On the night of June 20, 1981, we arrive at the airport in the Philippines. The trip here from Thailand seemed like an eternity. Now the idea of lying on a bed sounds luxurious, but we need to take a bus to the camp.
The next morning when I open my eyes, sunlight filters through the window into the room where Than, Ry, Map, and I sleep. I sit, thinking, Where is Ra…bang Vantha, Syla, and Savorng? Then I remember, they are sleeping downstairs.
I get up, then pad softly down the stairs so I won’t wake anyone up. Curious about this camp, I run along the concrete walkway and I look at my surroundings. I gaze at the wooden two-story apartment buildings on my right and left. They are long structures divided into individual units. Each family, it seems, has been given a unit, like ours, with an upstairs and a downstairs. After admiring these buildings, I look to my right and there it is, in the distance, a majestic hillside with thriving green trees, grass, and a huge white cross. I’m mesmerized by everything. The apartment buildings. The greenery of the hillside. The concrete walkways that snake between the apartments. The beautiful landscape of grass, shrubs, and flowers near the walkways and along paved roads. I like the spacious yard in front of each building. I marvel, taking in the beauty of this camp, and I’m grateful.
Ry and I are washing dishes behind our apartment when suddenly a sweet, gentle voice interrupts our talk. “My friends, how are you?” a voice asks with a distinct accent.
We turn, and there is a small dark-skinned Filipino woman behind us, smiling. “My friends, do you want to trade rice for vegetables?” She shows us baskets of limes and other fresh vegetables. I glance at the vegetables, but quickly I look into her bright, friendly eyes. Her tone and welcoming spirit astound me. We have never met, yet she calls us “my friends.” Her words and spirit say “welcome.” I think of the camps in Thailand we’ve been in and how we were treated there. In those camps we were always the culprits. The soldiers were always ready to jump on us during trading. But their own people, the merchants, always got away. I’m appreciative of this Filipino woman. She makes me feel at home.
Soon after we arrive, we are told that people ages sixteen to fifty-five have to study English as a second language (ESL) and cultural orientation (CO) for three months before our departure for America. In the intensive ESL class, we will study about clothing, housing, employment, the post office, and transportation. For the CO class, we’ll study general subjects such as sponsorship, communication, lifestyles, and sanitation. Though I look forward to learning these subjects, I can’t help feeling overwhelmed by the number of subjects we have to master in such a short time. But the education here is free, and I need to do some catching up before going to America. I am looking forward to attending these classes.
In the ESL class, we have both Cambodian and Vietnamese students. Our teacher is a Filipino lady. When she enters the classroom, she glances at us and frowns. I wonder if she is mean like some of my teachers back in Cambodia, who pulled boys’ sideburns and hit the palms of our hands with a long bamboo stick. As she puts her woven bag down by her desk, she faces the class. Her red-painted lips widen into a smile. I feel relieved. Now I’m ready to learn anything that will prepare me for America.
Our first lesson is learning how to greet someone in English, how to shake hands. When it’s time to practice, our teacher asks a girl sitting beside me to get up. She is to shake hands with a Cambodian man in our class. The girl shakes her head, her face flushed. The teacher asks another girl, and she too shakes her head. She looks embarrassed just to be called upon, let alone to be shaking hands with a man.
“Come on, you guys, get up and shake hands with those men. Look, they are not bad-looking. In fact, they’re handsome,” says our teacher, making the men smile.
No one gets up. Our teacher asks a Cambodian man and a Vietnamese man to come to the front of the class. They introduce themselves, then shake hands. The teacher stares at us and says, “You see, it’s not hard to come up and shake hands. Watch me. My name is Marie. How do you do?” She shakes hands with a Vietnamese student. “Here, I’m still shaking hands with him and I’m not going to have a baby. Don’t worry. You’re not going to have a baby by shaking hands. Now, come on and practice.”
I’m annoyed by her comments. She should have been informed of our culture, and known that our way of greeting people is to press the palms of our hands together, then raise them to our chins. Even I, who am brave under many circumstances, am embarrassed by the idea of hand shaking. We need time to adjust.
As Marie urges us to volunteer, I begin to have courage.
