I Love a Broad Margin to My Life - Maxine Hong Kingston [34]
and let go. To appear in court for trial,
or else: A warrant will be issued for me, a wanted
felon, throughout the United States. The 24
women (25 counting a girl caught
up in the fun; her mother took her away,
bawled out everybody), the freed women
waited for one another, made sure
no one left behind. Where’s the nearest
bus stop? No buses. Where’s the subway?
“Far. You ladies don’t want to
walk there. Dangerous.” “Will you please
call us a taxi? 6 taxis?” “Cabs
won’t come out here, ma’am. Please clear
the waiting area. Leave the waiting area
immediately.” Then we were out on a road
in the middle of flat fields with nothing growing.
No stars in the sky, too lit
by the prison. Someone cell-phoned Code
Pink colleagues to come get us. The journalists—
journalists arrested too—turned on their equipment,
and recorded us exulting, the most beautiful day
of our lives. We rode back to the city
in cars festooned in pink ribbons, rode
showy through the capital of the U.S.A.
The good citizens cheered us, honked horns.
Not one disagreeing person
yelled or honked in anger. 12 days
later, Iraq War II, Operation Iraqi
Freedom, Shock and Awe started.
A-Day, hit Iraq with 300
to 400 satellite-guided missiles.
On the second day, round-the-clock bombing,
another 300 to 400
smart bombs. That was the plan, spoken by
an “author of Shock and Awe.”
“You have this simultaneous
effect, rather like the nuclear weapons at Hiroshima,
not taking days or weeks but in minutes.”
We had used all our arts—
sung, danced, walked about as goddesses.
Full body puppets on stilts, in pink
and red garments of flowing silk, bent
down in mercy to children. We staged
a theater of peace, recited poems—and did not
stop our country from war. I wanted to lie down
and die but did not. I do believe: Because
the world protested, the tonnage of bombs was not as
massive as planned. And we hit fewer civilians.
The peace we have made shall have consequences.
All affects all.
On parade in Viet Nam,
the dragon on hundreds of pairs of feet walked
and ran along the river—a river once red
with human blood from slaughter that these very
people around me eyewitnessed, and had part in.
We, dragon, ran and walked until
the village we’d left came into sight; the river
circled and returned us home. We rested in tents
and ate joong. I pointed, said, “Joong,”
hoping Chinese and Vietnamese
feed rice, beans, meat, 100-
year-old eggs wrapped in leaves
to the same ancestor, Peace, and to the dragons
who live in and are the river. But
they called this food something else,
and their story was about a beautiful princess
captured by / run off with a dragon.
All the village every year give
chase after her, and come home happy,
and in union.
FATHER’S VILLAGE
Follow the rivers and streams north,
deltas of Viet Nam turn into deltas
of China. There be my root villages.
23 years ago, from Guangzhou,
we had to hire a van and driver,
and a guide, get on 2 ferry boats—
drive, ferry, drive, ferry, drive
some more—the Pearl River’s side
rivers winding and hairpin turning
at islands and bars. Had to stay overnight
in the one hotel, farmgirl maids
yell-talking, loud laughing, no sleep.
Drive on the next morning, and arrive
at Roots Headquarters for Long Lost
Overseas Relatives Finding Relatives.
Word, my father’s name, my name,
had been bruited about this land. My cousin,
Elder Brother, heard, and was there to meet
me, recognized me, and greeted me, “Hola,
Younger Sister, our family is running in harmony.”
“Hola, Elder Brother, our family is running
in harmony.” Harmony. China has announced Harmony
its official theme. Harmony posted on walls.
Lights flash Harmony up on buildings;
the night rivers reflect Harmony. Our son,
a musician, has tattooed on each arm:
harmony
make peace, make kindness
mutual, reciprocal
extraordinary (like outlanders, like barbarians)
I did the calligraphy myself.
Harmony also translates as peace;
its roots are mouth and growing grain. The mouth
speaks peace. Peace