Ironic Butterflies

” How I Got My Name”

kuanjai — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 10:15:18 +0000

My name is Wanda. I once looked up my name on Google and it said it was a name of German descent. However the real origins of how I was named gave an entirely new meaning to what the name, “Wanda,” meant to my Thai culture, family, and upbringing in America.
Before I was born here in California, my father told me he had a dream that a monk was walking down the road and brought out of his traveling bag a black Buddha statue. The monk said it would bring him great fortune and bargained with him to keep it, and so he did. However, when he woke up, he found my mother moaning in pain. She was having a stomach ache so my father began massaging her stomach. As he drew his fingers into her bloated abdomen, he shouted, “Huh, aria you nai toung!” which meant “There’s something in your stomach!” My mother cried out “It’s gas!” However my father urgently insisted that she visit the hospital for a doctor’s diagnosis. The next day, my mother went to the hospital with her friend Jai Jeed from work. She helped translate the English words of the doctor to my mother. “You are six month’s pregnant.” This was news most parents would feel blessed with fortune to hear, however this was not the case for my parents who were illegal immigrants living in the United States as unprotected people with no rights.
My father was devastated, realizing that after two months, my mother would not be able to work. He would then have to be the backbone, supporting a new baby and two of their children back in Thailand. My mother was afraid for her life. She was scared that once she delivered her baby, the government would find out she was an illegal immigrant and send her and my father back to Thailand. They weren’t able to save enough money to pay for the debt they borrowed from friends and family to come to America. Furthermore, my mother was disappointed, not understanding how it would be possible that she was pregnant. At the time, my mother was administered birth control pills by Siam Poly clinic. They told her it must have been a mistake and apologized, offering to pay for an abortion. Mai Kun, my grandmother, plead with my mother not to have an abortion. She begged “I want to see my grandchild, please don’t!” My mother’s friend Jai Jeed told my mother “ Don’t worry, I’ll help you get through this.” She knew how to speak English well and assisted with taking my mother to the hospital for her monthly check-up.
I was growing bigger in my mother’s stomach everyday. Despite the pregnancy, my mother would continue to search for work cutting vegetables and cooking at different restaurants within Thai Town. But once her employers knew that she was pregnant, they fired her to avoid legal trouble with the health inspectors and the liability for endangering her health. My mother asked her friends about job opportunities and they suggested garment work in Eagle Rock. Her friends told her it was easy work, cutting threads for 10 cents per clothing dress. She would take the Metrolink bus line 10 to the garment shop to make 10 to 12 dollars a day. Any amount of income supporting the family was better than none. The pregnancy was making it hard for her to work. The amount of blood in her body had increased dramatically because of the pregnancy, which lead to a lot of extra fluid getting processed through her kidneys. Every other minute she recalled, “I would have to get up and go to the bathroom every 10 minutes. I would barely get any work done.“ Many of her co-workers empathized with her pregnancy and helped with the garment work.
Many people would asked my parents, “What are you going to name your child?” My parents were occupied with work and so they did not even think of giving me a name. In Thai culture, the essence of one’s identity lives within your name . People would go to great measures to have their names granted by the king or well-known monks to bless them with a wonderful life. My great grandmother was a fortune teller in the Thai province and she granted my older brother and sister their names. She granted the names to her grandchildren that she would never see but she told my mother to name my older brother “Narong,” a name which means a person of great success and wealth. My older sister was named “Wongtong,” meaning the circle of gold. However, my great grandmother could not foresee my mother’s future of having another daughter in America.
My parents conversed with the fifteen of their friends living in a one-unit apartment. My mom said, “We should name her Dollar, since we came all the way from Thailand to make money!” One of my dad’s friend laughed. “No, no… your daughter will be teased and always asked, how much? Don’t name her Dollar.” My mother exclaimed,“We should name her after the street we live on, maybe Hobart or Melrose?” Everyone laughed and kept deliberating on a name that would suit the new baby soon to be coming into the world.
On November 19th my mother began feeling overwhelming contractions in her uterus. She called my father on the house phone. Look ja cood law! “The baby is coming!” My father did not have a car, and asked his boss Mr. Delok to drive my mother to the hospital. Once they arrived at the hospital, his boss helped translate for my parents. My mother’s friend Jai Jeed also came to help with the paper work. She faked the address information and left my mother’s name registered as the patient. My mother brought her sarong for the birth process but the doctor told her to take it off. She was so surprised by the great care she was receiving from the hospital. She was expecting the worst, because in Thailand when she gave birth to my brother and sisters, it was in the rural hospital. My mother said “When I was already in labor with your brother, they made me walk all the way from the waiting room to the doctor’s operating room.” She was greatly taken care of by a nurse named Linda. Linda helped my mother throughout the whole 6 hours of waiting for the water to break. My mother was administered the epidural which numbed the pain but did not slow down her quickening heartbeat, which rapidly fluttered as a butterfly’s wings. Finally at midnight, November 20th, I arrived into the world.
My mother was asked shortly afterwards, “What would you like to name your daughter?” My mother didn’t have a name planned and promptly replied “I don’t know!” The nurse thought for a moment and said “Well lets name her Linda after me.” My mother said “Oh, please include apart of my name. My name is Wandee. “ The nurse responded “Okay, lets put the two names together… Wandee and Linda together… we get Wanda!” My mother cradled me in her arms and this is the story of how I got my name.