She asks a Vietnamese student named Minh to stand in front of the class. Smiling, she says, “Would someone come up and shake hands with Minh. He’s handsome.” The class laughs. Minh smiles, his eyes becoming smaller as he gazes in the girls’ direction.
I stand up. The teacher smiles. She croons, “Come on, Chanrithy. You can do it! Okay, introduce yourself first, then shake hands.”
No problem, I think, smiling to myself. I walk up to Minh, then I say, “My name is Chanrithy. How do you do?”
The girls giggle behind me, making Minh smile.
“Hello, my name is Minh,” he says, glancing at the girls. “How do you do?” He looks at them again.
I reach out to shake his hand. He steps forward to shake mine, but as soon as his hand nears mine, I pull it away. I dash back to my seat, then laughter erupts.
Beaming, I look at my teacher, whose hand covers her face and whose body quivers with suppressed laughter. The men on my right guffaw. Minh’s face is as red as the face of a hen who is trying to lay her eggs. A Cambodian man behind him nudges him, and he smiles sheepishly.
“Oh, Chanrithy. Why didn’t you shake Minh’s hand?” the teacher asks sympathetically.
I reply, smiling. “I will next time.” It serves him right for smirking at the girls earlier. I look at Minh. His face is still red.
A week after our arrival, we were told to see the immigration officers. Bang Vantha walked in the opposite direction of their offices. Sitting on chairs at the immigration office with other families, we wait for him to come. Ry and Than blame Ra for not berating bang Vantha for his behavior. Ra says, he’ll come. He’s an idiot, she admits, to play around on a day like today. We keep looking at the doors, but there is no sign of him. As soon as his name is called, we all stand up, frowning at each other. Suddenly his smirking face appears at one of the doors. This is not the first time he has played with our emotions. He seems to take pleasure in making us mad.
After the meeting with immigration, bang Vantha says that he has changed his mind. He doesn’t want us to be with Uncle Seng. Instead of going to Portland, Oregon, he says he is happy to relocate. He will go anywhere the immigration authorities send us, and we will have to go also.
He smirks. Ra ignores him, holding Syla in her arms. Ry’s angry, her face red. Than keeps his thoughts to himself. Savorng and Map frown at bang Vantha. Many Cambodian refugees desperately want to go to a country like the United States, sending letters and applications for resettlement to the embassies of America, France, Australia, Canada, and any other country who might be willing to take them. They worry about their fates and pray that they will be remembered, yet my own brother-in-law is ungrateful for his own good luck.
My friend Sothea takes me to Phase I, a medical clinic that provides medical care to refugees. It looks just like a clinic in Phnom Penh, and is surrounded by lush flowers and plants. There are concrete sidewalks. Paved roads. It’s been a long time since I saw such a place.
Inside the building Sothea gives me a tour, showing me examination rooms with chairs, posters, and equipment I’ve never seen before. The front desk, where patients are received, has a long, smooth counter with a few nice chairs behind it. There are even telephones. Never before have I seen a place for refugees that is so—so modern, so well established. And the pharmacy is also nice. It has shelves along the walls with boxes and bottles of medicine neatly arranged, the variety of labels and names of medicine catch my eye. Suddenly a shadow of a memory comes to mind. I’m taken back in time to Phnom Penh, to Pa’s medicine desk. The times when he took care of me when I was sick with asthma.
Sothea introduces me to some of the staff: Dr. Sophon, a Cambodian from Canada; Mary Bliss, an American registered nurse, and Dr. Tran, a former medical doctor from Vietnam. Surprisingly, I find myself shaking hands with them naturally. All of a sudden I feel like an adult, so mature.
Sothea is going to America and needs someone to take her place as a medical interpreter. She asks if I am interested in the job. I am more than interested, I tell her! She laughs, tickled by my excitement.
Now one of my dreams is about to be realized. In Khao I Dang, I wanted so much to speak English. I wanted so badly to be a medical interpreter. Sometimes I daydreamed while I studied English. I envisioned myself translating for patients, working with doctors and nurses. It would be rewarding to help my fellow refugees who have gone through so much. Now this dream is coming true. Perhaps my other dreams will come true also, when I go to America. I remember what I promised during Chea’s burial: Chea, if I survive, I will study medicine. I want to help people because I couldn’t help you. If I die in this lifetime, I will learn medicine in my next life.
