A Kind of Kinship
Malina Tran
Before the Khmer Rouge, you had two grandmothers, three older brothers, a baby sister.
You grew up running along pepper plantations, among salt fields. At the family general store, you helped sell coffee, cigars, peppercorns, textiles. On balmy days, when school was out, you drifted along ribboning river bends and sprawled on boulders to dry off. You ate fresh durian from Pou’s farm, under the shade of palm fronds.
When your village was bombed, you fled with your family to Phnom Penh. While a civil war raged on in the countryside, cinema was flourishing in the capital city. In theaters, you watched Crocodile Man, The Children Killer, The Snake King's Wife Parts 1 and 2. Invariably, the next day, you recounted plots, gory details, dialogue word by word to the earnest ears of schoolmates. Your brothers came home late from discotheques on Saturday nights. They swayed as they played records belting the sappy songs of Sinn Sisamouth: ‘Don't think I've forgotten, I'll always remember you, all the things you've said to me….’
Remember his voice, Tevy, they told you. This legend will put Cambodia on the map.
He’ll live forever, they said, in nodding agreement.
During some of your darkest moments—being separated from your parents into work camps, watching your sister starve to death—you recalled that crooning voice. You later learned that the famous singer had been killed in the genocide; his master recordings, destroyed. His voice disappeared from the world, but not your memory.
In 1982, you and your family landed in Minnesota, America’s heartland. It was in the middle of a blustery snowstorm. What remained of your family were your parents, your brother Sovan and sister Sophea. You were now the eldest. Puffs of clouds left your mouth every time you and your siblings whisper-chanted, ‘U-S-A, number one.’ Miss Julie, your teacher at the refugee camp in the Philippines, had taught you that phrase when you told her of your departure to America, her gentle eyes welling up.
At the airport, Jesuit congregants welcomed you with toiletries, Salvation Army clothing, the Holy Bible. Your father used to roll joints with Bible pages as he awaited news of your family’s sponsorship. Even after he was baptized and became a devout Christian, he still boasted that he once smoked the entire New Testament. The day you arrived in America was the first time you had been on a long-haul flight. First time someone called you a ‘survivor.’ First time you saw snow and wore gloves, ear muffs, a knitted wool scarf that was as warming as it was suffocating. When you all gathered into a prayer circle, you gave thanks to God and Reagan.
Miss Julie had shown you photos of the Statue of Liberty, the Golden Gate Bridge, Mount Rushmore. But you saw none of those. You lived in a bitter-cold city of pelting snow and black ice. You heard about other Khmer families being robbed for cash and jewelry hemmed into the lining of undergarments. Crime was always rampant at the start of the month, when welfare checks were mailed. Seeking protection, boys as young as your brother were being jumped into Laotian and Vietnamese gangs. You were instructed to never open the door, come straight home, don’t talk to strangers, even if they’re Khmer. You didn’t need to be told twice: The perpetrators of the genocide were your own people.
***
You enrolled in high school. Even if you hadn’t missed formal education for the past seven years, English remained elusive. You couldn’t command your tongue to pronounce r’s. You didn’t understand metaphors or idioms. In ESL class, you befriended a shy Khmer girl, but after a month, she relocated to California. So you hung around some Hmong girls who tolerated you eating lunch with them. You struggled to speak in broken English, but most days went by when you didn’t say a word to anyone. Most nights you cried yourself to sleep, wondering what kind of a God would allow your people to perish. You’d wake up the next day, cheek against a still-soaked pillow.
Eventually, the weather turned tame and temperate. Your bones felt like they were finally defrosting, and you could breathe without inhaling shards of biting air. The pattering of rain, in place of snowfall, sounded like the opening tempo of a melody. Or a kindly neighbor tapping on your window. At night, heavy bouts of showers reminded you of those back home, ushered in by the southwest monsoon: sudden, pounding, thunderous.
There were droves of new students at school. Shell-shocked refugees fleeing from the same region as you. Laden with landmines and carnage. There were boat people, mountain tribespeople, and also, your people. Wide noses, startled dark round eyes, skin the color of sand and silt. You mustered the courage to approach these strangers, familiar in their resemblance to you, with the same one-worded opening line: Khmer?
Over time, you found yourself surrounded by friends of your own making. Among them were Sokling, who was also from your province; Neang, who insisted everyone call her Nancy, after the First Lady; Chanda, who had a snagged tooth you all envied. Together, you joked and jabbed, scrunched up your noses at sloppy joes. English still sounded garbled in your mouth, but you knew enough, at least more than them, to tutor them. They were perplexed by verb tenses and irrational plural forms. Their jaws dropped when they found out that words like ‘though’ and ‘tough’ were spelled as such, yet had wildly different pronunciation.
Your circle was bounded by a kind of kinship. You never had to explain yourselves when one of you were having an off day, or haunted by a memory that had dislodged itself. Or, in recollecting something lighthearted from the past, you abruptly bursted into sobs. A story cut short, a missed punchline. All you could do was tend to each other in your mother tongue: It’s okay, don’t think that way, it’s all behind us now. There was an implicit understanding of the deadening weight each of you carried, the magnitude of your losses. But none of you had the words for it in either language.
***
One day, Sovan came home craving a Big Mac. He’d seen the billboard by his schoolyard. Boys in his class mentioned it in the same breath as Knight Rider. When your mother said there was no money to spare, he pulled out a rumpled Ziploc. A shiny penny inside. You saw the glint in his eyes. You saw how much he wanted one, so you offered to help save, even if you preferred the aromatic food of your homeland. You dreamt of steamed catfish curry and beef noodle soup, garnished with lemongrass and kaffir lime leaves. You salivated at the memory of sweet juices dripping from a perfectly ripe mango, biting into a fleshy jackfruit.
Together, you and Sovan scoured sidewalks, seat cushions on the bus, checkout lanes for loose coins. When you finally had $1.30, you sprinted to McDonald’s. As you ordered, Sovan held onto the Ziploc with one hand as he clawed coins out with the other. You counted and grouped them into tens. Neither of you realized how heavy the sagging bag had become, that the seam was tearing, until it sent all of the coins clanging and clattering on the restaurant floor.
The place went silent.
Heads swiveled, drawing what seemed like a thousand eyes gazing at you. Then, a chorus of laughter rang out, punctuated by applause from some older college boys in the back corner.
Sovan’s bottom lip quivered. You couldn’t bear to see him cry, so you dropped to your knees and sweeped the coins toward you. An employee stepped from behind the counter and stopped you. Gesturing at a broom, he said he’ll sweep up the coin and upgrade your order to a meal.
Did you understand correctly? He gestured at his broom, said that the meal would include a free side of fries and medium Coke. Taken aback, you thanked him, meekly but effusively.
Once the iconic red tray arrived, Sovan offered to share the Big Mac. You declined. No, it was his to savor. Instead, you picked at the salty fries and sipped the Coke, which pricked your throat as it went down.
This is American dream, Sovan said, grinning toothily. Another phrase from Miss Julie.
A-mer-i-can. You repeated the word several times, first stretching it out and then running it together. Sovan echoed you, teasing. Then you both said it over and over. Exaggerated at first, in your best English, then in singsong, in between bites and slurps and chomps, until you both started squealing in laughter. Until it no longer sounded foreign in your mouth.
American.
​
Biography: Malina Tran is a writer and software engineer from Los Angeles. Her work strives to amplify the resilience and richness of voices from the margins. She is currently workshopping fiction with the International Writers’ Collective in Amsterdam, Netherlands, and holds a B.A. in English from UCLA.