Child of Love

kuanjai — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 07:25:22 +0000

When I fell in love,

There was a seed that impregnated my heart

I gave birth to a child of love

Innocent and hopeful

When he fell out of love

my child does not die

my child is holding on to her breath

she is still alive

if she dies

I die as a living woman

Dear Love,

kuanjai — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 23:04:08 +0000

Dear love,

I’ve been standing still in my mind. Attempting to overcome feelings I felt were so true. I remember you said changes are inevitable and half of my heart has accepted this truth. I realized to not love you, I have to be cold and shut out the world. Behind the wall of my heart, I’ve build on guard of feelings. This wall is build with hurt and so much pain. Our sweet dream memories rescue me temporary from this entrapment. I’m embracing the changes in my life, but why has my feelings for you stood still through the world and time that marches forward.

I thought it was a step forward to leap into another man’s arm. I feel you leave my body as he reached in to comfort me. I lay as a cadaver cold, bare and staring out of myself. Somehow even within the warmth of a stranger’s arms is better then none. Yet I died every time he tried to rescue me with his kiss. I consented verbally but my heart was no where to be found. Every time he embraced me with his heart, I felt smother to death, because all I can live is within our memory. I asked myself to be kind, I asked myself to love myself again. It was then I said good bye to him. I free myself for the torment of playing with someone’s heart. But here I am alone and once again think about you.

Every thought of you unleash happiness and sadness at the same time. I miss you everyday of every moment and of every sigh I breathe in another breath to live without you. I miss you. I’m not expecting you to rescue me. I refuse to forget and buried you as an enemy of the past. It may be my fortune and misfortune to live with our memories but never to be with you ever. I’ll walk to the future carrying you always in the womb of my heart yielding birth of tomorrow’s hope.

Remember November

kuanjai — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 00:50:19 +0000

1993 November 11^th , It was a close casket funeral, there was no words mentioned of how you died. Eight monks were brought over the house and we pray one hundred days to help you have wonderful afterlife. My father told me to bring you mataka food, I knocked three times on your coffin box and lit one incense to guide you the way. At the time, I was six years old, too young to understand why love has shortened your destiny. You were so beautiful and had just graduated out of college. I did not understand than, till my first love.

Three years I cling tight to his hands as my wings. He was my only escape out of the violence and fight that rage in my home. He took care of me like a child, constantly yearning for attention and love. Our love was bitter and sweet balanced with laughter and tears. We were always mature to talk everything out. He was truly my savior of all the misery I faced in the world. However, destiny had different plans and separated us for some reasons I have yet to understand.

buzzed after 3 bottle of beer. James, came into my room and we kissed. I contemplated about you the whole time. The inhibition of right and wrong was not present. I lost myself in his kiss and infatuated by his tantalizing hands caressing my bosom. A part of me was coherent to realize after this night my love between you and me would never be the same. Yet, I closed my eyes and let him inside with no regret.