Than complains that no one has thought of teaching Map Cambodian. Than thinks Map, seven, should learn Cambodian because it’s his own language. He will teach Map, he says, since we don’t have Mak or Pa to take that role anymore. I’m proud of him for thinking of Map. I listen to him and glance at him teaching Map as I study medical terminologies from the Cambodian medical manual Sothea gave me. I watch Than scribble something in a notebook. It’s fascinating to see my older brother take this responsibility upon himself.
Than recites the Cambodian alphabet, then he tells Map to say it after him. After a few times, Than has Map repeat it on his own. Map looks bored, uninterested. Map tells Than that he wants to go out and play. Than says he has to study Cambodian and scolds Map to repeat after him. Map mumbles what Than said. Than asks him to recite the alphabet on his own. Map can only remember a few letters. That makes Than mad, so Than hits him on the shoulder.
Map cries. Than raises his hand to hit Map again. Map cringes. Map looks at me for help, but I don’t want to say anything because Than is eighteen, older than I am. He wouldn’t listen to me because I never thought of teaching Map and he has.
Sobbing, Map repeats after Than again. Than tells him to recite the alphabet on his own. Map says a few characters, then he stops, his eyes braced for more slaps. Than hits him on his shoulder, then says, “Why can’t you remember? It’s not that hard. You’re stupid.” Than glares at Map.
“He’s not stupid!” I tell Than. My voice comes out louder than I intended. “He’s just starting to learn, and you want him to know everything. What kind of a teacher are you?”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Than snaps at me. “I want to teach him. If nobody teaches him, how is he going to learn?”
“You’re not teaching him, you’re torturing him.” I’m amazed at how the words fly out of my mouth.
Ry appears at the top of the stairs, and I don’t hesitate to tell her what has transpired. I tell her what I think of Than, of the way he teaches Map and disciplines him. Map gets up and walks over to Ry. Than glares at me. He says that I am good at criticizing but don’t help to teach Map. For a moment I don’t know what to say because it’s true that I haven’t taught Map anything.
Then I remember what the Cambodian elders used to say, “A good teacher has to have patience in order to teach students.” From watching Than I know he doesn’t have patience, and he is not a good teacher. Instead, he is an overbearing brother. Appalled by what Than has done, Ry, twenty, tells Than not to worry about Map now. He’s only seven, she says. Since then Than has not taught Map.
Than is angry that I raised my voice to him. But how could I not raise my voice when he treats Map that way? Than expects me to act like a proper Cambodian girl. But I can no longer look the other way if I feel someone is being hurt.
The following evening, lying on my back with the medical manual sitting on my chest, I can’t stop chuckling. I’m so tickled and embarrassed at the same time. My stomach begins to hurt. My cheeks are getting tired. Tears spill out of my eyes.
“What are you laughing about?” Ry asks, grinning.
“Oh, nothing.” I say, laughing.
“If it’s nothing, why are you still laughing?”
I chuckle harder, shaking my head. Ry stands close to me, smiling, demanding to know. Finally I say, “Okay!” I tell her that I’ve been studying medical terminologies for my job at Phase I. She looks at me as if to say, What is so funny about that? I tell her that studying and memorizing the terms are not funny, but that I’m tickled because I’ll be embarrassed when I have to translate for men and women who have medical problems that relate to their reproductive systems, their private parts. “How am I going to translate for older patients if I’m so embarrassed to say these terms? I’m young, Ry,” I plead. I recite the terms that will be hard for me to translate. Ry laughs. She says perhaps over time, I’ll be less embarrassed. But I tell her that I’ll be mortified as I translate these words.
She smiles comically and says, “Well, you’re the one who wanted to volunteer in the medical field.”
“I know! I’ll just have to be professional and hope I won’t burst out laughing.”
I’m happy to volunteer at Phase I. When I’m there, I look forward to helping patients. I work like an eager salesperson. Through the rectangular barred window of the pharmacy, I watch for the customers: Cambodians, Cambodian-Chinese, Vietnamese, and Chinese. As soon as I see them coming, I dash out to the front-desk area, inquiring as to their needs. If I’m not sure they’re Cambodians, I ask, “May I help you?” If they are Vietnamese, I let Dr. Tran know. With the Cambodians, I inquire about their medical problems, gathering information before they see whoever is on duty.
