My graduation speech

I was honored when the seniors chose me as their speaker at last weekend's graduation. Here's my speech - it was fun to write, but I'm relieved it's over and I didn't trip on the stairs or burst into tears during it! Writing it made me reflect a lot on my time at Logos and my hopes for what students will take with them as they go... as well as what *I* hope to take with me as I return to the US.

Most of the senior girls with another teacher and me

When I came to Logos back in 2009, you were in 7th grade and I was a brand-new English teacher. 15 of you were already at Logos that year. I had no idea how to teach 7th grade English, but you guys were very patient through all my mistakes, and we had a fun year together. I got to be your homeroom teacher that year, and again when you were in 10th grade, and again in 11th grade. I’ve taught your English class every year but grade 10, and some of you I’ve had in 7 different English and French courses. So out of all the classes I’ve ever taught at Logos, I know you guys the best. And it’s such a privilege to be here today for your graduation.

I’m proud of all that you’ve achieved. Your class has grown up so much in the time we’ve known each other. In 7^th grade you were lively and energetic and you didn’t always listen, and today… well, maybe some things haven’t changed. But you’ve definitely learned a lot in between. In 7^th grade, I had you choose a country and research it, and you kind of had a hard time with it. In your country projects,

●        One person wrote, quote: “Malaysia’s national language are Brunei and Indonesia.”

●        Someone else said, “[Japanese people] do not live in urban places.”

●        A third student wrote, “Sudan’s top 2 religion are Muslim and Islam.”

And yes, all three writers are in this room today, graduating from Logos. So clearly, you’ve come a long way. But not only in your research skills. You’ve learned about community, how to embrace others as they are, how to work together and encourage each other. You have learned about suffering, how to endure it, and how to support others as they endure it. You’ve learned about leadership, how to be thermostats who set the temperature instead of thermometers who just reflect the climate, how to lead humbly and be willing to laugh at yourselves. And as you’ve learned these valuable lessons, I’ve learned from you.

In World Lit this year, we studied the Hero’s Journey. We saw that from Frodo Baggins to Percy Jackson, from Monkey to Mulan, many of literature’s most beloved characters depart on a great adventure, a mission to attain something very valuable. Joseph Campbell says these heroes go through a similar process throughout their quest. And the reason that throughout history, these stories of adventure have resonated with humankind, is because each of us is also on a journey seeking something we treasure.

Isaiah 26:8 describes the path and the goal of every believer’s journey:

Yes, Lord, walking in the way of your laws,

    we wait for you;
your name and renown
    are the desire of our hearts.

You’re crossing the threshold today for a great adventure. The limits are unknown, the terrain is unfamiliar, but you’re not going it alone – you have a supernatural helper, the Holy Spirit, ready to journey with you and to guide you step by step.

I want to challenge you to take out your invisible backpacks and fill them with three things you’ll need for the journey. Those three things are grit, grace, and glory.

1. Grit

To explain grit, I need to ask you. Have you ever read an adventure novel that went kind of like this? “Once upon a time, a young heroine left on a great quest to save the nation. It was easy. She finished by dinnertime and then watched TV till she fell asleep. The end.” Yeah, me neither.

What makes adventures so great is the very fact that there are huge obstacles, that the heroes have to struggle and grow and change before they’re able to accomplish their goal. And the bigger the trials, the more satisfying it is when you get to the happy ending.

Grit means you don’t look for the smooth road, but the road that takes you somewhere worth going. And when you find that road, you’re not put off by the potholes and boulders. You just keep climbing, crawling, and clambering forward any way you can, because you’re determined to reach your goal. G.K. Chesterton said, “An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.” I hope you have the grit to see the adventure hiding in each difficulty.

2. Grace

As well as grit, you’ll need a lot of grace. None of us are as strong as we’d like to seem. We’re not as wise, or as good, as we want to believe. I can fool others for a while, and maybe I can even convince myself that I’ll get there soon. But eventually I keep being confronted with the truth that I cannot handle my journey. I am not enough.

Grace is when God gives us things that we didn’t earn and can’t repay. His approval, for instance. We cannot hide our flaws from God. But because Jesus followed God’s path completely, Jesus was perfect. And by extension, anyone who’s trusted in Jesus is also made perfect in God’s eyes. It’s that simple. When God looks at our progress, He sees Jesus who’s already finished the quest.

Because of God’s grace for us, we can give ourselves grace. Grace for when we’re struggling just to lift our feet for one more step, and grace for when we look around and think we’re beating everyone. Grace to return to God’s path when we realize our brilliant shortcut has once again landed us in the menacing forest marked “Danger: Do Not Enter.” In all those times, we can enjoy the unconditional love of the God who sees us as we are, the God whose patience never runs out, the God who strengthens our feeble legs to make it up the mountain.

And we can give grace to others too, because when we receive God’s grace, we realize that this journey was never meant to be about comparing. There will always be a temptation to measure ourselves by the mile markers along the road, but like we discussed in devotions last fall, you know you’re not a number. There’s no such thing as bragging rights because everyone’s on their own journey and nobody would have made it this far without a whole lot of help.

3. Glory

Finally, you’re going to need glory on your journey. Not so much your own glory, as eyes to see the glory of God in the world around you.

One thing we all appreciate about a good adventure is the author’s creativity. The hero travels through fantastic lands, encounters memorable characters, and wrestles with profound words of wisdom. Whoever heard of a hero being bored? Sometimes life is going to feel mundane or dry or slow. But adventurers often discover that there’s more to life than meets the eye.

No matter where you are or how tedious it seems, there are always cool things just begging to be found. Don’t waste your life waiting for the good parts to arrive – discover them where you are! Mary Oliver has these instructions for living a life: “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”

A great example of this is Seung Hyun and Chan at the service camp last year. We made telephones using plastic cups and yarn, and we thought they’d be fun for the little village kids. But they’d never seen them, and they were so amazed, they were running around yelling, “Wow, I can’t believe it! These are so cool!” It really made me grin. There is amazement hidden in plastic cups and yarn. I promise, if you celebrate like that, if you stop to appreciate the scent of mango leaves and the sight of clouds and the sound of plastic cups, your life will be so much richer.