I waited impatiently, at Rose Park, for you to arrive at 8 am so we can talk. Its 9:30 and you are still not here. I looked over to the little hill beside the tennis court, remembering that this was where you and I first kissed. 9:45, you finally came, we decided to park in the back alley. I walked out of the car lifeless and bowed on my knees and brought my head to your feet. Over and over I kept saying “ Sorry, I never meant to hurt you.” You tell me “ Please… you don’t have to do this.” You pull me off the ground and dried the tears off my face. You comfort me with our last embrace and expressed “ I want a break up, not because of what you did… but I need to focus on myself I hope you can understand.” I responded “ I understand” realizing I have no choice but to accept, I was in no position to ask you to stay.

He wanted a break up but told me he forgave me…but it was I who could not forgive myself. I was trapped in my own thoughts “ What ifs? Why did I?” I was filled with confusion and pain that doesn’t deserve any petty. I yearn as a stubborn child to once again have your love at the palm of my hands.

After we talked, I drove home alone drenched in my own tears hoping it would cleanse my soul and heal my heart. But the pain runs deep though my veins driving me insane. I wanted to end this torment. I wanted to end it all… “How should I do this? Shall, I get the pills in the cabinet…shall, I hang myself in the bathroom?” I parked my car in front of my house and paced into my empty house heading toward the kitchen with conviction to end my life. I ran into the kitchen, pull open the drawer, and clenched the knife. I shut my eyes slit my wrist, but I felt no pain. I open my eyes the sharp blade would not shard through my flesh. Again and again I pressured the knife forcing it to take my life. “What the fuck is going on!” I screamed. But, I could not hear my own voice. My body was stiff, possessed by a by an unknown force. My leg become a stranger and walks me to the living room mirror. I looked into my reflection and there was my face smiling. Its not me! help! But I was trapped in my own body. A woman with long black hair covering her face stood behind wrapping her arms around me. In an instant my vision became blurry and I fainted.

Unconscious, I drifted to into a body that wasn’t mine. I’m standing in the bathroom staring into a familiar face. I see a beautiful full moon round face, Sharpe black eyes mole on your right temple and tan soft skin. She puffs on the cigarette and blow out the smoke. She flickers the cigarette ashes on the sink. The blood shots veins branched in her eyes, wet mascara liner trail along the side of cheeks, giving away clues that she has been crying in anguish. I’m trying to speak to her “Hello, who are you?” but she does not hear me. She walks out of the restroom and pace to her car. She reached in her pocket for her keys and starts the ignition. She drives on and on for hours to her final destination. She stood on a sixty feet freeway ramp, underneath cars zoom in rapid speed up to ninety miles per hour. She gets out of the car with no hesitation she leap over the guard rail. I yelled “Stop! Stop! Don’t do this!” But she does not hear me… She took her last breath and spread her arms as wings fluttering to heaven’s gates.

I woke up in the Hospital’s emergence room, to find my friends and family surrounding my bed. Their face crinkled with lines of concern. My father was so stern; I could feel his anger already. He uttered “ Dek nog, My stupid daughter, if you want to cut an apple and bang your head …go eat a banana okay!” everyone laughed. I was confused

Once I got home from the hospital, I locked myself in my room and began to contemplate of my exorcist experience and the image that came to me so vividly like a dream. The image and her face haunts me as it flashes over and over in my mind. Her face looked so familiar to mine “ why did she come to me” I wondered. I searched my room for a pink old photo album, filled with my childhood pictures. I found it under my bed. I flip the album cove. second page there she is, Aunt May. In this picture we were standing in front of the Universal Studios “Back to the Future Ride”. Aunt May stood still while he stole a kiss from her cheeks. I remember him!

Its midnight and your lover is outside pounding on the door. My father opened the door and yelled “ leave now or I will call the police.” The man who proclaimed to be your lover punched my father in the face and yelled “fuck off old man!” My father was going to attack him, but my mother rush to hold him back. My Aunt bowed and cries “ Forgive me brother, forgive me!” Your lover pulled you out of the house and beating you senseless. You questioned in your mind “how have you came to love such a man” For his love is an illusions of the honeymoon “ Baby I love you” and “ You fucken bitch!” Terror in the night traps you in a cycle that seems endless…

I’m wondering why Aunt May came to me as I lay unconscious on the kitchen floor. I wonder if her spirit lingers around in this house. Perhaps her spirit lingers around in this house. My mother is once told me that if a person dies unnaturally form suicide or accidents, their soul will linger in their death place trapped in a moment in time forever until they are able to receive enough karma to be reborn.