After translating, I help fill the patients’ prescriptions. I get good at reading the scribbling from Mary, Dr. Sophon, or Dr. Tran. When we are not busy, I stay in a pharmacy. I look out the window or read the labels on the medicine vials, boxes, and bottles, wondering about the ingredients in each medicine, and how they help patients feel better.
Sometimes I take my badge off my blouse and look at it admiringly. It has a small picture of me smiling which I cut out of a bigger picture taken at the party after I finished ESL. At sixteen, I’m proud of myself. I look at the badge again and again, so happy about the work I’m doing.
I sit on a stool in the pharmacy waiting for the Vietnamese patients whom Dr. Tran has just seen. A few young Vietnamese men approach the barred window of the pharmacy. They talk among themselves, smiling. Each gives me his prescription, peering at me earnestly. I pick one prescription. I read the name of the medicine. I search for it on the shelf. As I wrap up the white tablets, I hear the words “beautiful” and “I love you” spoken by one of them. As I hand the patient his medicine packet, my gaze rests on his sheepish, smitten face. I take refuge in another prescription, looking for the name of the medicine. When I’m done helping everyone, the smitten patient says to me “I love you” in Vietnamese. Though I understand the words, I simply give him a friendly smile, pretending I’m not aware of anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly he steps toward the window and says “I love you” in English. I don’t know how to react to that, so it is easy just to say nothing. His friends laugh softly, then say something to him in Vietnamese.
Strange yet fascinating to notice men being attracted to me. Maybe Om Soy is right. That even though I’m young, I look mature beyond my years. Thus people take me for a woman, not a girl, a teenager. I don’t want to be rude to anyone, but I don’t have any guidance on how to deal with men at this unsettled time.
Phlor Torrejos, my CO teacher, takes the whole class to a beautiful stream three miles from the camp. She is Filipino, short and a little chubby with straight black hair that comes to her chin. Her bangs drape down above her eyebrows. Her face is always ready to smile. She’s kind and personable. For this trip, she has brought food for the entire class. I admire her for sharing her personal life with us, telling us how she has persevered through hardships. Now she’s a senior writer/editor for the Communication Foundation for Asia.
In class, she says if we fail to accomplish our goals the first time, we have to try again. Many times it takes more than one attempt. She says it’s kind of like falling and getting up. If we fall, we have to get up. Sometimes we fall more than once, and we have to get up more than once. Sometimes getting up is hard, but we must do it, no matter how long it takes—we have to be strong, she says.
After a long hike, we take a rest on large rocks beneath the trees. When we are having lunch in the shade, I look at Phlor, grateful. She wants so much for us to succeed in our new lives in America. I think about the life that awaits me in America. I wonder how many times I will have to get up from falls when I’m there.
But I know myself—I will get up if I should fall. I always have. My mind relaxes. My ears tune in to the voices of my classmates, hiking along the stream. The sound of water running between rocks is soothing. With her eyes closed, Phlor rests peacefully in the shade. Her clothes are still wet from swimming in a clear pond. Lying on a flat rock near her and other women classmates, I feel the precious solitude of the Morong Bataan. I feel as if I’m connected to the calm, still earth. I feel as if today is a dream. The cool breeze touches my face. My arms. My soul. It has been a long time since I felt a sense of inner peace. Being in this camp has made that possible, for we’ve been given enough food to eat. We have running water. Electricity. We have school. We have clean, pretty apartments to live in. I don’t have to worry about the Filipino soldiers. I feel protected. I feel safe. I feel loved, accepted by the local people who work in the camp. I am finally free of life-threatening situations.
Ratha tells me that a doctor needs a translator. I hurry down the hall and check one examination room, but no one is there. I walk to the adjacent one, and the door is ajar. I hear a voice trying to speak Cambodian. I take a peek. Suddenly a set of big, dark eyes stare back at me. A new doctor? I ask myself. I’ve never seen him before. He wears a stethoscope around his neck. He looks Filipino and is cute—young with shiny black hair and dark eyes with long eyelashes.
Getting caught peeking, I need time to recoup. I take a deep breath, regain my composure, then knock on the door.