Also, look for glory in the people around you. The Bible says every human being is God’s image-bearer; His glory is on display in each of us. Look for the way each person in your life embodies God’s creativity, His kindness, His beauty. Look for what each person can teach you and how their example can inspire you.

By the end of their journey, heroes are always different from when they started. But it’s not that they’ve lost themselves – it’s that they’ve become more and more who they really are. As Christians, Jesus Christ is the goal of our quest, and our encounters with Him transform us into who we were always meant to be.

The hero’s journey ends with the freedom to live. Freedom to live means no regrets about the past, no fears about the future. In God’s presence, all our shame and fear fade away, replaced by confidence in His love for us.

I hope you find that wherever you go, you keep growing and becoming who you truly are. Whether you’re in a peaceful phase or a cliffhanger moment, may you always have the courage to move forward, armed with grit, grace, and glory. And may your quest lead you all the way into the loving presence of the Almighty. God bless you, Class of 2015. 

Memoirs - Tim Tea

I got permission from several World Literature students to publish their memoirs here. Each memoir combines a story about an adult's influence on the student's life with a story about the adult's own experiences, based on an interview. I found them an intriguing glimpse into my students' lives and histories - I hope you enjoy them too.

Timothy is an American senior of Cambodian ancestry; his father is a Khmer Rouge survivor.

Fish and Porridge

             When I was young I believed my dad was the greatest storyteller. In San Diego’s cold nights I would snuggle up in bed with my brother, and my father would come and whisper short tales to us as drowsiness lulled us to sleep. When the lights switched off and the room was drowned in reverential silence, my dad would begin speaking, and I would be slowly spirited away into the land of his words.

            “Tell us another one,” I would always ask when my dad finished a story. He would smile, hug me and my brother, and then tell us to wait until next time. And so I waited and waited, through the days and through the months and through the arches of the years, until eventually I grew too old for bedtime stories. I developed desires for independence, and with every passing season I came to believe more and more that my dad was already beginning to run out of stories to tell.

            Boy, was I wrong.

            I can’t exactly recall when it happened, but there was a point when my father became a storyteller again. I didn’t know why then, but my father was fierce when it came to the family. “Do not forget your family,” he once told me, “protect them, stay near them, never weigh your friends above them—friends will come and go, but you will only have one family.” The values of this message were hammered into me and my brother until they became something of a mantra for us. 

That was why, for as long as I can remember, my father would take the family out every week to partake in what he called “spending time.” As a kid I loved this, since it meant eating out at a place where the main dish was something other than white rice and Asian food. But as I entered my teenage years and nurtured my addiction to video games, “spending time” became less and less appealing to me. I wanted to spend all my time with my own friends—with the “cool kids”—whose parents gave them so much money and freedom. 

One day my classmates invited me to go to the movies to watch a newly released horror flick. Naturally I was stoked, and I rushed to tell my parents of my recent advance up the social ladder. My father was hesitant, but he gave me permission to go on one condition: I had to allow my brother to go with me as well.

This I met with a deep breath and an inward groan. “He’s gonna make things awkward and ruin everything!” I wanted to say. I bit back my tongue because I knew that a single breath against my father’s words could result in my disownment. Fortunately my brother really didn’t want to hang out with me or my friends, so that ordeal resolved itself quickly. I ended up going to the movies after all, but little did I know the same situation would haunt me through the years like a bad ghost.

Every time an invitation to hang out reached my ears, I was met with the same question from my father: “did you ask your brother?” Granted, my default answer was always “no,” but it reached a point when it became, “no, I do not want to ask my brother.” Being passive aggressive, I kept my mouth shut, knowing better than to push and prod the head of the household. Respect for the father was paramount; anything less was tantamount to cultural suicide.

That was the way things were with my father. I was taken to places I did not want to go and kept from places I did want to go. The divide between him and me was drawn in spastic clashes of contradicting wills. He wanted me to stay close to the family, I wanted to break free of it. Any sign of rebellion from me was quickly met with rebuke.

“Don’t go out with your friends today, stay with your brother.”

“Go back home. You’ve been out of the house too much.”

“Your brother is home alone. Just stay there.”

“Don’t keep silent all the time. Be giving, and be obedient.”

This continued week after week, month after month, until my lungs were so filled with unspoken words that they began to spill over into my actions. I became what my mother called mok tmor—a ”stone face.” A rough cultural translation would be that I turned into a brat, and my parents became cliffs against an ocean of pubescent rage.  

The effects of the stone face were not limited to my refusal to smile. My tolerance for my brother slimmed to such an extent that even the smallest annoyance from him would elicit a loud response from me. I began to spend more time with video games than with people. I would close off my ears to my parents' reproval, and I hid behind mental fortresses that I erected out of self-justification for my feelings. I deserved to be heard, didn’t I? I deserved a little freedom and liberty, right? Didn’t this life belong to me? My parents were old, they would never understand—or so I told myself.

One day, my father took me and my brother out to “spend time” with the family. Instead of going to the usual fast food chain restaurants my family frequented, my father brought us to a simple cafe. The entire place smelled of old coffee, and the furniture looked like something out of a retirement home. I was dismayed when the first dish served was a pot of gooey porridge with strands of strong ginger. Disappointed and unwilling to eat, I voiced an implicit complaint to my father.

“Pa, why are we eating here?” I asked.

My father narrowed his eyes through rectangular spectacles as if he was staring into my soul. He opened the pot of porridge and simply said, “Don’t be picky, just eat and be grateful.” This was when he began to tell stories again. Before I could make another remark, I noticed my father drop his shoulders as if there was a weight he wanted to release. Wrinkles formed across the seams of his face, and his eyes became wispy and distant, like he was in another place and another time.

Then he turned to me and my brother and gave us a long wistful stare. And I could feel it again, the nights in San Diego when he would tell us bedtime stories. The cafe became quiet and still, and time seemed to halt as my father began to spin his tale.

