Home of the Brave (4 page)

tall not-dead trees.

It's a place for

a leader of men to work in,

not a place for small children

to learn their numbers.

Dave sees my falling-open mouth.

Don't be scared, Kek, he says.

But I'm not scared,

not like that.

Scared is for men with guns

and maybe just a little

for a flying boat

finding its way

back to earth.

Inside my school

the floor shines like ice.

I walk carefully.

Thin metal doors with silver handles

line the walls.

Those are called lockers, Dave says.

C'mon. We're early,

but the teacher wants to meet you.

Waiting in a big-windowed room

is a woman with black hair that dances

and sturdy arms

and eyes that tell jokes.

You must be Kek, she says,

and then she uses my word

for hello.

I'm ready to begin

my learning, I say,

and she tosses out a loud laugh

like a ball into the air.

I can see you mean business, she says.

A man comes in,

young and short

with skin the color of rich earth,

just like mine.

He says he is Mr. Franklin

and he helps sometimes in class

when Ms. Hernandez needs

to do her deep breathing.

Everyone laughs,

so I laugh, too,

because it's always

good to be polite.

This will be your desk, Ms. Hernandez says.

Have a seat.

She points to a shiny chair

and little table.

A chair of my own

and a table, too?

I smother the thought

like an ember near dry grass.

I'm very sorry, but I can't,

I say softly. I don't have the cattle

for such a fine desk as this.

Oh, she says,

you don't have to pay for this desk, Kek.

School's free here.

You just bring your mind

and your smile

every day, OK?

Carefully I sit.

I like very much this new desk

with its cool, smooth top.

My mouth will not stop smiling.

READY

You're not going to understand

a lot of what we say at first, Ms. Hernandez says.

This is called an ESL class.

You and your classmates

will be learning English together.

It means they won't always

understand you.

And you won't always

understand them.

I'm used to not understanding, I say.

It's like playing a game

with no rules.

She nods.

That's exactly what it's like.

I know, because when I came

to the U.S. from Mexico,

I couldn't speak a word of English.

This is a surprise.

A teacher who did not know

all things?

Did you not know things also?

I ask Mr. Franklin.

Me? I'm from Baton Rouge, he says.

That's kinda like another country.

I couldn't understand

these crazy northern folks

for the longest time.

Some of his words get lost

on their way to my ears.

But I can see from his face

that his meaning is kind.

When you have a question,

Mr. Franklin and I will be

here to help, says Ms. Hernandez.

She points to the sky.

You just raise your hand

like this, OK?

I nod. I say, OK,

just like her.

I raise my hand.

Yes? she says, smiling big.

I ask,

When will the learning begin?

CATTLE

In my class,

my long-name class

called English-as-a-Second-Language,

we are sixteen.

Sixteen people

with twelve ways of talking.

When we talk at once

we sound like the music class

I can hear down the hall,

hoots and squeaks and thuds,

but no songs you can sing.

I look at our faces

and see all the colors of the earth—

brown and pink and yellow and white and black—

and yet we are all sitting at the same desks,

wanting to learn the same things.

Ms. Hernandez

tells everyone my name

and my old home.

Then she asks us

to draw a picture

on the black wall

to show where we come from.

One boy,

Jaime from Guatemala,

draws a mountain with a hole

called a volcano.

Sahar from Afghanistan

draws a camel,

though to be truthful

it looks like a lumpy dog.

I draw a bull with great curving horns,

like the finest in my father's herd.

I even give him a smile.

But it takes me a while

to decide on his coat.

In my words

we have ten different names

for the color of cattle.

But the writing chalk is only white.

I am working on the tail

when someone in the back of the room says,

Moo.

Then more say it,

and more,

and soon we are

a class of cattle.

At last we can all

understand each other.

I think maybe some of the students

are laughing at me.

But I don't mind so much.

To hear the cattle again

is good music.

LUNCH

After much schooling,

a sound comes

like a great bee buzzing.

The bell means lunch,

Mr. Franklin explains.

He gives me a small piece

of blue paper.

This is for your food.

Thank you very much,

I say in my most polite English words,

but I don't understand how the

paper can help my noisy belly.

You give the paper

to the cooking people

and they will give you food, Mr. Franklin explains.

Tastes much better than paper.

He laughs. Well, usually, anyway.

The eating room is grand

with long tables

and strange and wonderful smells

and many students chattering.

I stand in a line

and soon kind, white-hatted people

fill my plate high with food.

Ahead of me

I see the snowball girl named Hannah

from my building.

She says, Don't eat the mystery meat

if you value your life.

Then she points to a brown wet pile

on my plate and makes a face that says

bad taste
.

When my tray is heavy

with the gifts of food,

I stand still in the

stream of students.

I don't know where to go

to enjoy my feast.

Hannah waves.

Follow me, she says.

I'll tell you what's

safe to eat.

But it's all so fine! I say.

She shakes her head.

Kid, you got a lot to learn.

