But why? What for?

  Where will we go?

  What will we do?

  Teacher Xiong takes a deep breath.

  A new government is taking control.

  It’s no longer safe.

  My classmates and I

  stare at each other,

  try to make sense

  of our teacher’s words.

  But, Teacher Xiong, each time there’s a threat,

  we leave our homes for a while and return,

  and we’re still okay! declares Ka Yeng.

  The quietest student in class

  and even she is speaking up.

  Each one of us nods.

  It’s true what Ka Yeng says.

  Hiding in the jungle

  with no change of clothes

  and only a few pots and pans

  to cook our meals

  sleeping on leaves

  watching for rockets

  blasting in the sky

  whispering and waiting

  to go back home.

  Sometimes for days.

  Sometimes for weeks.

  All our families have done this

  during the war.

  Though it frightens us

  the same as meeting a sun bear

  in the trees frightens us,

  we’ve grown used to

  this way of life during wartime.

  Anyway, isn’t the new

  government supposed to

  bring peace?

  Do Not Wait

  This is different,

  Teacher Xiong warns,

  glancing outside

  for one quick second.

  She gathers her books

  in her arms,

  hugs them close

  to her chest.

  Running to the jungles

  won’t save anyone.

  Go home. Tell your families

  the time to escape is coming.

  Do not wait,

  or it will be too late!

  Then she erases

  the entire board,

  leaving no traces

  of any curly swirls

  behind.

  Leaving School

  We make our way

  through the classroom door

  down the wooden stairs

  onto the dirt road

  and head home.

  Students from

  the other two classrooms

  trickle out behind us.

  Some walk,

  some run.

  Yia and I follow our classmates,

  a line of blue and white uniforms

  twisting and curving

  like a striped snake

  along the sun-drenched road.

  Everyone is asking,

  Are we really in danger?

  Why do we have to leave?

  Can we ever come back?

  Yia kicks at pebbles in the road.

  Dust covers his shoes,

  turns his white socks brown.

  When Dad gets home,

  he’ll know what to do,

  he mutters, and kicks again.

  Yes, Dad will take care of us,

  I say to reassure him,

  wondering how Dad

  will get us to safety.

  By jeep? By helicopter? By plane?

  We’ve ridden all these

  with him before

  when visiting him at the base.

  I nod fast as if I agree

  we must go right away.

  But deep down,

  I don’t want to leave

  our house on the hill.

  Peaceful Sky

  Our house

  is the one place

  where I always

  feel happy.

  Our hill

  is where I spend my days

  after school

  and on weekends

  where my brother

  sisters

  cousins

  and I

  run and laugh

  and roll like logs

  down

  down

  down

  to the very bottom

  watching leafy trees

  fluffy clouds

  and bright green grass

  spinning

  spinning

  spinning so fast

  under a peaceful blue sky.

  No Goodbyes

  At the fork in the road

  some classmates turn left,

  some turn right.

  Is this it?

  Will we ever

  see each other again?

  We don’t know,

  but no one says goodbye

  as we break apart,

  school bags and uniforms

  disappearing into the trees.

  Wait

  Yia and I are about

  to climb the trail

  leading home

  when I hear footsteps

  pounding the dirt,

  someone shouting

  my name.

  Gao Sheng! Wait!

  I spin around.

  Sai Kue,

  Tou Wa Meng’s cousin,

  is racing toward us,

  kicking up

  a cloud of dust.

  Behind him,

  Tou Wa Meng approaches,

  hands in his front pockets,

  eyes locked on me.

  Stinky Boys

  Talking to boys

  outside my family

  isn’t allowed.

  Especially if they are

  very friendly.

  Unless it’s at school

  and teachers are there

  to watch us.

  Otherwise,

  girls shouldn’t talk

  to boys.

  I’ve heard stories

  about my mother

  when she was young.

  Before she married my father,

  many young men

  in her village

  wanted to court her

  and marry her.

  Her mother and brothers

  were very protective

  of Mom.

