It would be so easy just to end it all. I look at the butcher knife again. It’s too jagged and big to handle.

  I hear my mom calling my name. “Thuy, don’t forget to call the dentist for your little brothers and read over the insurance documents.” I forgot I had a lot of homework, too. I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. I close the drawer slowly. I am too tired. I also want to go back to school, because we have a mock Olympics in the gym and I am representing Switzerland. I have to build my cardboard bobsled and finish my algebra homework. I have to make it to school tomorrow because I have to represent my country.

  I am twelve, and my greatest obstacle is overcoming myself.

  The Responsible One

  I was always the responsible one. No matter what happened, I carried the weight. Once, my younger brother left the stove on and the curtain caught fire. A whole pot of pho was burning in the kitchen when we came home and my mom glared at me. She yelled at me how irresponsible I was to let him do that. I was a teenager, so I was too old to get spanked, but she gave me hell for weeks.

  Every insurance claim or letter, every legal document about immigration, every doctor appointment, everything that required more than basic English, I was there to interpret and translate. At the age of seven, I learned to read at the 8th grade level.

  Even when I was in college, my mom would call me to get me to set up appointments for the whole family. Even though my siblings spoke English fluently, my mom always made it my responsibility.

  Child’s Play

  If a young child is sexually abused, it’s usually done by someone close to them. I was no exception. My cousin was born the same year and month as me. My siblings and I looked up to him. He had lived in America for a lot longer and he was more well off. He was an only child for a while, so he got the best toys. I was seven or eight when my mom babysat him while my aunt worked. We did everything normal kids would do—ride bikes, jump on couches, play fight club—until we didn’t. Around that time, my cousin must have been exposed to porn or must have seen a sexual situation. He started to play house with me, where I was his wife. He would show me how to French kiss and touch my body. We would pretend to have sex almost every visit. My parents and his parents never checked on us. They were partying, drinking, and having a good time. I thought this was normal kids’ play. I hadn’t learnt anything at school that told me it was not okay. My parents never taught me anything except that I couldn’t be alone with boys, unless it was family. I also could not sleep over at any friend’s house.

  When I turned eleven, I became aware that this play was disgusting, just as I came to hate the in-house pedophile. I started avoiding my cousin. Luckily, that year his older sister came to the United States from Vietnam and I was able to find a new playmate. When I came home from college, I saw my aunt and she told me that she knew what happened—that my cousin had told her everything. That was it. There was no, “Are you okay?” She just wanted to confirm what had happened.

  I never got an apology from my cousin. I never talked to him or his family after that. I am not sure if my mom ever knew, but I know what the response would be: SILENCE.

  Nine Lives

  My mom had this saying in Vietnamese: “Once you face death and survive it, nothing can stop you.”

  1.I should have died in my mother’s womb because she didn’t eat or sleep after losing her whole family. She cried endlessly and threatened Communist soldiers so they would kill her. She wandered around town
, hoping that she would die in a terrible accident. Instead, she gave birth to a preemie. A baby small enough to hold on one palm. A baby who barely survived the incubator. A baby who cried even before her tear ducts were developed. She survived.

  2.I should have died with all the boat refugees. The ones who were shot as traitors, the ones who starved under the blistering sun, the ones who were killed by pirates, the ones taken by the ocean, and the ones who took their own life. Instead, my mom faced the ocean seven times to see my baby steps on the beach of freedom.

  3.I should have died from jaundice, cholera, malaria, and malnutrition in the refugee camp. Instead, my little body fought off all the invaders while holding on to a branch of lychee, waiting for my mom to come home.

  4.I should have fallen of that cliff while fishing. I should have drowned in the lake because I never learned how to swim. Instead, someone saved me by pulling me back to land. I will always be afraid of boats and the ocean, but at thirty, I finally learned to swim.

  5.I should have died in that car collision. It should have been me through that windshield. Instead, it was my mom who took all the pain and suffering.

  6.I should have died from depression. I should have killed myself over and over again, but a gentle soul was always there to make me smile. I could lift myself from my darkness and live another day.

  I still have three lives left.

  I will die one day, but until that day, I will fight for my life every day.

  Small Things

  Through my darkest times, I survived because of small acts of kindness.

  1.My first grade teacher gave me a box of crayons that she probably bought with her own money. They probably cost less than a dollar at the time. I opened the box and saw twelve brand new colors of the rainbow. This was my golden ticket. This was how I became “the same” as the other kids. This golden box shielded me from judgment and mockery. I scored the branded “Crayola” set, the Prada of coloring utensils at the time. In my eyes, they were my salvation. With my pencil, I wrote my name on every single crayon. I wrote my name all over the box repeatedly, so that everyone could see that it was mine. I guarded them viciously, putting them in my pocket while we were at recess or in P.E. I had to leave them in my desk when I went home, so I built a barricade of paper towels and worksheets all around my precious. When people looked into my desk, they would see only junk and trash. That night, I couldn’t sleep because I worried that someone saw through my trash and coveted my beloved crayons. I ran from the bus to the classroom to check my desk. I quickly brushed aside all the paper to see my beacon of hope. I clasped my hands together and thanked the heavens. They were still there, my first box of crayons.

