(T)hr(ô)w Màu

Ha Thuy Kim

Links of metal chains creak throughout the mostly abandoned playground. Obsidian-black locks streak through the sky as laughter floats in the air. This is the only time that child will ever laugh for laughter was a waste; translations were not. In the brief respite from her daily chores, she is allowed this genteel environment. A cough erupts and dissolves the once peaceful atmosphere. She is now tethered to the ground and reeled back to the present. Hues of orange and red are no longer reflected above but in front of her. Once a beautifully blended sunset now splotches onto a white napkin.
          Alabaster walls enclose the space around them. On the far side of the room hangs a plastic white clock. Monochrome charts chain the father and daughter into a colorless world of professionality. Punctuated throughout the room are monochrome diagrams, chaining the pair into a colorless world of professionality. The only color in this realm of uncertainty is the red woolen sweater the young girl fiddles with. Bored, she attempts to decipher the naked English letters surrounding the pair. Deep within the recesses of the child’s mind, she mimics the sounds her ESL teacher has taught her. Her tongue touches the roof of her mouth and drags out the vowel sound. A small ng sound at the end reverberates in her mind reminding her of mẹ’s name. Giving up, she simply calls the organ on the poster what she knows best, phối.
          The old man next to her coughs. Concerned, she asks if he is OK. He nods and reassures her the best way he can, “Không sao. Không sao.” Like a student mimicking the teacher’s lute, she plays back the mantra the best way she can. In her ears, all she can hear is the odd distortion of her tone. Gently guiding the conversation away, the old man asks the girl about school and her experience. Parroting rudimentary words from both worlds, she responds the best way she can. Words of Vietnamese and English fly from her lips, describing the microcosm around her; how large the classrooms are, how many swing sets are at the playground, how colorful the vegetables are on the styrofoam plates each day. A cacophony of sound temporarily shields the daughter and father from the diagnosis before them.
          The shield breaks, music quietens, and the clock sputters out of existence. A ghost-like man strolls in with ease and embodies the entire office before the two. With a relaxed manner, the bác sĩ places the clipboard on the mahogany desk and eases into the leather chair. For the first time, he notices the sun-tanned Asian man with silver, metal-rimmed glasses. Life has been unkind to the man. Over the months, he becomes a husk of his former self. His corded muscles, which used to lift the child at ease, have become spindly. Fragility and exhaustion ooze out of every pore, a sickly, neon yellow color inching across his body, his eyes permanently ringed with black.
          Despite these drastic changes, they go unnoticed by the bác sĩ. Rather the bác sĩ’s subtle change in facial features paints every detail the immigrant family needs to know. Miniscule details such as his furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips betray every thought within the bác sĩ’s mind: Where are you from? Did you come here legally? Can you speak proper English? If not, go learn. This country only wants hard-working, honest immigrants. The bác sĩ’s preconceived notions about the Asian man leach into the treatment of the elderly man before him. Treating the senior before him as a deaf child, the bác sĩ’s over enunciates his words and loudly asks, “You speak English?” The whites of his eyes widen as he speaks, complementing the white cotton coat. The reds, whites, and blues of their outfits and passports mean nothing at this moment. No matter how well-vested the family appears, their facial features will always betray them, marking them as “other.” Like an all-consuming parasite, the question manages to worm its way into their lives.
          Donning an English coat over his Vietnamese polyester shirt, ba responds back with a heavy lilting accent, “Yes, sir.”
          Nodding to himself, the bác sĩ dominates the conversation between the two men. Forgetting the language barrier between the two, the bác sĩ detonates into an explosion of sound. Medical terminologies, optimal diet plans, and potential costs for each of the plans discharge into the air. The father is bespelled with confusion; his limited conversational English has prepared little for this new world. When he fled from the Vietnam War, no one prepared him for a life abroad. All that was on his mind was survival and making sure his family were fed for the day. In his mind, being a boatman on a rickety canoe fleeing in the South China Seas was far easier than the conflicting language before him. The ghost-man stamped along every potential question, concerns, or further explanations. Ba’s time-worn fingers fiddle with the navy blue cargoshorts as he attempts to piece the information together.
          Ashamed for not speaking sooner, the daughter anxiously awaits her turn. The bác sĩ was supposed to talk to her, the little one, not the man before him. Sensing the growing anxiety and fear in her father, she waits for a natural lull in the one-sided conversation. Even a question would be a perfect time to interject, for she can answer it in his stead. Time sludges along as the little girl waits. The back of her ears prickle with unwanted anxiety. Darkness creeps into the corner of her eyes, and her breath hitches in her throat. The longer she waits to interject, the harsher her punishment will be, for she was the translator, the guide, the child who can speak both English and Vietnamese. No one else can do this but her. Mẹ and Chị Thuy were busy working to make sure they can have a hot meal at every dinner and pay for Chị Xiu’s education in the Philippines.