  If the young men

  ever became too pushy,

  my grandmother and my uncles

  would fight them off

  with large sticks.

  So, I won’t talk to boys—

  even at school—

  if I can help it.

  Besides,

  Grandma tells me

  boys are stinky.

  Yia and my boy cousins

  don’t smell bad,

  but they’re in my family.

  Stay Away

  Sai Kue and

  Tou Wa Meng

  come closer.

  Yia’s hands

  clench into fists.

  (My brother has heard

  the stories too.)

  He is ready

  to protect me.

  I’ve seen how

  Tou Wa Meng

  watches, nods,

  even smiles at me

  at school.

  If he admits

  he likes me today,

  I will scream louder

  than a sarus crane

  in a flooded field.

  Actually, sarus cranes

  can be very loud,

  maybe too loud.

  Well, I will try

  anyway.

  And Yia will fight.

  I look at the grass,

  search for a stick,

  a twig, something,

  anything I can use.

  A fallen branch

  lies by the roadside.

  I pick it up.

  Stay away from my sister! Yia yells.

  I hold the branch out,

  try to point it at

  Tou Wa Meng’s face,

  but this branch

  is heavier

  than it looks.

  It drops to the dirt

  at my feet.

  Though he’s smaller

  than me,

  Yia grabs the branch,

  lifts it high.

  Young Woman

  Tou Wa Meng

  won’t talk to me directly.

  That would be too bold.

  In Hmong culture,

  it’s often a boy’s friend

  who will speak for him

  about these kinds of things.

  Sai Kue holds up

  both his hands,

  says to me, Lees muam!

  How dare he call me

  a “young woman”!

  I’m just a girl.

  Tou Wa Meng waits.

  Sai Kue continues.

  Lees muam, we mean you no harm.

  I only want to tell you that my brother—

  he points to Tou Wa Meng—

  my brother wishes you well.

  No one knows when we may meet again,

  but he promises he will look for you

  when we make it out of Laos.

  I look at Tou Wa Meng.

  I heard Sai Kue’s words.

  He spoke them,

  but they came from

  Tou Wa Meng.

  Silence

  Tou Wa Meng’s eyes

  stay frozen on me.

  He remains silent.

  A gust of wind blows,

  and his hair

  moves in the breeze.

  All over his face,

  I see a warmth,

  a kindness

  I didn’t notice before.

  I also don’t smell

  any stinky boy smells.

  I start to wonder

  if we really leave,

  will I ever see Tou Wa Meng again?

  Yia swings the branch high

  and shouts.

  Sai Kue

  and Tou Wa Meng

  run away.

  Red Dragon Fruit

  My cheeks are still hot

  when Yia and I

  are halfway

  up the hill.

  I wish Sai Kue

  hadn’t said that.

  It was more embarrassing

  than hearing my name

  in a love song!

  So embarrassing

  my whole face is now redder

  than the seedy inside

  of a bright red

  dragon fruit.

  Good thing

  Yia doesn’t notice.

  I lift a hand

  to shield my eyes

  from the glimmering light

  coming from our roof.

  At the top of the hill,

  the wind hits our faces,

  whips at our eyes.

  I walk up to

  Dad’s favorite peach tree,

  my favorite peach tree,

  touch a hand

  to the warm bark,

  and whisper,

  Do we really have to leave home?

  But the tree doesn’t answer.

  I only hear the branches

  scrape against each other

  in the cool mountain breeze.

  Part II

  Waiting

  Mom

  My mother nods

  when Yia and I tell her

  school is closed.

  The teachers say

  we need to leave!

  Yia says.

  We shouldn’t wait.

  Or it could be too late!

  I add.

  Mom has a way of speaking

  that shows

  she’s in charge,

  even when she doesn’t say

  anything at all,

  like right now.

  She is listening

  to our words,

  but doesn’t respond.