The next day I decided to follow my mother to the temple and give offering to my Aunt’s spirit. My mother was surprised I came along with her, normally I dread attending the temple. My mother asked “Why you come with me today, huh?” I told her “ I had a dream of Aunt May.” I asked her “ Do you know why she killed herself?” My mother face turn white and nodded side to side “Phen dick ham poot… your too young.” I snapped back “ Mom…I’m turning 22 I’m old enough. Since, my mom would not reveal why my Aunt killed herself, I decided to ask my sister. I bet she knew, my sister and Aunt may were very close. I slept on her bed, waited for her all night till 2 am in the morning, for her to get off her nursing shift at the hospital. She comes into the room and takes off her scrubs.

“ What are you doing in my room?” my sister interrogated me.

I took the opportunity to ask her “ I was wondering, do know the reasons why Aunt may killed herself?”

She responded “Its’ been 15 years, what sparked your curiosity… huh?”

“ I’m curious..” I responded

“Well I’m tired from work can’t we talk about this later?” she insisted

“ no! I want to know now! Why is it such a secret? I don’t understand why everyone is pretending that she never existed? You were close to her, you must have known something?”

My sister sighed “I do… no one talks about her because she is a shame to our family. She killed not only herself but murdered her lover.

Its been 3 months since you have been hiding out at the Asian women’s shelter. At the shelter, there are people who reached out to help and protect you from the danger you face with your lover. Nevertheless, you cry every night missing his love. Despite your loneliness, you are angry he left bruises on your on your left eyes and lower left thigh. That night your heart yearn for his embrace, maybe, if you went back and be a good spouse. Maybe, if you quit school and start a family with him things, things would get better. You wonder in your heart and feared within your soul yet that night you gave him a call. He promised “ I’ve changed now, believe me I love you!” The counselor on shift warns you but does not hold you against your will to stay. He comes to pick you up ,in his pick up truck, a block away from the center. He brings you flowers and takes you to Mayflower your favorite Chinese restaurant. You are happy for a moment but when you get home, he pins you against the wall. You said “ Not to night Hun I’m tired” he teases you “ Common please? “ In a firm voice you respond “ No!” He slaves you with his fist eight times on your face and exclaimed “ You can’t say no to me you worthless shit!” like day to night he unveiled his charm to expose his true abusive side you feared. You plead for your life, No honey! No honey! He tore off your clothes and forced his way into you. You tried to scream for help but he puts his hands over your mouth. He has you helpless and powerless. You begin to feel your fear transform into rage. You bite hard into his finger and push him off. You quickly reach for the box cutter in his left drawer beside his bed. He tried to grab you from behind. You stabbed him in the throat and blood gush out like a volcano eruption. You keep stabbing and stabbing, till he no longer breaths. Your mind is numb and your heart is beating so fast. You asked yourself “ What have I just done” you begging to weep over his dead body. “ Forgive me baby forgive me!” but he shows no sign of life… no longer was he able to hurt you. You walked the bathtroom and light up a cigarette”

The next morning I woke up early to give offerings to my Aunt’s spirit at the temple. I brought blankets, a bag of rice and orange robe for the monks. The elder monk gave me a piece of paper and on It I wrote, “ Aunt May” and today’s date “ 2008 November 11^th”. I lit the paper on fire . The monk chanted harmoniously “ Na Mo Tha Sa Phra Qua wa Thoa” I prayed pooring the holy water into the silver bowl on to the paper blazing flames of her memories, her pain, my memories, and my pain. The flaming fire by love dissipated with the essence of water. I bowed three times paying respect to the elder monk. I took the silver bow outside to the temple’s garden. I poured the black ashes of water onto the fertile soil and called out “ Aunt May! Where ever you are, don’t blame yourself. Its not your fault. You’re a victim and I hope you forgive yourself. I hope you receive the offerings and boon

Thank you Aunt May for saving me.”

The Moon and I

kuanjai — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 03:47:49 +0000

In the loneliest moments of my life when I am consumed in the darkness of my own mind, I think of the moon. Every now and then I sit aside my window and look up at her beautiful shining eye spying on me in my little room.