FRIES

We sit at one of the long tables.

Nearby are two students

from my class:

Jaime, the boy from Guatemala

and Nishan, the girl from Ethiopia.

Hey, Jaime says.

Hey, I say back,

but I can't talk anymore

because my mouth is already

full of new tastes.

Excuse me, I say when I have swallowed at last,

but what is this amazing food?

I hold up a brown stick.

Fry, Hannah says.

One of the five major food groups.

This fry,

it grows in your

America ground? I ask.

Hannah laughs,

a sound like bells

on a windy day.

I suppose you could say that.

You're Kek, right?

I know because

I asked your cousin.

Hannah passes me a paper cup

filled with strange and beautiful red food.

Ketchup, she says.

You dip your fries in it.

I do what she says,

then eat.

You're a fine cook, I say.

Hannah and Jaime and Nishan laugh.

I feel glad I found enough words

to make people happy.

When a friend laughs,

it's always a good surprise.

NOT KNOWING

I see your cousin

at the apartments sometimes, Hannah says.

He's a very quiet guy.

I have to think for a moment.

To eat such happy food

and think about words

at the same time

is much work.

Ganwar, I say, has many worries.

He seems kind of sad, Hannah says.

I look at the fry in my hand

with its shiny coat of red.

I want only to eat,

and not to remember.

But Hannah's words

tug like tight rope

on a calf's neck.

Ganwar lost his father and his sisters

when the fighting came, I tell her.

Hannah nods. Her eyes

are blue and gray,

or maybe green. I can't be sure.

I remember a kind doctor at the camp

with such eyes.

How did he lose his hand? Hannah asks in a gentle voice.

I don't know the words

for this.

Some English words I hope

I never learn.

Men came with guns and knives

to our village, I answer at last.

To be in such fighting,

says Nishan,

is very bad.

And what about your family?

Jaime asks me.

I stop eating.

I take a breath.

My father and my brother, Lual,

they were killed

by the government men.

I saw it.

I pause,

as a memory pokes at me

like a knife in my back.

I was lucky to see, I add.

Lucky? Hannah asks.

Her voice says

she doesn't understand.

Nishan looks at me with

eyes that know of such things.

Maybe Kek means lucky

to know for sure, she explains.

Not knowing,

it's the hardest.

Yes, I agree.

The hardest.

How about your mom? Hannah asks softly.

I …

Guilt grabs my throat.

I will not go to that

black place today.

I try again.

She'll come, I say.

I'll wait here for her.

Waiting is hard, too,

Hannah says,

and I can see that she

also knows sad places.

I push my tray away.

I'm not so hungry anymore.

HOME

I take the school bus home.

It's a long yellow car

filled with screaming, laughing students

and many paper balls wet with spit.

I don't think it would be easy

to drive such a car.

My aunt is sleeping when I get home.

Ganwar enters with a white basket

under his arm.

The washing machine's in the basement, he says.

The what? I ask.

The room way down at the bottom of the stairs.

I'll show you later.

He surprises me with a smile like

Lual might have made,

a big-brother-making-trouble smile.

You'll like doing the wash.

It's my job, but if you want,

I might let you help.

Sure, I say,

although I don't

trust that mischief smile.

I remember well how Lual and Ganwar

used to tease and test me.

Always I was the little child

with foolish ideas and silly ways.

Always they were too old

to bother with me,

unless it was for their own fun.

The door to my aunt's room opens

and she comes out slowly,

yawning and stretching.

How was school? she asks.

You would not believe it, I say.

They teach you and feed you

and I have my own desk.

We're going to visit the zoo

where animals live

and the plan …

plan-et-arium …

where stars live.

And I'm going to learn how to

dunk-slam in the class called PE.

Slam-dunk, Ganwar corrects.

Good, my aunt says, good boy,

and she fills a kettle with water

to put on the cooking fire.

I want to tell her more,

but I can see

that her mind is visiting other places.

I think maybe I'll like

living here in America, I say to Ganwar.

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

But you'll never really feel like an American,

Ganwar says. You'll see.

Why? I ask.

Ganwar shrugs.

Because they won't let you.

He tosses the basket on the sofa.

I'm outta here, he says, switching to English.

Be home by—

my aunt begins,

but Ganwar is already gone.

TIME

My aunt sighs and leans against the counter.

He's just not happy here, she says.

I know it's been hard for him.

But he doesn't try.

She rubs her eyes.

I have to go work, Kek. I've got an early shift.

Eat what you like and go to bed by eight.

I learned o'clocks at the camp, I say.

It is called time telling.

But why not use the sun and the stars?

My aunt points to the tiny clock

strapped to her arm.

Here in America, this is the sun.

You'll get used to it.

For now, just get some sleep.

I watch her put on her heavy coat.

She isn't even at work yet,

and already she's tired.

I go to the door with her.

Are you …

I stop, then try again.

Are you glad that you're here?

My aunt seems surprised that I would ask

such a question. She thinks for a moment.