First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [128]
Your beautiful and haunting words have sincerely touched me. It was wonderful to read such a current and honest book. Thank you Loung for sharing your story. I hope it will propel other Cambodians to remember their struggle as forgetting the past annihilates hope for the future.
Sincerely,
S.B.K.
Canada
“‘Though I wish to deny that they were tortured, your book forces me to accept this possibility. What a profound feeling.’”
Read on
An Excerpt from Loung Ung’s Lucky Child
“The sky has turned pink and orange and the air blows cool breezes that chase the bugs away. All around us, the mass of people stroll together, their voices a low hum broken by an occasional shrill call for their kids to slow down.”
Lucky Child takes its title from the moniker given to Loung Ung by Bat Dang neighbors who remained after the Khmer Rouge was deposed. A memoir about coming of age and surviving the peace, the book picks up the story of Loung’s life where First They Killed My Father left off. Focusing on the 1980s and 1990s in both America and Cambodia, Loung opens the story on her first day in Vermont in June of 1980. She chronicles her assimilation as in the United States surmounting dogged memories of genocide and the deep scars of In alternating chapters she gives voice to a genocide survivor left behind: her beloved older sister Chou. Lucky Child, “an unforgettable portrait of resilience and largeness of spirit” (Los Angeles Times), is about grasping for equilibrium and the strength to take on a new life in a place where violence is not the norm. Lucky Child is now available in trade paperback from Harper Perennial.
From “Minnie Mouse and Gunfire”—about Loung’s first Fourth of July
AFTER A YUMMY BARBEQUE of burgers, hotdogs, and Eang’s special Cambodian chicken, we all walk the short path from the McNulty’s house to the fairground. The sky has turned pink and orange and the air blows cool breezes that chase the bugs away. All around us, the mass of people stroll together, their voices a low hum broken by an occasional shrill call for their kids to slow down. As we march along, my skin picks up the excitement, a charge of electricity.
The mass is all heading in the same direction, to a field of grass and shrubs used to host the fair every summer, and an occasional concert or monster truck show in the fall. Soon the mass grows too large for the sidewalk and overflows onto the street, slowing down traffic as people stop to greet, talk to, and gossip with their neighbors. Looking around, I’m surprised to see the normally drab white people dressed in festive red, white, and blue colors. A man in front of me adds another foot to his frame with a blue-and-white striped top hat. Next to him, white stars bounce on the back of a woman’s shirt as she jogs to grab a child’s hand. The young child breaks free of the woman’s grasp, her voice raised to its highest pitch, her arms out like the wings of a plane, as she runs to meet another friend her age. Once together, they wrap their arms over one another’s shoulders and lean their heads together, whispering secrets into each other’s ears.
Watching them, my palm feels empty and cool until Ahn sprints to my side and takes my hand. With her black hair and Asian features, Ahn is the only other girl who looks similar to me in the crowd, and she makes me feel accepted. Her acceptance warms me. Hand in hand, we edge along with the crowd toward the fairground. Ahn drags me along and talks excitedly about the exploding lights that cover the sky like shooting stars. Behind us, Joe and Lisa explain to Meng the importance of the Fourth of July.
After a few moments of searching, Joe finds a bench in the first row with room enough for all of us. All around, children scream with joy; their arms shoot out sparklers and flap around like dragonflies. Somewhere in the distance, a band plays songs I’ve never heard. The drums and symbols roll and clash thunderously, lifting me into the air before the tuba drags me back down to the ground. Above us, the stars twinkle like the eyes of the gods, blinking