You see this room of mine, I’ve painted it yellow and filled it with colorful artwork. I’d even mounted collages of pictures of people I loved to make this place feel alive. In the winter time the roof leaks droplets of water, playing a musical symphony waking me up in the morning, but I never mind. I didn’t care about the smell of mold, and I didn’t mind the coldness of the room especially in the winter time. I’ve tried to make this living corner my sanctuary. Filling the space with music and books I love. I know there are people in the world who are starving and would love to live one day in my warm soft bed.

As much effort I have tried to transform this room to become a place where I could escape out of my own reality, I could not erase the memories of this room. This room, didn’t always used to be mine. This room once witnessed its terror in the night. This room changed my childhood with men in my life. This room carries a secret forever in my heart. Yet, I’m forced to live in this room every night.

The moon is my friend for we both dwell in darkness . Her light travels through the window as arms embracing my lonely heart trapped in by the walls of memories. So everynight I pay homage to the moon. I sing to her every night the melodies of my heart streaming out as droplets of tears flows connecting to the river and then the ocean. I know, I do not sing alone in my room, women around the world sing the same song hoping to heal from memories that has wounded our hearts bleeding everyday.

The Echo of Our Melodies

kuanjai — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 09:23:14 +0000

My Aunt came with a special gift of life crying a familiar melody I once sang. The whole family listened in joy hearing her voice echoing through out the house. Her name is Metta, she is the second American citizen little baby in our family. I watched over her while she slept, glaring at her little soft pink hands. Tears suddenly welled up in my eyes. My heart sank in sadness while she laid in peace. This upcoming April, my little niece will be sent to Thailand to live with her father, my uncle in the province of Ang Thong. My Aunt does not have the money nor the time to provide efficient care for her daughter. The tickets are booked. Once she is four years old Metta, will be brought back to America .

Oh, Metta my little niece~ I was once a baby that was bounced back between two countries from American to Thailand. They think you won’t remember because you’re so little, but as young as I was, I remembered. I know you will too~ I hear your cry pierce my heart as a scream from my nightmare trapped in memories.

I was four years old, a stranger pulled me away from my mother’s embrace. I recalled my mother’s last words to me “ Kuan don’t cry, ma will come for you!” in a glimpse she was gone in a crowd of people. I was taken into a bird’s stomach where we flew high in the sky to a place that wasn’t my home. I was alone, a place where the heat of the sun steamed me alive. Mosquitoes attacks feasting on my tender flesh, nightly. Lice infested my hair itching through out the day.

I’m sorry ,my fate is your fate. You will have problems in school and not being able to speak English nor Thai well. I know you won’t even remember me whispering this warning lullaby right now. Images are a blur within time …but the feelings are constant. The abandonment, isolation and loneliness is a ghost that will haunt you. The song you sing resonates my in my heart but, unlike me, you will never be alone for I sang the same song you sing. I will always be listening to you Metta~

There is no Perfect Excuse

kuanjai — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 10:01:23 +0000

I need a perfect excuse… a legitimate excuse to move away. Why do I need an excuse? Well, because my father will disown me if I tell him, I want to move out because I can’t stand living at home. Hmm…Should I tell him I want to go study abroad in Africa? No… China, Malaysia, and Indonesia anywhere I’ll go but stay here! I’m not sure exactly, why I can’t stand living in my own house. I mean a person’s home should be their sanctuary, or a place of comfort. Incontary, I feel like a bird locked up in a cage at home.

I question myself a lot, why I have this urgency to move out of my house. It could be that I am very independent. I believe, I grew up too fast. When I was eight years old, my parents forced me into illegal child labor for 5 years of my life. My parents owned a Thai restaurant called Siam Garden on Sunset and Vine. At the restaurant, I waited tables, wash the dishes, and translate business affairs for my parents.

“ Ma the landlord called about the rent contract.”

“Tha ma mai mee un hai… no customer, no good business I have no money to give!”

“Ma its in the contract, he wants to us five pay thousand dollars a month” I answered to her fustration.

