{This is in response to a prompt from What Pegman Saw, for a 150-word piece, inspired by this section of Google Maps Street view. The street, buzzing with mopeds and scooters, is a flurry of activity.
The picture reminds me of the many refugees, who came to the US from Vietnam in the 1970’s, during and following the Vietnam War. I wondered what life might have been like, for an intelligent teen-aged boy, who was a Vietnamese refugee, in a typical American High School in the South, in those days. I realize that I may be nibbling at the edges of stereotypes, and mean no offense by it. Remember, we are talking about the seventies, here, when people were much less broad-minded about almost everything, and there weren’t as many avenues for success, for people “not from ’round here.” At the time of this poem, Southern schools had recently been racially desegregated by the courts, after much resistance from white communities, and there remains, even to this day, plenty of actual social separation of the races, which filters down into the schools. This was also a period of economic inflation. For non-US-Americans, a 3.9 is a high grade point average (GPA), on a grade scale where the top is 4.0 (all A’s). This is, of course, before the rampant grade inflation of today, in which it is not uncommon, for kids to apply to college with GPA’s approaching 5.0.
Thanks muchly, for the prompt, and many thanks, to those who take the time to come and read!}
I have no cousins in this town,
No one to bridge the white and brown,
Who, though at war since time began,
Enjoy brief truces in this land.
I’m not of one, nor of the other.
No one here would call me brother,
Brought upon the boat, alone,
From Vietnam, my parents’ home.
And here, I earn a three-point-nine.
I work hard, easily outshine
The kids who tease me, in these halls.
(It’s child’s play, when you’re shunned by all.)
Hot pairs make out, against the lockers,
Lined up, glaring, like street hawkers,
Guilting me into a buy.
I brush past, fast, and nearly cry.
Tall Amazons, with sweaters tight,
Inflated smiles: I think I might
Just have a chance, with that one, there.
She giggles: “Can I touch your hair?”
Peninsula of Puberty,
You’ll not release your grip.
But I’ll escape you, too, and soon,
Upon my Scholar-ship.
Copyright 2018 Andrea LeDew
I rarely think of the puberty end of becoming a refugee. BUT! When I was in my senior year at a Catholic High School in Denver, CO, we had two brothers from Thailand. Don’t know why, don’t know how. Who asks these questions at that age ~ in those times.. Handsome boys. One of them fell in love with me and I was so very happy. Not only was he “cute” he was incredibly smart. BOOM! Down flew the nuns. That little step into romance was cut off at the knees. Thanks for the reminder through a well written poem
Those pesky nuns have stymied many a budding romance I bet. Funny!
Dear Andrea,
Very touching and infuriating at the same time. Well done.
Shalom,
Rochelle
Thanks Rochelle. I think what we now call “microaggressions” werent even a blip on the radar screen back then, that is, a student whose differences were fodder for bullying or other signs of disrespect just had to “put up with it. ”
I suspect his success in later life, compared to these kids, who had everything handed to them, will be sweet revenge.
Great couplets here. I was thinking about the book The Sympathizer when I read it.
I haven’t read that. Looks promising from the Amazon blurb. I like the title of the author at the university: Chair of English and Associate Professor of English and American Studies and Ethnicity at the University of Southern California. Sounds like an interesting field of study and a cool mystery suspense novel.
It’s got a great story. I like the author’s style as well
High school is tough enough without going into it so different–in a place and time where differences are shunned. Nicely done.
I’m old enough to remember the history of which you speak! I had a friend and neighbor who left his parents behind for a chance at a better life here. He hopped on a boat with nothing, and crossed the ocean in 1979. I can’t imagine the courage and fortitude to do that, and the desperate circumstance which would prompt one to do so.
He didn’t like to talk about it.
Thanks for sharing about your friend. The fortitude of people who choose, or are forced by circumstance, to leave everything behind and start again is amazing. What they had to go through in the process may well be unspeakable.
Touching poem by a refugee kid. He is speaking his heart.
Thank you Abhijit! I am glad it came across as genuine, not being a refugee myself. It can be very tricky to cross some lines into other people’s and other group’s experience, so I hope I didn’t step on too many toes in the process. ?