“Listen, a long time ago, when I was young… “  

I was surprised at what happened next. He didn’t tell us any of his old children’s stories. Nothing about what he said that day was meant for the ears of children. Instead of being a story about men becoming kings and princes who conquered the world, it was about a boy living in a time when his country was in hell. It was about a boy who saw more death than most people live to witness. There was no magic, no wonder, no brilliant sheen about the words that left his mouth. There was only a bleak chill that bathed my father in a new light. 

This was my father’s story, one that soon became my own.

           My dad grew up in the flats of a young Phnom Penh. He remembered vaguely of his days there—the days that preceded the revolution. For the most part he remembered his house being empty of parents and empty of plenty. My dad’s own father, an unfaithful man, eloped from my father’s mother—my Amah—soon after he married her. Amah was left with two children and bereft of any support a spouse was supposed to provide. That being said, my dad’s family was poor, so poor that he had to work in school in order to help Amah pay rent.

“Eang-ah, I will come home late today,” Amah would say on most mornings. My dad would then nod, chug down his last few bits of hot porridge, and grab his book bag along with a satchel filled with cookies and sweets. When break time came during class, he would take his snack bag and spread all of its contents over his desk. Some of the kids came to buy from him, others snickered and laughed at his deprivation.

My dad didn’t mind the derision of the other kids all too much. Not in retrospect. Whether you were rich or poor back then, you were soon going to suffer a storm of loss and poverty. That storm came in April 17th, 1975, and his name was Pol Pot. When Pol Pot and his communist army finally defeated Lon Nol’s forces in Phnom Penh, the people went rejoicing in the streets. Here were their saviors, they thought. Here were the men who were going to rescue them from America’s bombs. They did not know that Pol Pot would do to them what Mao did to China, or Stalin to Russia. Their celebration lasted only a few days before Pol Pot ordered a three-day evacuation of the whole city.

My dad, aged at a sprouting 11, was already in a province called Pailin at the time. Amah worked there as a miner and a snack seller, and my dad and aunt were assisting in any way they could. My dad remembered bringing rice and fish wrapped in banana leaves to Amah for lunch. The mines were dirty and smelled like musty eggs, and he always hated going there. But he knew that many miners died within weeks of work from water illnesses, so he continued his errands hoping that every day he gave lunch to Amah it would not be his last time seeing her.

While my dad was in Pailin, he thought he knew what it meant to be poor. He thought he knew what it meant to be hungry and to have nothing. But when the Khmer Rouge trucks finally came rolling into his village in Pailin, he began to realize just how wrong he was.

Soldiers dressed in black were unloaded off large green trucks. They wore red kromas and held large automatic guns. Even though the villagers were excited that the Khmer Rouge had arrived, my dad saw right off the bat that something was wrong: the soldiers were only children. Most of them looked like teenagers—some of them didn’t look any older than he was—yet they were striding through the village carrying firearms.

“Mak (Mom),” my dad whispered to Amah. “They’re my age and they have guns.”

Amah nodded but remained silent. Fear danced wildly in her eyes, and her stunned gaze was kept on the child soldiers. She already knew what kind of evil would occur when children are given guns. It’s only natural that when you give fire to a child, someone is bound to get burnt. But what about when you arm that child with a weapon of death? Naturally, people are going to die.    

What happened after the arrival of the soldiers was a blur of horror and misery that proved to haunt my dad for decades. Parents were separated from their children and forced to work until their hearts burst and their minds shattered. Children who were not given tasks to labor and take care of the young were reeducated and made into executioners. Anyone they found to be traitors to Angkor—the supreme state—were slaughtered along with their families. Infants belonging to “traitors” were dashed against tree bark. Men were tied to trees infested with fire ants as punishment. Executions became so overwhelmingly commonplace that the people were no longer surprised when their loved ones were taken to be killed.

My dad would sometimes see bodies strewn in disarray before him, their blood pooling into puddles along the road. He remembered falling into deep illness one time and ending up in a makeshift hospital staffed by children. The children mixed coconut milk and dirt for medicine, and my dad remembered waking up each morning to find friends he knew the previous night dead in their beds. He had no idea how he survived that ordeal, but he knew that many longed for the chance to go to sleep and never wake up like his friends.

My dad also remembered a great hunger that descended on the country. It was a perpetual hunger that turned his stomach into a chasm and shrunk his body into a ragged bag of bones. He recalled walking by, disoriented and famished, and catching sight of a single kernel of corn on the road. He picked up the muddy kernel and slipped it into his mouth, letting the food settle in his stomach before breaking down into tears. Hope was a fickle food back then, scarcer and thinner than anything else in the world.

Later on he went back to his village in Pailin where the officers weren’t as strict as the other provinces. He approached his sister Ay and grabbed her by the shoulders, taking out a piece of dried fish from his dirty pockets. “Here Ay,” he said, showing her his trophy. “I found it at another children's camp not too far from here. Take it, and let’s go together.” His sister simply stared at him with her dishevelled face and sunken eyes, her body looking no better than the dried fish my dad held in his hands.

“What about Mak?” she asked hesitantly. “She said she will come back soon. I have to find her when she comes back.”

My dad shook his head. “Mak isn’t coming back for a long time. What’s the matter with you? Aren’t you hungry? This new place has more food than anywhere else, and I could sneak us in.”

My aunt, obstinate in her loyalty to her mother, refused to move. No matter how much my dad tried to coax her, she insisted on staying where she was. Finally, in a bout of frustration, my dad stormed off with his piece of dried fish and left Amah and my aunt behind. He arrived at the children's camp where food was plenty (or as plenty as a bowl of hot water and a few grains of rice could be), but there was something that bothered him afterwards.

Every now and then he would picture his sister, skin and bones and deep in hunger, waiting back at Amah’s camp. What would’ve happened if he'd stayed? What would’ve happened if he'd shared that dried piece of fish with his sister rather than bowls of porridge with strangers? Maybe he’d be able to sleep easier at night. Sometimes his mind would wander past the dark depravity of his country towards the future—towards a world of unlikely what-if’s. What if the future held an end to the struggle? What if there was peace? What if he was able to survive with his mother and his sister?