My mom teared up lighting incense praying to Nang Quak… the deity of wealth and prosperity “Choie look chang duie tuu (I’ve worked hard and losing my hope please help us.) ”

My independence is not the reasons why I need to move out to be on my own. I love my parents but I feel trapped living at home. After my parents shutdown their business, they worked full time for other Thai business owner. My mom worked 14 hours everyday as a cook. My dad worked as an auto mechanic, he would come home early but he was always occupied watching Tv. His violent temper always kept my siblings and I away. We did our chores and never question his authority. It was when I started growing up and my puberty said” hello!” My parents became more attentive to me. They always wanted me to stay home and clean when there was nothing to clean. My parents always complain about my involvement in school Organizations. My parents never really were able to understand the importance of extra-curricular activities.

My father yelled “ Ta mai? I don’t understand why you need to do speech and debate?”

I replied “Because its fun and educational!”

My dad sighed “ But you never win anything, se we la ~it’s a waste of time…you are one of those bad girl come home so late.”

I pleaded “ I’m not doing anything! When you and Ma go to Vegas it’s a waste of money I never say anything!”

My father raised his voice “ You don’t listen anymore you’ve changed! You go out too much, you should stay home be good girl!”

I understand that my parents and I clashed because of our differences. I believe that this may be one of the reasons why I have the yearning to leave home. My father is very traditional, trapped in the old world he grew up in Thailand. I am struggling to adapt to my parents traditional ways and the American culture. My father believes he is entitled to do and say anything to me, my siblings and mom even though it may hurt our feelings.

At times, all I could do is watch myself, my mom and siblings helplessly become victims of my father’s violence. He always wanted to control everyone in the family. He lashes out with his violence by throwing things and being verbally abusive. I always tried my best not to make him mad by being passive and obedient. I remember the first time his hands of compassion became angry.

I was 9 years old, I was sleeping in my bed and heard my father stumbling in the room drunk . He turned on the light and pulled me out of bed and began striking me with his fist.My father was Exclaimed “You ungrateful daughter, you bad daughter!”

I weeped for mercy curling on the floor in defense for I could never fight back. He was my father, the person who gave me my life I have today. After the beating, I crawled into bed embracing my broken soul, licking the tears that drip down my cheeks.

My sibling and I each ad a wooden bird that resemble us, it was placed on the wall. My father took the bird that resembled me and threw it against the wall and it broke in half. The next morning he pretend as if nothing had happened. My mother told me my father tried to glue back the broken bird in the bathroom, as if to show that he cared. But the bird remained broken forever. I forgave him although he never apologized.

You may wonder why I did not have courage to stand up to him. Many times, I want to yell “stop!” when he punched my sister, and throw things at my mom. I know I hold back because he has a bad heart disease. When he gets angry he gets heart attacks and gets very ill for months. A part of me sympathize and convinced myself that his actions are justified because he is my father. In Thai culture, parents are considered to be a monk, someone you should never disobey and always respect. This cultural belief is rooted deep in my values. Disappointing one’s parents is considered the worst sin one could ever commit. I didn’t want to disappoint my father because I was concern about his health; so I became ungrateful to myself and took in all the emotional and verbal abuse.

When I was in middle school my sister ran away. I was too young to understand her reasons and even now I do not have her courage to escape this house. I never wanted to challenge father because I am too afraid and I didn’t want to be an ungrateful daughter.

Every time I’m home, I isolate myself in the room. I try my best to avoid conflicts with my father. Constantly, I live in fear of my father’s hot temper. But I do not have the economic stability to move out and be on my own. I am dependant upon my parents. So this is why I am here contemplating for a perfect excuse to move out and not make my father. Although, I have made an attempt to tell my father the truth.

I recall the night my family was eating dinner in the back yard. My father was ranting on about other people have family problems. He turns to be and ask you want to know why they are having problems… I said “ No because its none of our business and every family has a problem.”

He turns to me and asked me “what is your problem !”

I responded in a calm voice “ I have a lot of problems

He raised his voice and sternly looked at me “Well then talk to me what is it!”

I told my father “ I murn naok yoo nai glong,” I felt like a bird in a cage, I can see the beauty of the world but not able to fly out and explore! My wings are clipped and I’m locked in a cage… All I want to be is a good daughter but I feel trapped at home. I want to move out!

