Poetry by Jasmine Vo

Edited by Zoha Ahmed & Brandon Lo

Honors American History, 9am: 
A room of stoic walls and faces I’d seen for months if not years,
Reminded me of stories about a place I hadn’t yet been to.
They were given to me in pieces.
These unpolished hand-me-down memories 
Of a hazy and eternal night, as stories of the homeland often are.
I was unprepared for how 
Dark and all-consuming it was.
They burrowed into my skin and blotted out my senses.
I could handwrite seventeen dissertations in its ink.

The memories seemed to reach out at me with a withered hand.
I could hear my mother’s far-away whispers, just the ghost of a voice in my ears.
I almost felt the soft, chastising way she would tug on my hair while she told stories.
So focused on her words, I could no longer pay attention to the textbook in front of me,
Blurry from my tears.
I recalled 
The dreamy way she recounted memories
Of getting cold goat’s milk with her lunch as a child on sticky, humid days when it felt like all the world clung onto her clothes like a lost babe,
Of walking to school with her two older sisters on a hazy, summer day,
Of being home.
While our teacher lectured about the Tet Offensive, his voice grew muffled and trivial
As if trapped behind a glass door. 
I could not stand the distant, clinical way he described the
Atrocities. 
My heart lunged to fill the empty space in my throat, 
Weighing on me until I could no longer swallow my resentment for anyone who even mentioned
The war.
I do not know how to go on when simple words cause me so much pain.

I carved words into a blank page robotically, dutifully 
As I was overtaken by senses that had only ever presented themselves to my grandfather.
I dreamt that I could go back in time to him
Despite never moving from my seat.
All around, the scent of carpet dust seemingly disappeared,
And all that was left was the thick, choking presence of motorcycle exhaust.
The low rumble of the air conditioning gave way to the lull of river water turning over on itself,
Rhythmically churning and churning to drown the hundred million glimmering stars 
Dancing on its twisting surface,
Like haunted, longing eyes,
As my grandfather sat, lying in wait behind the tallest of grasses for the dogs to come for him,
Suffocating in its quiet, sick anticipation.

Four years later,
Finally free from the confines of that hideous room,
I dreaded the thought of visiting Vietnam for the first time.
I thought I’d see ghosts walking beside me on roads, 
Remnants of the horrors in every building, in all the cracks in the roads.
I feared I wouldn’t be able to take a breath without it being stolen from me.
It was simply meant to be, I suppose,
That when I stepped from the airplane for the first time,
I stood beside my grandparents and mother, 
Once prisoners who could only dream of escaping this place,
The people who taught me what a voice is supposed to be used for,
Back once again, as tourists this time.
They had been through so much
And still had smiles
That rivaled the strength of the mountains
Standing all around us.
I finally saw the brilliant sun reflected in their eyes.

Artist Statement: The poem “Yellowed Photographs” describes my experience mentally confronting the many contrasting narratives and stories my family had told me of their life in Vietnam while I was in the middle of a lecture on the Vietnam War. I integrated excerpts of these stories and memories to interrupt the classroom setting to mimic the intrusive nature of the uncomfortable thoughts and memories that overwhelmed me that day. The speaker progresses to eventually portray Vietnam as nuanced and a reflection of how time and growth can transcend horrors, which is why it is written about as more than just a place that contained their trauma. As much as my and my family’s experiences were influenced by fear, so too were they the product of incredible amounts of love and resilience. The poem is an appreciation of how remarkable immigrants are, how strong my family is, and how even the worst memories are more bearable during the day.