Writing
I watched her struggle
writing her name
always trying to perfect
m
But she scribbles it with four humps
I told her
"ma’ it is two like a camel"
but she gave up
I remember being in the third grade
and after homework was all done
I didn’t go out to play.
My father had me teach my mother
what I learned in school that day.
But she gave up on that too.
I remember my sick days
being spent at the dr.’s office
or the DMV trying to translate
big words into a language my mother will understand
I am sorry my vocabulary wasn’t big enough for you then.
It wasn’t until my freshman year in high school
I began to question
why my mother wasn’t “smart”
I am sure she was,
but according to this land
education is measured by degrees
She was smart enough to hide
when everyone ran
from the Khmer Gahom
She was smart enough
to flee a land where
people were killing those
who spoke the same tongue.
She told me
she is afraid to be called smart.
Those are the people they kill.
No one kept this story written
all mouths were closed.
Because those who spoke,
were killed too.
They were killing people
who spoke the same tongue
who wrote their own names
who breathed the same Cambodian air.
They were killing each other
and she watched them struggle.