“Yes?”
I introduce myself, telling him my name and who I am. He stands up and says, “I’m Dr. Tanedo, Achilles Tanedo.” He reaches out to shake my hand. I shake his hand, and I’m not even embarrassed. Not a bit. Marie would have been proud of me.
I translate for the patient, but mention to the doctor that I haven’t seen him here before. He says that he works mostly at the hospital. A hospital? I didn’t know that this camp had a hospital. But I don’t ask for further clarification. All I want is to establish a rapport, and it isn’t hard to do so. I acquire the information from the patient regarding her illness. In about ten minutes, Dr. Tanedo writes her a prescription, and my mind is already at the pharmacy, trying to locate her medicine on the shelves.
Ry is excited, calling my name as if memorizing it. “Athy, Athy, I’ve got a letter, I’ve got a letter. We’re going to be with Uncle Seng.”
I look at her, overwhelmed by her exuberance. I’m between excitement and confusion. Ry catches her breath, calming down to explain. She says, “Do you remember I told you about my friend helping me write a letter? About bang Vantha saying he wanted us to go anywhere?” She pauses as if letting me digest what she has just said.
I reach for the letter in her hand, remembering what she is talking about. She asked a friend to write a letter on our behalf so that we could go to Uncle Seng in Portland and not be randomly placed, as bang Vantha has threatened. I open the thin letter and read the response: “Please tell these kids that the P.A. listed Mr. Leng Seng as a possible sponsor and did not say ‘anywhere.’ [signed] TP.” I gape, eyes widened. A burst of joy tumbles out of my mouth—I scream.
We didn’t have many patients today, yet I’m tired, and hungry. I slowly walk toward home. The day is still bright. Some families sit outside in front of their apartments. Then a person, a woman wearing a long skirt, darts out of an apartment, my apartment. She runs as if she is in a race with herself, heading toward me. Ry?
Smiling, I pause, watching her run. I’m amused—my older sister runs like an excited little girl. Her face beams radiantly. She is jubilant. Ry grabs my shoulders, she shakes me, she croons: “We’re going to America, we’re going to America—”
“Really?”
Ry nods, then hops, and so do I. We don’t care how foolish we look in front of our neighbors. We are oblivious, absorbed in ourselves. As we calm down, I ask her if she heard our family name and our BT number (a number assigned to each family) called over the loudspeakers. She nods repeatedly.
Facing the sky, I close my eyes and smile. Suddenly I’m in a whole new world, a world that gives me hope and makes me float. Every part of my body savors these exalted, indescribable feelings. My feet lift me up. I dance on the concrete sidewalk. Ry watches me, grinning…. Today I just want to shine, to celebrate.
I look forward to our new life, yet I’m nervous, scared. Everything seems hopeful, yet abstract. The unknown scares me. It doesn’t help thinking of American or Cambodian girls my age who have parents. In America I won’t have Mak or Pa. I feel uncertain, unstable because my life has been so different. I wish I could plan it, laying it out like a calendar.
It’s only six more days until we leave for America. I make a mental list of friends to whom I want to bid good-bye. For the past few days, I’ve been thinking about this sweet old woman, a patient who has problems with her eyesight and legs. She can’t see or walk well. When I translate for her, she calls me “daughter” in a gentle tone of voice. I address her as Om, great-aunt, since she is, perhaps, older than Mak. When she saw Mary Bliss, she complained of a numb sensation in her legs. Since I haven’t seen her for a few weeks and she has missed her follow-up appointment, I have to visit her.
It’s about seven o’clock in the evening. I arrive at her apartment and peek inside. There she is sitting. Her legs folded on a mat, her face dark but pale. She looks up. She says, “Oh, there you are. Good. You’ve come. Come on in. You can sit anywhere you’d like. Sit down, sit down. I’ll get some cakes.” She gets up with difficulty, her legs seem heavy.
On the wall of her apartment is a poster of Buddha sitting on the lotus blossom beneath a tree in a beautiful, colorful forest. In front of him are angels in golden clothes, their legs folded, the palms of their hands pressed together reverently. Below the poster is a can of burned incense and four candles that have melted down to half their original length.
