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I’m happy to volunteer at Phase I. When I’m there, I look forward to helping patients. I work like an eager salesperson. Through the rectangular barred window of the pharmacy, I watch for the customers: Cambodians, Cambodian-Chinese, Vietnamese, and Chinese. As soon as I see them coming, I dash out to the front-desk area, inquiring as to their needs. If I’m not sure they’re Cambodians, I ask, “May I help you?” If they are Vietnamese, I let Dr. Tran know. With the Cambodians, I inquire about their medical problems, gathering information before they see whoever is on duty.

After translating, I help fill the patients’ prescriptions. I get good at reading the scribbling from Mary, Dr. Sophon, or Dr. Tran. When we are not busy, I stay in a pharmacy. I look out the window or read the labels on the medicine vials, boxes, and bottles, wondering about the ingredients in each medicine, and how they help patients feel better.

Sometimes I take my badge off my blouse and look at it admiringly. It has a small picture of me smiling which I cut out of a bigger picture taken at the party after I finished ESL. At sixteen, I’m proud of myself. I look at the badge again and again, so happy about the work I’m doing.

I sit on a stool in the pharmacy waiting for the Vietnamese patients whom Dr. Tran has just seen. A few young Vietnamese men approach the barred window of the pharmacy. They talk among themselves, smiling. Each gives me his prescription, peering at me earnestly. I pick one prescription. I read the name of the medicine. I search for it on the shelf. As I wrap up the white tablets, I hear the words “beautiful” and “I love you” spoken by one of them. As I hand the patient his medicine packet, my gaze rests on his sheepish, smitten face. I take refuge in another prescription, looking for the name of the medicine. When I’m done helping everyone, the smitten patient says to me “I love you” in Vietnamese. Though I understand the words, I simply give him a friendly smile, pretending I’m not aware of anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly he steps toward the window and says “I love you” in English. I don’t know how to react to that, so it is easy just to say nothing. His friends laugh softly, then say something to him in Vietnamese.

Strange yet fascinating to notice men being attracted to me. Maybe Om Soy is right. That even though I’m young, I look mature beyond my years. Thus people take me for a woman, not a girl, a teenager. I don’t want to be rude to anyone, but I don’t have any guidance on how to deal with men at this unsettled time.

Phlor Torrejos, my CO teacher, takes the whole class to a beautiful stream three miles from the camp. She is Filipino, short and a little chubby with straight black hair that comes to her chin. Her bangs drape down above her eyebrows. Her face is always ready to smile. She’s kind and personable. For this trip, she has brought food for the entire class. I admire her for sharing her personal life with us, telling us how she has persevered through hardships. Now she’s a senior writer/editor for the Communication Foundation for Asia.

In class, she says if we fail to accomplish our goals the first time, we have to try again. Many times it takes more than one attempt. She says it’s kind of like falling and getting up. If we fall, we have to get up. Sometimes we fall more than once, and we have to get up more than once. Sometimes getting up is hard, but we must do it, no matter how long it takes—we have to be strong, she says.

After a long hike, we take a rest on large rocks beneath the trees. When we are having lunch in the shade, I look at Phlor, grateful. She wants so much for us to succeed in our new lives in America. I think about the life that awaits me in America. I wonder how many times I will have to get up from falls when I’m there.

But I know myself—I will get up if I should fall. I always have. My mind relaxes. My ears tune in to the voices of my classmates, hiking along the stream. The sound of water running between rocks is soothing. With