He rose up and yelled at me “ What have I done wrong! All I do is work hard and you’re not happy! Why are my daughters never happy when I try so hard!”

He pounded his heart… “It hurts it hurts you know I try so hard!” He lashes at the window and smashed it with his hands.”Is it wrong to love and care for you!” my dad screamed.

Blood flood down his arm

Words spring out of my eyes as tears flooding the body trembling in fear and helplessness.

I cried “I’don’t know, I feel trapped … don’t know what to do!“

I ran to hug my father and cried “ I’m sorry …I’m sorry I want to be a good daughter but I can’t be myself here … I’m sorry! I want to be a good daughter but I don’t want to stay here please understand me.”

I laid on the floor bowing my head repeatedly on the floor begging for his forgiveness. My father like a child throwing a tantrum yelling and screaming…he started to throw things around in the kitchen. My brother ran in to hold him… he pushes my brother away.

My brother held me in his arm and told me to get up … he gave me a long hug to calm me down from crying so hard. Its okay … “its okay sshhhhh….. I understand you.”

I walked to my room trembling in tears, unable to catch my breath. I sat on the floor embracing myself, in front of my mirror. I saw myself crying, with dried blood on my arms and pants. I saw myself for the first time not as an ungrateful daughter but a victim of an abusive father.

The next evening we had dinner and my family carried on conversations as if nothing had happened. I sat across from my father and behind him I saw the window that was broken from last night. I ate gazing at the broken window that my father destroyed. I saw my own image reflecting back in the broken glass. I was the fragment of the broken glass that could never be put back together.

I have no choice but to leave or live in denial my whole life unable to stand up for myself. “ I need the perfect excuse to move out, can you help me?”

The Mother River

kuanjai — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 06:50:10 +0000

The River Mai Nam Khon Khai ( The Mother river) flows with fishes, broken bottles and plastic bags. Yet, people in the province of Ang Thong cleansed their naked bodies in her bloodstream. My grandmother never allowed me to play in the river. “The current is too strong, your strength is a little mouse swept away in a glimpse of an eye.” My grand mother warned me but this did not stop my stubborned curiosity. The full moon invites my grandmother to visit the temple dressed in white, her basket filled with fermented fish and naprik ( fish deep sauce) well prepared to be offered to the monks. This was the perfect opportunity; my grandmother would be gone the whole day, leaving my older sister and I a chance to sneak out to the river.

I was so liberate but always weary my grandmother would catch us. I leap my little feet splashing into the squishy mud. The cold water rushed tickling my toes, I began to wander deeper and deeper. My sister yelled “ Kuan don’t go too far!” but now I was fully engulfed in the water of life that bring such coolness. On my tiptoes, I leaped for air attempting to swim back to my sister’s calling. But as my little feet struggled to swim against the current, I felt Mai Khon Khai’s grasped of my little feet wanting me to be her child, to guard the river. The sweet coolness becomes bitter and fierce. I became powerless , my tired arms and leg gave away mercy to Mai Khon Khai’s raft. A miles away my body swept on to rigor mortis flesh to cling on. Her body lay stiffed a float with no soul in her eyes. A man over the bridge yelled “ A drowning child!” I reached for her with no sense of death. She was my grandmother’s neighbor her name was Nang .

She surrendered herself and her unborn child to reunite with her husband Somchai who had killed himself in ruin of the Fong Sabu Thailand’s economic crises. She must have felt hopeless as many of the people in this province starving for hope of their good karma would rescue them out of their poverty.

My grandmother return from the temple without her basket without her peaceful soul. She barge the house and hit my sister with her bare hands. I stood watching helpless in tears wishing I would have never disobeyed my grandmother. My grandmother ignored my eyes and refuse to feed me that night. Hunger throbbed my tummy aching all through the night. I pondered yearning for my mother’s embrace. Morning arrised, my grandmother woke up early to give offerings to the monks reminiscing to Nang. She spared me a bowl of rice and fish sauce. That morning I ate, each gain of rice with appreciation of having something to eat was better than nothing. I ate, with consciousness of wisdom in my grandmother’s eyes. I ate, in silence hoping I will one day have the courage to battle the fierce Mai Khon Khai’s raft.

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kuanjai — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 03:14:51 +0000

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