What if he had his own family, his own son? That son would surely never know his kind of hunger and his kind of loneliness. He would be taught to care for those who cared for him and protect those who protected him. He would learn not to abandon the family, because that is one of the greatest mistakes one can make. But my dad was getting ahead of himself. He knew that was probably never going to happen.

Memoirs - Lichheng Lim

I got permission from several World Literature students to publish their memoirs here. Each memoir combines a story about an adult's influence on the student's life with a story about the adult's own experiences, based on an interview. I found them an intriguing glimpse into my students' lives and histories - I hope you enjoy them too.

Lichheng is a junior. She is Cambodian.

Unspoken

I made a scene for at least two weeks of school.

I was three years old when I went to school for the first time. My mom was by my side, clutching my hand as I bounced along the cracked pavement through the garishly green gate where the ‘KINDERCARE INTERNATIONAL SCHOOL’ sign blared above us in bright yellow letters. Next to it, the pink elephant grinned with all the cheer a kindergarten mascot could muster. I was in high spirits, tugging her along as we went, beaming at the swimming pool and the monkey bars, so excited to start school.

That lasted for a good half hour until my father motioned to my mother to leave, and she sat me down and let go of my hand. “Study hard,” she said, and then she shifted, stood up, and began to walk away from me.

I stared after her, bewildered for at least three seconds. Ignoring the chattering peers that I’d befriended not minutes ago, I flung myself up and sprinted after her. She was the first one to turn around - it was almost as if she knew I was going to come back for her and look for her, but she didn’t open her arms and take me into them like she had done for the past three years. Instead, she shook her head, gently but firmly as I clung to her and fisted her shirt, begging her not to leave me.

“Mommy go now,” she told me sternly in her broken English, and then switched to Khmer. “You’re here for school. To be in school is to study. Study hard.”

“Ma!” I cried, shaking my head. “Ma, stay here!”

“I have to go to work,” she told me, and gently pried my fingers off. “You stay here and study. I will pick you up after school ends. You stay here.” Sighing softly, she knelt down until our eyes were at level. “You go make friends now and remember to listen to the teacher.”

I resisted her, but I ended up crying for at least the first two weeks of school. No one else cried; no one else seemed to miss their parents as desperately as I did. My teacher, a thin Filipino woman, directed me silently to a small red plastic chair. I took a seat next to her, excused from all the other activities, hiccuping and sniffling as I watched the other kids with disinterest and wondered how my mother could ever abandon me like this.

A few months later when I no longer cried in school and no longer had to be forced into the car, my mother told me that school was essential. It was a part of everyday life that I couldn’t avoid. School, she said, is important for growth.

I didn’t understand.

*********************

The treadmill squeaked as my mother jogged along it, quietly contemplating my question. Perched on the edge of a hard-backed chair, my body ached, and my arm protested fiercely as I held the recorder up, waiting to document her answers.

“Mom?” I prompted, a little impatiently. “Mom, what kind of comfort did you have growing up? Like, something that gave you a feeling of warmth.”

“I didn’t have a comfort,” she said at last between the pounding of her feet along the walking belt. “No, no comfort - but I did want some attention and care from my parents.” Here she laughed, and her steps quickened. “Yes, I did want them to notice me more and to pay attention to me.”

I noticed her steadily reddening eyes as she said that, and the gloss forming behind them, and I tried to pretend that I hadn’t seen it.

*********************

My mother is the second child of five children. She was born one year after the Khmer Rouge regime ended on February 15th, 1980 in the province of Battambang. Growing up, she lived in a wooden house near a lake, and she spent her days at school playing high jump, jump rope, octopus or tag, and at home running around playing hide and go seek. Her parents had to work very hard in order to earn enough to always ensure that there would be food in the stomachs of their five children, to ensure that they would never grow hungry. It was enough to give all five of them an education and keep them well-fed, but they couldn’t afford other luxuries such as new clothes or bikes. They were usually hand-me-downs, and they would only get new clothes twice every year.

Having four other siblings - four other girl siblings didn’t make living together a breeze, either. She was never really close to any of them, and in some cases, jealousy rose in their midst. There was no bitterness in her tone when she told me that she wanted a bicycle really badly when she was a child, but they could never afford one, and when she did get one, it was a creaky, rusted crimson hand-me-down from her oldest sister. Birthdays were never celebrated either, not really. Not for her and the older siblings, at least until this year. This year was the first time her birthday was an occasion that was actually celebrated. They were never close, her siblings and her - until now. It had taken her so long, but throughout the years, my mother came to realize the true worth of family. All the lessons and the repeated reminders of “keeping your family close” made sense to her now. And she told me, time and time again, that family is so important. That family is what you have left after everything else abandons you - that friends are good, friends do care, but they do not care as much and as deeply as family does for one another.

She laughed a lot when she was younger, and she told me that it was an unrestrained laughter. She laughed at silly things, at mild things, sometimes peals of laughter would slip through during serious moments. Childish, she called herself. Bad. Not good. “I am not like that now,” she said, shaking her head. “I learned that it was bad to be silly and laugh at everything. But did you know? I was just like you too when I was younger. I did not like vegetables and fruits. I only liked sweet things, crispy things. So unhealthy! I liked meat very much, and did not know how to eat vegetables until I grew up.”

School is the most important thing, she thought. An education is the most precious thing you can attain, and she worked hard in making that a reality for her children. The money she earned she channeled towards our education. It became her utmost priority. She recalled her childhood - how mundane things seemed like a luxury then. She didn’t want that to become a reality for her children. She wanted them to be educated, but she wanted to make enough money, too, to live comfortably, to be able to do what you want to do. It was what she wanted even when she was still young: to have things in abundance so that there would never be anything that is lacking or unattainable.

