Middle of Everywhere - Mary Bray Pipher [88]
Thiep's family went to recover the bodies. They found the body of her youngest uncle. It was a rainy day. Thiep thought, "God is crying with us." They never found the body of the educated uncle; they think he may have accidentally swum toward the sea. They made a cross for him by a tree and left an offering of chicken and wine. They brought the other uncle's body home. At his funeral, many women cried as the handsome soccer player was buried.
Thiep stopped talking and cried for a while. She said, "I have had more life than I wanted."
Thiep's family arrived in the United States jet-lagged and with pinkeye. That first night they stayed with a Khmer family, then they moved into a basement apartment. Thiep said they were like rats in a cellar. They didn't know how to cook on American appliances and no one came to visit. One day the baby had an ear infection. They called 911 but none of them could speak English. Later, the phone company traced the call and reported the emergency. A fire truck and policemen arrived but the family still couldn't explain why they called.
Slowly the family adapted. Her dad got a job as a floor polisher and learned to drive a car. Thiep had her first day of school. When she walked into high school, she couldn't even ask where to go. A Vietnamese student helped her get started and soon she was settled. She helped the other students and the teachers in any way she could. She rapidly learned English and passed through the ELL levels. She was what my aunt Margaret called "green on top," someone who loved to learn.
Thiep made many friends, but didn't feel close to anyone. "No one had my experiences." She felt that, compared to most Vietnamese young women, she was more serious and mature. She was unsure how to really be close to Americans or Vietnamese. She said, "I don't fit anywhere. I am not like the people in either country." She laughed. "I get along better with teachers than with anyone else."
Her teachers made her feel like somebody. She had never felt like a real person in Vietnam. She wrote to a teacher, "ELL students are poor. But we have red hearts and we offer them to you."
At the university, she studied physics. She knew almost all the Asian students, but she was afraid of close relationships. She'd never had a boyfriend or even a date. She said, "I wouldn't know how to handle that."
Thiep was a strange mix of strong and vulnerable, confident and shy. She reminded me of a story my mother told of a man without a country, condemned to always keep moving, to never setde down and be at home. He sailed from place to place, always wanting what he could not have, terra firma, and an identity as a man from a particular place.
Thiep had job offers from big companies on both coasts. But she would never work for money. She wanted to help Vietnamese people keep their old culture, but with open hearts, ready to embrace what is good in America. She said that in many families the old spoke only Vietnamese and the grandchildren spoke only English so that the generations could not talk to each other.
Thiep wrote poetry and stories. She wanted to bring the generations together. But most of her themes were painful ones. She leaned toward me as she whispered, "I need to rearrange the landscape of my mind. I am not a very happy person."
THREE IRAQIS
"Is there a marriage broker in Lincoln?"
On a March morning, I interviewed three men from southern Iraq. We sat by a window as we talked and watched the harsh Nebraska wind blow crab apple blossoms from the trees. Soon the sidewalks were covered with what looked like pink snow.
Mamduh was a small man with sallow skin and bad teeth. He had a shy, engaging smile and he worried that his English wasn't good enough for our interview. Hamid was pudgy, but elegantly dressed in gray slacks, a gold vest, and white silk shirt. Saif wore a brown-and-gold ski sweater and tan slacks. He was tall and slim, with a Valentino elegance.
All three men were deeply religious, but they had very different