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Soul Choj Vang
- Minnesota Historical Society Press
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Soul Choj Vang A Tropical Garden in the San Joaquin Valley In the Fresno backyard of my subdivision home enclosed by block and wood fencing, in the little yardage of compacted rocky dirt I co-own with my wife and the First American Mortgage Co., I attempt to recreate a place that would comfort the child who continues to live within me, who has grown more estranged and withdrawn with each new day that I attempt to make my way into this society. I try to quiet the child, to calm his fears with the sounds that used to lull him to sleep—the whistling of tropical leaves in the wind. So I plant bananas, papayas, lemon grass, elephant grass, guava, mango, bamboo . . . They struggle to live as I scramble to save and nurture them in this foreign soil, but the mango died in the summer heat and the guava died from the winter freeze. What remains is a patchy semblance of the landscape the child was born into, but it has made him more than happy to see 159 some things so comfortingly familiar, to hear the lullaby of tropical leaves played by a worldly wind. The child is so easy to please, so innocent, ignoring the roar of traffic, of trucks and cars passing at 65 mph, just over the block fence. Chino In the aisles of men’s clothing at K-Mart, I bumped into a little Mexican boy, maybe four years old. He looked up long at me in fear, it seemed. Then he put his fingers on the outside corners of his eyes and pulled out and up, slanting his eyes. And he said to me, “Chino! Chino!” My hand reflexively swung to wipe out the superior little smile from the bold brat’s face. But I took hold of myself. I scrutinized the boy. His handsome face—a blend of East and West—was glowing, happy almost, but the disease had set in—a meanness already glimmered 160 [3.86.235.207] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 19:37 GMT) in his eyes. My heart ached for him. I wanted to reach out and hug him before hate could eat his soul. I wanted to say to him: “Yes, little brother, my eyes are slanted, and rather beautifully, I think. And yes, I am a Chino, and so are you. My ancestors came from China, and so did yours. My many-times-great-grandfather and yours, they probably played and rode through the vast steppes together as boys. Maybe they were even cousins, who cried on each other’s shoulders when yours rode east on the land bridge and mine was left behind. My little cousin, who has taught you to hate a part of yourself so?” Then his father walked up, an older version of the boy, but gnarled like a wind-twisted vine. He gave me a measuring look, then a copy of his son’s superior smirk, as if to say: “I am Spanish: I may look half Indian, but I’m all European.” 161 Letter from the Shore of the Dragon River 1. Letter from the Shore of the Dragon River So news of you finally reaches me here on the shore where we used to run and play. I heard that you had crossed Mekong River to seek refuge in the land of the Thai. I heard they put you in a cattle pen and for a year fed you leftover scraps, that you lived in little shanties of sticks, drank water from wells dug next to shitholes. Now they tell me that you have flown in a metal eagle into the land of giants. Are they like in the stories we heard— do they feed you till you are fat to eat? Here on the shore of the Dragon River, nothing has changed, except for your presence. The river flows calmly in blue summer and brings raging yellow monsoon currents. 2. In the House of Karst From my bedroll in this little corner— my own private space—of the cavern, I see countless false stars reflect the flame of my little candle that tries to turn 162 [3.86.235.207] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 19:37 GMT) the gloom of this void into truenight. I sit here and try to form my thoughts into a shape, a glowing messenger arrow that will transcend the vast night sky: This past season of rain and storms, monsoon currents...