  2.There was a kid in my class who was rich. She had a nice pink Strawberry Shortcake wallet. In that wallet, she had a wad of stickers and several one dollar bills. At lunch time, she used her money to buy brownies and rice crispy treats. I lined up behind her and watched her buy those treats every day. I wanted to try the crispy marshmallow rice treats. They looked so buttery, soft, and sweet. I sat across from Rich Girl and drooled as she opened the plastic wrap. I watched as the rice crispy treat melted into her mouth and disappeared. I bit into my sloppy joe sandwich and imagined the sweetness, only to be saddened by the salty liquid meat on stale bread stuck in my mouth. I thought the next time I made a wish, I would wish for that treat. I looked up, and Rich Girl was staring at me. Oh no, she must think I am strange because I am ogling her food. She opened her mouth and said, “You want to try some?” I shook my head obediently. She held out the rest of her rice crispy treat, a giant 3-by-3 inches of heavenly goodness. I shook my head and said, “Too much.” She smiled and said, “Please eat it. I am full.” I gently put my hands out and she laid the treat in my palms. I bit into my rice square and it was everything I dreamed of: sweet, buttery, chewy, crunchy, soft, all melting in my mouth. I devoured it like a precious cloud of cotton candy. After finishing the last bite, I awkwardly stood up and put my arms around her shoulders and said, “Thank you.” That was my first hug with a stranger— we Vietnamese do not usually hug.

  3.A librarian gave me a book about UFOs. She saw my pattern of reading: science fiction and fantasy. She knew I loved E.T. She told me that in our giant universe the possibility of other life forms do exist. She gave me the book and said that there are some clues in there. I immediately ran to my corner to read. There were crop circles, photos of unexplained lights in the sky, and some information about Area 51. I loved it because I didn’t feel so alien anymore. If there were creatures or beings that come from space, surely they would be so different from me and from humans. That idea fascinated me. I wished I had their technology and intelligence. I imagined how I would welcome them and what I would present to them as a gift of peace and friendship. What could I do? Food is the greatest gift in my culture, so I would try to make something for them. I was still a kid and I could only make instant ramen noodles. They would definitely like it because I liked it. We had special “Mama” Asian ramen. They would love the spicy, salty, and oily taste. For some reason, those thoughts made me feel at ease. I felt it was really important for me to be a good human, a role model, so the aliens would visit me. I would try to be super smart and kind, so if they were watching from space, they would know humans were good. Unfortunately, I never encountered any E.T.s, but I always thought they were watching. The librarian made sure I had all the books I liked.

  4.I went to an inner city middle school. It was the worst performing school in probably the whole county. So when students made honor roll (A’s & B’s) we would get to go skating or ice-skating as a reward. There would be maybe twenty or so out of hundreds of students that got to go. Those who made principal’s list (all A’s) would get to eat dinner with the principal at O’Charleys.

  It was the last six weeks of the grading period and the special few who made principal’s list all year would get the grand prize of riding in a limo! I was one of the four students who did it. Close to the last day of school, three students and I got to go on a field trip. We stood by the bus lane as a long black Cadillac limousine pulled up. It was about fifteen feet long and had three doors. A man in a tuxedo opened the door for us to jump in. Inside were luxurious cushioned seats, and there was a TV and bar with all kinds of sodas. We buckled up and headed to Centennial Park. We rode around until we got to the playground. I rolled out of that Cadillac like a millionaire, grinning ear to ear. All the kids on the playground were in awe. We, the limo kids, were celebrities!

  The rewards I got for being a good student changed my life. I would never have imagined myself in a limousine. I would never have experienced the admiration of being the rich girl. But most of all, it helped my self-esteem. I was smart, I was admired, and I was good at something.

  5.Almost everyone outside my family treated me differently because of my race and socioeconomic status, except for one person: Ms. Sing. My mom did not come to any of my parent-teacher conferences, awards, or school events. Even though my teachers wanted to meet my mom, I told them that she worked all the time. My mom didn’t speak English well, so she told me she wouldn’t understand them anyway.

  I remember one special awards event. I was nominated for the Brotherhood Sisterhood Award and Student of the Year. I won because I donated every dollar I made working at the flea market to the school fundraiser: Toys for Tots. Every week after class, I would wait till all the students left to give money to my teacher, Ms. Robinson. She wrote a wonderful letter to the foundation and nominated me. When I was featured in the newspaper, my mom knew it was important. She was very worried about her English and the crowd, so she asked Ms. Sing about it. Ms. Sing agreed to be my guardian for the awards ceremony. She told me she knew almost everyone who ran the foundation (The National Conference of Christian and Jews). She was a big donor, too. I didn’t really know what that all meant, but I was so happy that she took a whole day off work to escort me to the party. Ms. Sing picked a beautiful dress, coat, and shoes for me. As we w
alked around, she introduced me to all the important people. She told them how smart and beautiful I was, that I had the biggest heart. As a tweenie, this meant the world to me. The person who I thought was so rich, powerful, and kind gave me the biggest honor: She was proud of me. She told me that I’d done something not many young people can do: spread kindness. She told me that from that alone, I would be successful. As giving as she was, she showed me how I could give, and I have never stopped.

  WHEN A BUTTERFLY DIES

  Home is

  outside my bedroom,

  the window of Nashville,

  a barren wilderness of cement

  where entire forests

  once flourished.

  I walk the mountainous streets.

  Its scent of sizzling fried fish heads

  gone with the wind.

  On the weatherbeaten sidewalks,

  the people walk stiffly

  as if they were next to a deep-fry tree.

  And only the shades of trees grow green.

  But life itself stops

  as I look upon a weed.

  At the root

  where a worm dwells

  without its underground friends

  without its fast-food soil

  and subways in the dirt

  once had many stops,