Writing

I watched her struggle writing her name always trying to perfect m But she scribbles it with four humps I told her “ma’ it is two like a camel” but she gave up I remember being in the third grade and after homework was all done I didn’t go out to play. My father had me teach my mother what I learned in school that day. But she gave up on that too. I remember my sick days being spent at the dr.’s office or the DMV trying to translate big words into a language my mother will understand I am sorry my vocabulary wasn’t big enough for you then. It wasn’t until my freshman year in high school I began to question why my mother wasn’t “smart” I am sure she was, but according to this land education is measured by degrees She was smart enough to hide when everyone ran from the Khmer Gahom She was smart enough to flee a land where people were killing those who spoke the same tongue. She told me she is afraid to be called smart. Those are the people they kill. No one kept this story written all mouths were closed. Because those who spoke, were killed too. They were killing people who spoke the same tongue who wrote their own names who breathed the same Cambodian air. They were killing each other and she watched them struggle.