Om staggers toward me. Her mouth widens to form a weak smile. She hands me a bag of steamed cakes, made of sweetened sticky flour and beans wrapped in banana leaf, which she sells in the makeshift market in the camp.
At Phase I, when I last saw her, she had urged me to look for her in the market or to go to her home so she could give me cakes. She kept thanking me and God after I translated for her and filled her prescription, then brought it to her and helped her out the door. Today I’ve brought her a package of medicine which she would have gotten if she had gone to her follow-up appointment.
“Here, daughter,” Om says. “Take these cakes to your family. Thank you so much for bringing me medicine. Om is sad because Om can’t walk well. My husband is old. He’s always at the temple. We don’t have children, so nobody gets the medicine for Om. Om doesn’t know who to ask. It’s difficult.”
Understanding her circumstances, I tell her that I’ve been thinking about her, wondering if she’s all right. Om presses her palms together, raises them to her forehead, then faces the poster of Buddha and says, “Sa thook, sa thook. May God in heaven take care of you. Daughter, you’re so thoughtful, thinking of Om.”
After visiting with her for an hour, I’m tired. She seems very lonely, and shares with me her problems in Cambodia and in the refugee camps both here and in Thailand. When I begin to get up and say good night, she says, “Why hurry, daughter? Stay a little bit longer. Here, have some more cakes. Stay until my husband comes, then he can do fortune-telling for you, find out about your life in America. You don’t have any kids to worry about, visit with Om a little longer.”
When her husband comes, she gets up with difficulty, introducing me to him. I’ve been waiting for him to do fortune-telling, she tells him. When he has his back to her, she places fifteen pesos in the chalicelike container.
Her husband hands her an oaken stack of bound sheets, which she then hands to me. I look at it, then I remember. It’s called a kompee, a Buddhist sacred treatise that I saw at a temple in Phnom Penh. Om hands me a stick of incense. She tells me to wish in my mind, then raise the kompee to my forehead and insert the tip of the incense somewhere in the kompee. As soon as I insert it, she tells me to open to the spot where the tip of the incense lies. She says, “Now read and find out what fortune waits for you in America.”
I read the fancy print in Cambodian, my mind half asleep. It says something about going to hell. Suddenly Om stops me from reading further. Both of her hands clap mine to close the kompee. She says I didn’t concentrate hard enough when I wished for good fortune. “Let her try one more time,” she says to her husband. Before he says anything, she tells me to concentrate and wish for a great fortune. Her hands wrap around mine and lift them to my forehead, then she says, “Now concentrate. Wish for a good fortune.”
I wish for good fate, good fortune. God, please help me in America, I say tiredly in my mind. Somehow I find myself pouring my soul into my wishing. I hold the kompee up longer so Om thinks I am wishing hard, concentrating hard. I just want to see her happy. I hope I have some luck tonight and the incense lands on a good page.
That’s enough, Om says lovingly. She tells me to turn to the page and read, coaching me like I am a little girl. I read from the page and it says that I will have a good fate, and that a sathey, a wealthy person, will find me and support me in every way. Before I finish reading, Om interrupts, “You see, daughter? When you focus your mind, you get a good fortune. Om believes that daughter will have good luck in America as the words say in the kompee.”
I’ve packed everything I own: a few clothes, notebooks, pens, the Essential English Book I, tattered family photos I’d hidden, a medical dictionary Sothea gave me, and a small packet of medicine for anyone who might get sick on the plane. In the packet I put my ID from Phase I in case we are questioned about the medicine. I tell Ry that I’ve packed everything, then I run down the stairs and yell out to her that I need to go to Phase I. I need to say good-bye to my friends.
On the concrete sidewalk, I trot. Tears burn at the back of my eyes when I think about leaving PRPC today. I hope they’re there. I don’t want to leave without saying good-bye. I’ve told everyone else at Phase I that I’m going to America. Streams of tears course down my cheeks.
“Chanrithy, Chanrithy,” a voice sounds behind me.
I turn. My eyes search for the voice. An American woman runs toward me. Mary Bliss? She smiles and quickens her stride, leaping over the flower bed near the sidewalk.
Smiling, I say, “Mary, I’m going to America today! I’ve been wanting to say good-bye to you.”