But it wasn’t just that. Working hard, giving us an education - she was trying to give us a good future, to pass the goodness of her works and actions onto us, her children. She hoped that in committing no wrongs, we would meet with good fortune and carry the goodness of our family down generations later. She drilled that into us at a young age - do good, do good, do good. Don’t do bad, don’t be like them, don’t. We are good people, she said. We are good people, so we must act like it.

It’s funny, she told me, that I am such a quiet child, never vying for attention from others: to be loved by them, to be cared for and asked after. She, on the other hand, wanted to be held and to be loved and for others - for her parents - to take part in her happiness and her successes.

“Maybe it’s better to be like you.” The smile on her face was slipping and she looked so lost and contemplative and determined all at once. “It was hard, you know. To be a child and want your parents to talk to you and to love you loudly and dearly.” Her eyes misted over, and her voice was shaky when she continued.

“It’s not easy, but I know now. I know that they were hard working parents, and they had five children. They couldn’t possibly pay attention to just me. I don’t blame them,” she added quickly. “I understood when I had you and your brother.

“When I became a parent, I wanted to pay more attention to my children: to let them know that they are loved and I love them.” She looked at me, and there was nothing but honesty and acceptance in her gaze. There was no accusation in her words as she said, “But you’re probably not satisfied with what I have done, are you?”

The words fell from her mouth as if it was a mere statement. It was like she’d rehearsed it so many times before, had thought through it and mulled over it enough times until it became a reality for her. A fact, no questions asked. I felt regretful and ashamed all at once, and all I could do was stare blankly at her and recount the number of times she’d proven that she loved me and had done more than enough for me.

*********************

When I was younger, my mother introduced me to my favorite foods. She always had a new dish for me to taste every afternoon, and I loved it. I remember the spicy and salty tang of the oyster when she dipped it in sauce and brought it to my lips, and my exclamation over its goodness and eager nodding for another share.

The summer before my second grade year, my friends and I were clustered around the front of my house, and we were holding hands. “Are you playing?” I asked in my loud, authoritative voice to the boy who was busy tying his shoe, effectively holding up our game.

“Yes!” he replied. “I’m playing.”

“Hurry up hurry up hurry up,” I chanted impatiently, and looked up to meet my mother’s eyes. Her smile was filled with amusement, and her eyes were filled with warmth and a deep affection. I grinned at her and pointed at him. “He’s so slow!”

*********************

“Drink,” she ordered me, and I drank obediently, gulping down the water in three goes. I handed her the cup and blinked up at her, a little dazed and sleepy.

“Nap?” she asked.

I nodded, but she already had my head in her lap, and I sighed contentedly and fell into a hazy sleep, comforted by her presence and the way she gently stroked my hair.

*********************

“Go to sleep,” she grumbled, yanking the blanket over me.

“I can’t!”

“Just close your eyes and you will go to sleep soon.” She settled her head on the pillow and sighed.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and I was as jumpy and high on sugar as any other five year old can be, but I was forced to take a nap of all things while my seven year old cousin was outside, no doubt having fun. The fun that I was desperately missing!

I squirmed in bed and stared at the blank TV and sighed. I squirmed some more and wondered how long it would take for her to fall asleep. I glanced at her and saw that her eyes were already closed, and she was breathing deeply.

I made a move to get out of bed, but she stopped me with her not-amused-with-you voice: “What are you doing?”

I was on my haunches, but my right foot was already swung over the bed and touching the cold tile floor, but under her stern one-eyed glare, I plopped back in bed, huffing slightly. This was terrible. I tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable spot. I should learn how to sneak out tomorrow before my afternoon nap and I should have my cousin help me out of it. Yeah, that was it! We could learn how to unlock the door and inch out as quietly as possible so the door won’t creak -

“Go to sleep right now!”

*********************

The squalling baby in her arms squirmed, crying, reaching its tiny fists up to her face. She held onto it gently, rocking the baby, and as a wave of tiredness crashed over her, all she could think was, I wouldn’t trade her for anything.

*********************

“No,” I said, and I hoped that she would know how earnest I was being. “No, you gave me the attention and care I needed. I remember what you’ve done for me.”

We spoke in riddles, my mother and I, never directly saying something heartfelt or emotional. I was saying, “I know, I understand, I’m sorry if I acted like I didn’t appreciate your efforts, I know you’re trying so hard.”

My mother and I have such subtle ways of saying ‘I love you’. Sometimes I wanted to get it out in one rush: IloveyouMomIthoughtyoushouldknow. But I felt as if the enormity of the statement was something we both wouldn’t be able to comprehend. Love, for us, was always there but it was never overly affectionate or obvious. Love was quiet and selfless and humble, and I saw it in her so clearly as I began to understand. I vowed to keep this close to my heart: to remember her sacrifices and the hardships she’d went through for me.

I went in for a hug and complained that because she’d been exercising, she was all sweaty and sticky. She laughed, but I thought and hoped that maybe, she knew what I was really saying. 

Memoirs - Jenny Leng

I got permission from several World Literature students to publish their memoirs here. Each memoir combines a story about an adult's influence on the student's life with a story about the adult's own experiences, based on an interview. I found them an intriguing glimpse into my students' lives and histories - I hope you enjoy them too.

Jenny is a Cambodian junior; her mother, Bora, is a Khmer Rouge survivor.

My Brother’s Keeper

Jenny

            “I don’t understand you,” her forehead bunches together, showing her disapproving lines. “You don’t like your uncle.”

            “What are you talking about, Ma? Of course I do.”

            “You think you can judge him, because he isn’t normal. You think you can disrespect him, because he is ill-minded.”

            Finally I burst out in vindictive anger at this wrong accusation. “I don’t disrespect him because he’s mentally ill; I pity him. And I’m sorry if you’re mistaking that for disrespect.”

            Ma’s face contorts in rage, but I continue. “And honestly, I don’t understand why you’re putting all of this on the family. Ever since he came to live here, he’s been a complete nuisance. And don’t you pretend for one instant that this is easy for you either.”

            She gives me a look that silences me. “Life is full of sacrifices,” she replies softly, her voice shaking. “And sacrifices are not easy.”