  Unlike Dad, who likes talking,

  Mom is usually quiet,

  usually calm, usually gentle,

  though sometimes stern with kids,

  especially the oldest (me).

  Still, I can tell she is thinking

  by the way she doesn’t blink,

  how she folds her hands

  so tightly in her lap.

  Then one of the babies cries,

  and Mom tells me,

  It’s time to get to work.

  There are children to take care of,

  clothes to wash, rice grains

  to be separated and cleaned.

  Yia hurries to play

  with Ao Ka,

  and I watch them go,

  Ao Ka barking

  as he leaps into the air,

  Yia laughing and sprinting

  through the grass

  in the afternoon sun

  and even though

  I want to play too

  and I want to talk about this still,

  I do what I’m told.

  Like always.

  Vegetable Picker

  There is an old Hmong saying

  that calls a son tub ntov ntoo,

  “the one who cuts wood.”

  This means a son will use his strength

  to cut and carry wood and build a big house

  for his mother and father.

  A daughter is called ntxhais de zaub,

  “the one who picks vegetables.”

  This means a daughter will pick vegetables

  from the family farm and cook them

  for her mother and father.

  In parents’ eyes,

  a daughter can never be as strong

  or as helpful as a son.

  A son is more important

  than a daughter.

  I don’t know about that.

  Because without food to eat,

  what good is a house to live in?

  I don’t pick vegetables.

  We get our vegetables from the market.

  But I help clean and cook them.

  Still, sometimes I wish

  a daughter could mean more

  to her parents

  than just a vegetable picker.

  I

  wish

  I

  could

  mean

  more

  than

  just

  a

  vegetable

  picker.

  So Many Questions

  (May 10)

  It’s the next day and

  Dad hasn’t come home yet.

  I go with Mom

  to the early morning market.

  There’s so much

  I want to ask her.

  Are we leaving for sure?

  When are we going?

  How will we get there?

  But I know better.

  Kids aren’t supposed

  to ask too many questions.

  The adults tell us things

  on a need-to-know basis only.

  Except what they consider

  need-to-know is usually

  nothing-at-all.

  I’ve learned to keep

  my thoughts quiet

  and my questions quieter,

  even when they’re

  bursting inside me

  like the buttons

  on Uncle Pao’s old

  too-tight shirt.

  Morning Market

  On the way to the market,

  I think about chewy juicy lychees,

  soft steamed cassava cakes,

  sweet smooth jackfruits,

  fresh young coconut juice.

  Mom usually buys these and more

  for all the kids.

  As we walk, I see

  a golden raspberry field

  spotted with thousands

  of tiny specks of yellow flowers,

  thick forests stretching so far

  I wonder when they’ll end,

  farms that look so peaceful and quiet

  they seem abandoned,

  small and smaller houses

  sitting in silence,

  lazy stray cats and purring kittens

  wandering by the roadside,

  a lonely cow swishing its tail

  to swat away flies

  with a noisy bell around its neck

  ringing ding-ding-ding!

  and at last,

  the market straight up ahead.

  Empty

  The market is usually crowded,

  buzzing with noisy shoppers,

  air dripping with a

  sugary, salty, savory aroma

  stands filled with

  desserts, drinks, fruits of every color

  stalks of sugar cane

  yellow bamboo shoots

  glossy banana leaves

  clucking chickens

  bleating goats

  grunting pigs and piglets

  sliced meat, smoked meat, sizzling meat

  smelly dried herbs, spices, medicine

  and more.

  Today, all I see

  are closed stalls

  and a few bored vendors

  with near-bare shelves.

  Mom’s face falls

  at the sight of so little food.

  Lately, the town’s supply

  has been shrinking,

  just like the water

  drying up in our barrel

  on the sweatiest of days.

  We will cook whatever

  we have left at home,

  Mom says, and turns to go,

  motioning me to follow her.

  My stomach growls

  deep and low

  just like Ao Ka growls

  when he hears the wind

  whistling in the night.

  Mom and I leave

  with no chewy juicy lychees,