“That’s what I heard from the people at the clinic. That’s why I came to find you, so I could say good-bye.” She gazes at me, her arms embracing me.
She hands me her address in Washington, D.C., and tells me to write her so she can write me a letter of recommendation for a job in America. Looking into my teary eyes, she apologizes that she couldn’t say good-bye to me sooner because she was out of the country in Thailand. Knowing I’m pressed for time, she says her good-byes and wishes me good luck in my new life in America.
I wipe away my tears and hurry into the clinic. I go up to the front desk to find out if Dr. Tanedo will be at the clinic, but he’s only working at the hospital today. A lump forms in my throat. When the nurse at the desk hears I’m leaving, she calls Dr. Tanedo at the hospital, who says he will find me when I go to my mandatory physical exam before departure.
I smile, thank her, then rush out the door. I can’t help smiling radiantly. I’ve been teased about Dr. Tanedo, but I don’t care. I do have a crush on him, but he’s been kind to me.
When I arrive home, Dr. Tanedo is already there. “Hi, Dr. Tanedo. Thank you for coming to say good-bye to me,” I exclaim, smiling brightly yet embarrassed to have him look at me.
He returns the smile and tells me that he came as soon as he heard I was leaving the camp. He’s so kind to take the time to come. I feel awkward, embarrassed again. I lower my eyes, then realize I need to introduce Ry, Ra, and Than. He reaches out to shake their hands. He’s so formal, professional.
“Chanrithy, what are you going to do in America?” Dr. Tanedo asks gently.
“I’d like to go to school, maybe study medicine. Perhaps it’s too late for me to go back to school. I’m sixteen already. I haven’t gone to a formal school for seven years, since the fall of Cambodia.” I look down at the ground, pitying myself that my childhood passed by during the Khmer Rouge regime and in refugee camps. I feel so behind. I’m scared. America, the country I’ve been waiting to go to, now scares me.
“Chanrithy, you’re still young, only sixteen. You can go to school.…” Dr. Tanedo looks at me sympathetically. He searches for my lowered eyes, then says, “In America, you can study whatever you want.”
His gentle, hopeful voice gives me courage. I level my gaze and look at him. In my heart I want to say, Really? I can study whatever I want? Then I’ll learn many things….
His eyes tell me I can. I feel at ease, comforted. He is the first person with whom I have shared my hopes and fears. Now I feel a weight has been lifted, and I’m grateful.
“Athy, people are going to the physical examination!” Ry points to the front yard. Families clutch their belongings and children, trotting toward a group of large tents where the physical examination will be.
I look at Dr. Tanedo. I don’t want to say good-bye. He offers to carry my duffel bag and reaches out to pick it up. We all hurry to the tents.
We arrive at a tent. Soon bang Vantha’s name is called. Anxiously, bang Vantha rushes into the tent, and Ra, with Syla in her hands, also steps in, her eyes signaling to us to follow. We go in. A Filipino woman orders bang Vantha to take his clothes off in front of us all. He rightly refuses. Then the woman orders us all out.
Walking out of the tent, I give this woman a stare, angry at her need to belittle us. Dr. Tanedo asks what happened, and when I explain, he suggests that we give him our documents.
From tent to tent Dr. Tanedo goes, talking to Filipino medical workers in his own language. All we have to do is stand near him. The workers glance at us, then turn their attention to Dr. Tanedo. Ry grins off and on, stealing glances at me, then at Dr. Tanedo. Finally words tumble out of her mouth.
“Not bad, Athy. You have a doctor friend to help us.” She grins again. When I smile, she giggles. Ra, too, smiles. Savorng and Map seem to understand, so they join in. Bang Vantha flashes a weak grin.
Soon Dr. Tanedo returns to me and says that we are all set. He leads us toward a line of buses along the paved road. On the sidewalk near the buses, clumps of families stand by their belongings, their faces red, eyes swollen. A young girl weeps by a sad-looking man. Glancing at her face, I too break down. Ry wipes her eyes.
Cradling sleeping Syla in her arms, Ra blinks her tears away. Most of the women cry, but the men just look sad. People bid their good-byes and remind each other not to forget to write.