After this, Ma’s jaw clenches shut--her infamous countenance that signifies the end of conversations--but I know that there are still streams of thought coursing through her mind.

*************************

Bora

Forty years ago when I was barely past my late teens--the Khmer Rouge came and took everything away from me. Pol Pot targeted the educated, the literate, the intelligent. They were annihilated without mercy because anybody who had a mind of their own meant they had the capacity to rebel. My father was a policeman, so he was killed. That left me alone with my five siblings, for my mother had already died when I was just a little kid. We were then split into age groups. Apart from my youngest brother, I never saw any of my siblings again.

I remember one particular night when I was lying down in my designated spot in the small hut, feverish and stupefied with hunger. Whispers wrenched me out of my dreams and I woke up with a start, drenching with sweat.

“Sister...sister, wake up,” whispered a voice. I peered out into the pitch black darkness.

            The luminescent moon gleamed against the dark hue of the night sky, producing the silhouette of a ten year old boy, shaking in the cold of the night.

“Rith?” I gasped at my brother. “What are you doing here? They will kill you if they find you!” My malnutrition had depleted all the energy left in my arms and legs, but I managed to inch my way towards the shadow.

Instead of replying, my brother brought forth a raw potato barely the size of his fist. “Take it. Eat it.” He said in a low tone.

I stuttered. “But--”

My brother’s eyes darted anxiously, then pleaded me with his eyes for me to eat. Quietly, I submitted.

To admit to hunger was like walking into that infamous abyss yourself. Too often did I hear the phrase “If you are hungry, the Angkar will take you and stuff you with food,” from the authorities that followed Big Brother--the nameless omnipotent power in charge of the organization. To be stuffed with food meant that you would become a corpse that would fertilize the rice fields. That might be an improvement, because we spent more than twelve hours a day on that same field, toiling till there was no more breath in us.  

After I was done eating my half, I handed the remaining portion to my brother.

“No, I have already eaten,” he explained, shaking his head, and that was when I noticed the wet liquid, trickling from the side of my brother’s head. Tentatively, I reached my hands and touched the blood.

“You shouldn’t have...You shouldn’t...” I shook in silent tears. Stealing was an unforgivable crime. It expressed dissatisfaction to the way things were run, and proved you to be a breacher of trust, a betrayer to the gracious Benefactor.

“And watch you die?” There was a slight edge to his tone, but it disappeared just as fast as it came. “I’ve seen too much of that.” He stepped off from the platform and landed with a soft thud on the soil.

“What hit you?” I whispered.

“It doesn’t matter. I got away.”

I insisted, my voice weak and scorched.

He turned around to face me. “A hatchet.”

I watched his retreating form, then he rounded the corner, and I could see no more of him.

*************************

Jenny

“I’m sure he probably just crashed at a friend’s house or something,” I suggest, not even bothering to keep the exasperation out of my tone. “You’re too paranoid, Ma.”

My uncle, Rith is missing again, and my mother is freaking out again. There have been way too many scenarios the past few months, especially ever since my uncle came to live with us, so I had learnt to dismiss her fears. After all, it is easy to disregard my uncle’s disappearances as it is a norm. Despite our constant reassurance, my mother believes that my uncle is in mortal peril.

“Something’s wrong,” she keeps repeating. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Finally at 8 o’clock, she declares to no one in particular that she is going out to find my uncle. Knowing the way my mom’s mind functions, I should have seen it coming; there is neither an element of surprise nor desire to restrain when a persistent woman like your mother decides to lead a search party at the dead of night.

*************************

Bora  

            I had to find him. The memories of our past lingered in the depths of my minds, leaving me shaking in anticipation and fear. When my life hung precariously on a single strand of thread that night during the war, Rith had taken all the loose strands and weaved life into them. He had not left me to my dreary fate then, and now I was more than compelled to do the same: to find him again and grasp him with my fingers in gratitude and solace.

            It was pouring rain outside, and the sky seemed to be displaying the wrath of an omnipotent being. The dark expanse was split by thin cracks of a purple hue, and my heart pounded at every strike of lightning, every monstrous ringing of thunder that threatened to swallow me whole. I shuddered at the darkness encapsulating me, limiting my abilities to see all the lurking shadows that spoke of imminent danger. I kept telling myself that there was nothing to fear, that I’ve gone through the worst, and yet...

            There he was, lying half on the street, his shirt ripped carelessly from his thin bony frame, his bent head wasted and slack. The evidence left on that ominous sidewalk was enough to prove the scene to be a hit and run. Blood was pouring down his face and limbs, and for a fleeting second I closed my eyes and tried to imagine them to be merely the raindrops that hit the pavement and gave everything a glistening effect, as if all was well in the world.

But reality gripped me, transporting me back to the moment when he had saved my life, and now it was my turn to act.

“Rith!”

He raised his head, revealing dark sunken eyes.

“Sister,” he whispered.

And there I took him, a fragile bird with broken wings, with all the potential to fly, but was limited by nearsightedness, quenched by a hopeless desire to be found by a higher being that could restore and set free. I knew I was not to be that person; I hadn’t the power. But I had to try to save him, even if my efforts proved futile. He was well locked away in his own deteriorating mind, but I needed to reach out as far as my strength would let me, reach out and grab whatever piece of him I could, before it disappeared back into the fictional world in which his mind lived.

*************************

Jenny

My mother and I are sitting quite far from each other. She is facing the clock that tells us the time; it is two o’clock in the afternoon. I watch as she sits, stiff; her eyes are transfixed by the hand of the clock that is ticking away the seconds and minutes. Her mannerism towards the clock is perplexing: it is as if she is expecting the clock to give out some sort of confirmation or closure.

My mother caved in to my uncle Rith’s plea to go back to his village four months prior. It took a lot for my mother to give her consent: she possesses an innate nature to care and protect, to never let anyone escape from her watchful gaze. But now she has been told that her brother is missing.

The phone my mother had put by her side starts to ring. For a second we look at each other; the same phone delivered terrible news three hours earlier and we are thinking one thing only: it could only get worse.