          As the panic ensues within the child’s small body, the last rays shine upon the immigrant duo. Intense sunlight temporarily blinds the two, the concentration catching the elderly man even more so. Fractures of the remaining sunlight shine upon his eyes, dazzling him in ways the daughter has never seen. For a moment, she’s unsure of who the man sitting next to her is; the wrinkles and scattered age spots, which she knew like the back of her hand, vanish entirely. His wheat-dry hair becomes luminous and lustrous. Normally sullen eyes are now filled with a mischievous gleam. Dazzled by her father’s sudden transformation, she sits mesmerized by this new man before her. Slowly the light blinks out of existence and he is reverted back to the withering man she has always known. His vacant eyes return simultaneously when the speech slows down. Realizing how little the elderly man truly comprehends him, the bác sĩ mulls over the best course of action. All along, her presence has been ignored by the bác sĩ. Taking a shot at the dark, he asks her, “You’re his translator?”
          With the air of a well-performed actor, she speaks with perfect inflection, “Yes, sir.” Pleased with the lack of accents in the child’s speech, the bác sĩ launches into the explanations. Words bleed and coalesce into an entity neither is able to confront. Technical terminologies, optimal diet plans, and best chances of success fall to deaf ears. All she can grasp at is minimal compared to the multi-faceted repertoire of the diagnosis. Translations for her were not tied to medicinal terminology. Of course the girl can understand English, but not to the degree everyone is expecting. Sprinkled throughout the explanations, she feigns literacy within this field by nodding and repeating some of the words back to him. When the explanations end, the bác sĩ scribbles down the diagnosis on a memo pad before handing it to the daughter. The daughter attempts to decipher the chicken scratch on the memo but even then struggles to piece it all together.
          “Xong chưa? Xỏ áo vô. Ở ngoài lạnh,” the old man replies.
          Sliding her cheap red jacket on and zipping it to her chin like mẹ taught her, she becomes more child-like. With apple red cheeks and bright eyes, she inclines her head to the bác sĩ and follows ba out the door into the vastness of the night. Outside, their fluorescent-blue Honda Fit sits in the sea of darkness. The father-daughter duo clamber into the car and giggle at their latest race results; it’s always the little one who claims victory in their year-long race. As the two wait for the engine to heat up, ba asks, “Bác sĩ nói cái gì vậy?” Crumpled in her fist is the memo blotched with ink in the lower left corner.
          Feeling immense disappointment within herself, the child sits in silence. She’s unsure of what to say to her father. Failure to respond meant mẹ berating her and guilt-tripping her again. Already, she can hear the sound of the broom, mẹ’s loud, frustrated voice echoing through the two-bedroom apartment. Mẹ không đi vô Mỹ để cho mày làm biếng giống như vậy. Con đang ở trường để học tiếng Anh. Tại sao mày nói không có biết nói tiếng Anh? Mày ngu giống như con bò! As if reading her thoughts, ba smiles and sympathetically nods. “Không sao. Chút về nhà con mở từ điển để tìm cái từ con không hiểu.”
          Gliding the car through an ocean of nothingness, the father and daughter replay the events over in their head. Feeling heat spread through her temples and tears fill her eyes, she leans her temples against the window. Browns, dark greens, and navy blues fly by as her father drives past old brick buildings and trees. Watching from a distance, one word plays over and over within the girl’s mind. It reminds her of those ramune drinks she would get every time the family went to Chợ 46.
          The car halts, and from rote memory, the child and father dance a pattern only known by them. On either side of the door, the dancers bend their knees, grip the metallic sheet before them, and stretch open the space before them. Per usual, the child takes her place on the left side, sidestepping the car as her father pulls it into the garage. Once he successfully parks the sedan and exits the garage, the two close the garage door together. Ba looks at his child, brimming with unfettered energy. The two stare at each other and nod.
          “Một. Hai. Ba!”
          Purposely slowing down, the father struts as his daughter dashes from the garage through the trees to their apartment. Her hair blends with the night as she races to the apartment door. By the time her father arrives, she is rocking on her heels and practically jumping with excitement. He unlocks the door and she runs inside, forgoing all the events that transpired not even an hour before. Immediately upon entry, she slips off her shoes and waits for her dad. He motions for her to grab the dictionary and look up the terms written on the stained paper. Grabbing the piece of paper in her coat pocket, she sits at the dining table with all the fruits and papers on it. Flipping through the English to Vietnamese dictionary, it does not take long to reach the “c” section. Eyes flying down the column of words, she finds the word. Ba bị bệnh ung thư phổi.

My name is Ha Thuy Kim and I am a current student at the University of Alabama in Huntsville (UAH). I am going to UAH for my masters in English. Since young, I struggled with the English language and struggled grasping many of the complicated grammar and syntax. “To Mau” is a piece pulled directly from my lived experience blending in both of my Vietnamese and American identities.

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