The sounds of ragged sobbing resonate. Families’ names are being called. People get on the buses. Suddenly mine is called. I want to tell Dr. Tanedo that I’ll miss him. But when I look at him, all I can do is cry. People look at me, and I just cry. No words come out of my mouth. My tongue is stuck.
“Athy, hurry.” Ry waves at me by the entrance to the bus. Map and Savorng throw me a frowning glance. Embracing Syla in her arms, Ra, too, hurries me. She stands by bang Vantha as they crowd onto the steps of the bus. Than is already on the bus.
Overwhelmed by it all, I dash to the bus. When I’m on it, waiting to be seated behind Ry and Map, I realize I’ve forgotten to say good-bye to Dr. Tanedo one last time. I look out the window, and he stands there watching me. I want to get off, but people are coming up onto the bus.
“Athy, Athy!” a voice calls. Urgent taps shake the window near me. When I turn, through my tears I see my friend Sereya’s sobbing face. I move close to the window. Sereya’s face breaks into a smile. “I tried to run as fast as I could to get here before you were gone. Oh, Athy, I’m going to miss you.”
I scold her not to cry because she is only making me cry even more. But she doesn’t listen. She wails, and I cup my face in my hands.
“Chanrithy?” A gentle voice speaks. I turn toward the voice, and already Dr. Tanedo is sitting beside me.
“Oh, Dr. Tanedo!” I sigh, happy, yet sad at the same time.
“I’ll ride with you until we get close to the hospital, then I’ll get off there.”
“Thank you,” I say softly, my left hand wiping my eyes. I feel a gentle hand squeeze my right hand. I look at Dr. Tanedo, and he whispers to me not to cry. I want to say I can’t, but I can only shake my head.
“Athy, you’re leaving us. You’re leaving us. Nobody’s going to make us laugh anymore when you’re gone,” says Sereya, reminiscing. I choke, laughing, shaking my head.
Oblivious to everyone on the bus but Dr. Tanedo, I tell Sereya that amid this sadness, she must remind me of all the laughter I’ve brought to her and our friends. What a friend you are! I tease her. She giggles, amused at herself.
Feeling silly for laughing through my tears, I explain to Dr. Tanedo. He looks at me and gives me a sad smile, then his hand holds mine tightly. I’m comforted. But as the bus starts up, Sereya wails, tapping on the window again. “Good-bye, Athy. Good-bye,” she yells.
The bus takes off. Sereya trots along. The bus accelerates, Sereya wails. I cover my face, sobbing.
“Chanrithy. Chanrithy, don’t cry,” whispers Dr. Tanedo. His hand rubs mine again and again.
The bus stops. Dr. Tanedo gets up, gazing at me, and wishes me good-bye and good luck.
The night welcomes us at the airport. The city lights dimly shine in the dark sky. Clutching a bag of food in one hand and a duffel bag in another, I breathe in the cool breeze. I scurry along beside Map, Savorng, and Ry. Than is ahead of us. Bang Vantha is in front of him. Ra trudges behind him, hugging Syla to her chest. I’m with my family, yet my mind is still at the camp. I miss my friends, more than at any other time in my life.
But as the plane takes us up into the sky, I feel at ease. I’m riding to freedom, carried in the belly of a bird. We’ve made it, I think to myself. We are crossing the ocean, above the world that has enchained us. We’re alive.
I think about what awaits me in America. I imagine Uncle Seng looking at the picture of us we sent him, remembering the faces of his older brother’s remaining children, whom he has not seen for six years, since the day he stepped out of the gate of our home.
In my duffel bag, there are other pictures, tattered photographs I managed to keep safe during the Khmer Rouge time, moving them from the roof of one hut to the next. They travel with me to America, along with the indelible memories of Cambodia’s tragic years; of Pa and Mak; of Chea, Avy, and Vin, of twenty-eight members of my extended family and countless others who perished. With me, they are safely transported to America, a trip only made possible by Uncle Seng. He is the bridge leading me, Ra, Ry, Than, Map, Savorng, Syla, and bang Vantha to freedom. We are like the dust of history being blown away, and Uncle Seng is like the hand that blocks the wind. We are leaving behind Cambodia, ground under the wheel of the Khmer Rouge, and flying to America. There, we will face other challenges, other risks, in a new place in which we will have to redefine ourselves, a kind of reincarnation for us all.