“Did you find him?” I hear my mother ask. There is a pause as my mother listens. I am having difficulty piecing together the conversation.

Finally, my mother replies, “How did they find him?”

So they found him, I think, as relief flows through me, but the next thing my mother says knocks the breath out of me.

“Where was the body?”

I turn to stare at her in shocked disbelief. Although my worst fears have been confirmed, it is her calm tone that unravels me.

I watch her as she hangs up the phone. Then she turns to me, and in that moment, I recognize pain in its purest forms, disguised as the creases on her face.

I search my brain to say something, but in the end resort to a shaky exhale.

My mom merely turns to face the clock again, although there is no reason to; there is no need for waiting, only accepting.

Memoirs - Ain Kim

I got permission from several World Literature students to publish their memoirs here. Each memoir combines a story about an adult's influence on the student's life with a story about the adult's own experiences, based on an interview. I found them an intriguing glimpse into my students' lives and histories - I hope you enjoy them too.

Ain is a Korean senior; her parents are missionaries. Ratanakiri is about a 10-hour drive from Phnom Penh; it's one of the poorest, most rural provinces in Cambodia.

Where do I belong? 

(My Story)

The weather was getting cool. The green leaves were turning from yellow to brown and were falling slowly to the ground. On September 21, 1996, a great, loud cry come out from the hospital. Countless babies lay with their tight fists on their chests. However, there was a particular baby who grabbed everyone’s attention. She was tiny and still covered with blood. Her eyes were big and her lips were pink and small. The doctor told the mother, “Your baby has no disease or disorder, but she is weak.  Her weight is below average.” The mother was sad but thankful. I was that baby. I was born small and weak.

Both my dad and mom were busy; one was a pastor and the other was an active leader at church. I was raised by my aunt Misuk until I was four. I used to look at my parents as if they were strangers. I knew I was their daughter by looking in the mirror, but I thought that they did not care about me. They neglected me because of their work. Although I was sad in a sense, I still had an amazing time with my aunt. She was only a junior in college but she treated me as if I was her own daughter. She took me to her school, church, and many other places. I was a great pleasure to her, and she once told me, “You are the reason I live.” On weekends, she would take me to amusement parks and take pictures with me. All these peaceful moments passed by swiftly.

One day, my dad took me away from my aunt and raised me for about 10 months. My aunt was extremely sad, but she found a man who shared happiness with her. I lived miserably and low-spiritedly with him. It was funny for a four year old child to be depressed like I was. I attended one year of kindergarten near my apartment. I wore a yellow hat and uniform that made me look like a little duckling. I made lots of little yellow friends. I always enjoyed art lessons; it was when I could express my imagination. My frown turned upside down. I had many friends and I loved being with them because I felt like I belonged somewhere.

Then one Tuesday afternoon in 2001, I was told we were moving to Cambodia. “Where all the hungry black kids are,” I said to my dad after watching a documentary. I was miserable again. I had to leave my best friends, the places I visited every day, and my cozy bed. However, my dad told me, “Cambodia is not all like you think. You shouldn’t believe everything the television says. Trust me, you’ll enjoy it.” I thought he was crazy but I trusted him.

After my parents finished their language course in Phnom Penh, we then headed out to Ratanakiri. The ride was long and exhausting. I got off from the brown taxi and there I was, standing on the red dusty ground of Ratanakiri. Cars, motorbikes, houses, my father and even the driver were covered with red dirt.  I thought I was in a desert. My dad led our family to a wooden house. During this time, it was rainy season in Ratanakiri province. Rain leaked into the house everywhere and we had to run this way and that way to clean up the mess. The room I shared with my sister had a bunk bed which we always fought over to see who should sleep up or down. We had no electricity nor any access to contact people abroad. I had to take showers before sunset; otherwise, I had to wash in the dark when all the lizards, bugs and frogs came out. I lived with these creatures every day.

 When I turned eight, my dad told me that I was going to attend a Cambodian public school. I was scared. I overthought about being kidnapped and bullied. I felt like my world was falling apart when my mom took my dad’s side and forced me to attend the school. I cried and got smacked a few times before I decided to be obedient. My first day was miserable. On the second day I got nothing but a sharp stare. On the third day, a few friends asked me about my name. A week later, I was bullied for being white. Two weeks later I was hated for using Korean utilities such as color pens, pink bags and fancy shoes. I wanted to kill myself and also my dad got angry at me for not fitting in. He thought God would protect me and my sisters from this harsh environment because he was doing everything for God.

I used to hate my dad. He was busy and every time he saw me, all he did was shout or get mad. I was already tired of school and when I got home I was exhausted. I had no place to rest or anyone who understood my feelings. I felt like I was stuck in the middle of the sea, shouting “SOS” and waiting for a helicopter to come and find me. Three months passed before I really transitioned from Korean culture to Cambodian. I threw away my bag, pen, and sketchbook that were made in Korea. Four months passed, and my skin slowly got darker. Five months passed, I was wearing flip flops and tied my hair like the typical Cambodian girls. Six months slowly passed by and I had completely changed. I was playing rubber rope games, wearing my flip flops on my hand so that I could easily jump over the rope. I was appreciating their culture and accepted them for who they were. I started eating street foods with them. We shared secrets and I had a crush on a Cambodian guy.  It was funny how I made premature judgment about Cambodia and its people and now I was one of them. Embracing their culture was a big turning point for me. I learned to sacrifice who I was in order to make friends.

I started my life journey earlier than others. The transition was a real life game for me. If I survived the first round, I was taken to the next level and if I passed that level, I was taken the next. It was a game of survival. Outside I was happy and excited, but inside I was dying and choked on everything I did. I held in my pain and sorrows and projected fake joyful smiles. My heart was broken.

My kind of Love 

(My Dad's Story)

I love my daughters, but I could not express it properly. I wanted a happy family, but I did not know what happiness really was. I wanted to reconcile with my wife and daughters after fights, but I did not know how to reach out to them. I felt like I was naive about family values.

In 2003, my wife and I finished our 2 years of language course at Phnom Penh University. I brought my family to Ratanakiri province where God had called us. We rented a small taxi and an enormous truck to carry us and our belongings. On the way, my mind raced with useless thoughts. Education for my daughters bothered me the most. I knew exactly where we were going and what we were heading into. They had no Internet access, which meant that homeschooling was not available. Most of the time there wasn’t going to be electricity and this would limit the time we could use our utilities such as computer or cassette player. There were no other Koreans or any foreigners. I knew my family would be lonely. I had no choice but to take this road that no one else has gone down. I perfectly understood this would create conflicts and problems for my wife and my daughters, but I had to be obedient to God’s command. I had to sacrifice my family, but I trusted God to help me.

When we first got there everything was covered with red dirt. My daughters were numb with shock when they looked around at their surroundings. It was rainy season. While my wife and daughters were resting at a guesthouse, I struggled to move our belongings from the truck with the other workers. I had to watch them carefully to see if they were stealing anything. I got wet from the rain but I continued to move things into the church. After a week of looking for a house, I met a grandma who was willing to rent her top floor to us. I felt like I accomplished something. We settled everything in, right in the correct spot. Then I heard a scream from the bathroom, “Dad, Mom, there’s this huge, enormous LIZARD and FROG! I might die right now. Like literally right now. Come now. Right now.” 

I thought something serious had happened. I thought she had been bitten by a poisonous spider. When I realized it was nothing but a lizard moving on the roof, I shouted at her to stop being a scaredy cat. She started to cry. I honestly did not understand why she cried. I said that so she could be brave and face bigger dangers. To think now, I must have been selfish. I could have given her a hug but I did not. I saw her crying in the corner but I could not reach out. My heart was aching so I continued to load everything. Suddenly, rain was pouring and we had to carry buckets and cups to catch the dripping water from the leaky roof. The rain continued and our house was filled with water. The fridge broke down, our shoe-drawer got wet, and our bed mattress stank. That night we almost had no sleep.

I was busy building relationships with the people. Every day we invited new people for dinner.  My wife prepared the best dishes for our guests. We would sit down and talk about our lifestyles and daily struggles. I loved communicating with new people. Day by day, our house was filled with numerous different people. Many came over for food and others came over for medicine. Some were curious about who Christ was and I was excited to explain to them. I finally felt like I was doing some work for God. I felt like I was on the right track.

It was a sunny morning. I got a call from my co-worker to come to the church. I quickly got dressed and came down the stairs. I couldn’t find my shoes so I looked for them everywhere. Then I saw Ain wearing them and running away with them in laughter. I was in a hurry and I warned her to bring it back. She didn’t listen so I went up with an angry face and brought a wooden rod and grabbed her shoulders and threw her near the bed. She was crying and weeping. I told her, “Shut your mouth” but she did not listen, so I kicked and smacked her head for being stubborn. Then I grabbed blue cloth hanger and hit her calves until it got bruised. Then my wife came in. Though shocked at my actions, she took my side and scolded Ain for being disobedient, then left the room. I did not know what I was doing until I saw the disappointment in her eyes. That night we got into a big argument. My wife asked to move back to Phnom Penh and I was obviously against it.

After this incident, I barely talked with Ain. But I wasn't wrong. I grew up with tough parents who disciplined me with worst punishments than I was expressing on my daughters. Although I felt bad, I could not go to her and apologize. Having daughters sometimes was frustrating because I grew up with eight brothers who never formally reconciled with another. Everything was fine after a fight. Girls do not forget or forgive right away. I always thought they would be optimistic and positive about everything but they were pretty much pessimistic.

After having no proper communication with Ain, our family became awkward. Dinner tables were silent and each member had uncomfortable faces. I knew I had to do something as a leader, but I did not know how. I got up and went to bed early because we had no lights.

When my first daughter turned eight, she somehow needed to attend school. My wife and I lacked time and quality to teach them. After much complicated thoughts, I made a hard choice. I decided to send my daughters to the Cambodian public school. It was one of the riskiest choices I made. The school had three yellow buildings with countless brown trees. They had no bathrooms or playgrounds. They had a black river nearby, the subject of many ghost rumors. Teachers were never organized. They came in when they wanted to and left anytime. It was chaotic. That night I had a conversation with my two oldest daughters. I carefully suggested about the school I was planning to send them. They obviously refused. My first child complained and resisted everything I said. She was complaining the whole time. Then my second daughter copied exactly what her sister did. My anger started to rise and once again I spanked them. I felt ashamed that when I made the best choice for them, they resisted my effort. The long night passed and both daughters decided to attend the school. I felt so sorry but in a way thankful.

A few weeks later, my first daughter came back with bruises and scars on her face and arms. I did not ask her what happened until later that night. I had already imagined what might have happened at school. My wife was frustrated while she was putting ointment on her. I saw it from the back door. My child was filled with fear and worry. I wanted to say encouraging words but again I could not. I became stricter and told her to be brave. I felt like if I showed her too much kindness, she might lose her strength. So I continued to scold her. My heart was crying. Another week passed, and she still seemed lost. I never wanted her to lose her true identity as a Korean but I believed she could embrace the Khmer community.

Six months passed and my daughters were part of the community. They were climbing trees, feeding ducklings, catching ants, and drawing on the ground using black stones. They no longer wore fancy outfits. I was happy to know that my children finally started to get use the environment. One day when I got back from church service, I heard my girls speaking Khmer in their room. It sounded like a fight. I was shocked how there were no Cambodian children but my three daughters. They were speaking Khmer to each other. This is not what I wanted but it happened. I had a long talk with my wife about education once again. We decided to force them to speak only Korean at home so that they will not forget the language. My daughters complained how my wife and I never let them do whatever they wanted. They left our house until dinner time. I knew I broke their heart but this was for their best interest.

I constantly broke my wife's and daughter's’ heart. But before breaking them, I broke mine first in order to show my love for them and God. Rather than showing my daughters the typical love most fathers show, I expressed my love through harsh words and discipline in order to help them be brave in the tough environment. I truly love my daughters and everything I did was out of love.