The
girl sat on the bed in the hospital room with the television on and occasionally
reached over to the tissue at the table to her right.
In the room the television light cuts out all the noises.
She writes with her yellow fingers gripping the pencil and her teeth
constantly chewing the tip of the eraser.
Dear
Father,
I
never told you about him and the others because I am afraid of you.
Every thing I do, or say, seems wrong to you.
When I said I wanted to be an actor and joined the drama team at school,
you said how foolish I was. Father,
I know you love me and try your best to protect me from the world. You want me
to finish high school, go to college, and marry your friend's son after my
studies in nursing. I did not dare
to protest. Yes, you knew hard
times. You survived the Khmer
Rouge, you lived in the refugee camp in the Thai border, you knew first hand the
ways Whites treated us refugees. You
say we have it made here; what more could we want?
Father,
I want you to be proud of me, to accept me of who I truly am.
I am not made to be a nurse. I
squint at the sight of blood and needle. I love the dramas and its enticement.
You said that it's absurd to live someone else's life for a couple of
hours. I am not writing this to
argue. I don't want to fight
anymore. You are my father and I love you the most because you are so hard to
please. Our mother, like most Khmer
mothers, is gentle and kind.
But
you. . . . do you remember that night when you found out about the school dance
and you came over and took me home in front of every one? It isn't enough for you to tell me how a silly girl I was at
home, but you had to humiliate me in public.
That night I remembered the face of the boy who danced with me and my
teachers and friends. They felt
sorry for me for being a Khmer girl with a traditional Khmer father. In my room
crying, I heard you scolded our mother for letting me go to the school dance
without your permission. I wanted
to come out and spit in your face, "You may give me food, clothing, and a
place to stay, but you don't own me. You
can't control how I feel, who I am, Father!"
Of course, I was afraid of you, your voice, and your callused hands.
More than this, I never wanted to disappoint you.
After
this "little incident," I was determined to give meaning to my own
life. I want to create my life
before my very own eyes and say to the world, "I am a human being. I am
free to choose, to live however I like. I
am in America. You may protect my
body, but you cannot hold down my spirit."
So, I found out and was pleased with the rumor that a boy had a crush on
me. We went out.
I know what he wanted from me but still, I was flattered that someone had
actually found me attractive and worth listening to.
His paying-attention boasted my self-esteem, validated my self-value.
I give myself to him completely. I
was scared, of course, but felt it was safe because it was his first time too.
I would never dare to tell you because, for one, he was a white boy.
And second, you would kill me because I lose my virginity before
marriage. So I kept it hidden. After
a while, I found out that he was cheating on me and I broke up the relationship.
Then
there were other boys after him. But
by then, I had learned to hate men. I
figured how easy it was to cheat on them. All
they really wanted was to be between my legs, and if I let them and whispered
"I love you" to them, they would believe and do anything I told them.
There were times I would have three boyfriends, and each one did not know of the
others' existence. I was prideful
in my ability to manipulate, to have power of them. I am not sorry for what I
did. Maybe, Like the Indian Goddess, it is my nature to create and destroy life.
Now,
life has caught up with me. I am
infected with this virus. But I
don't care anymore. I knew enough
about life to leave it without remorse. If
you come to visit me, I will be happy. I
love you always, Father. You're the
hardest to please, and your love means the whole world to me. When you're here, don't say a word. Words are useless sounds; they don't say enough.
They sometimes deceive us. Father,
just look at me, and I'll know exactly what you mean.
I love you always.
Your
daughter,
Vannara.
The girl in the hospital room took a deep breath and
closed her eyes to the television hanging on the wall.
She reached over to the control button and, with her tired hand, turned
off the light, the television, and lowered the draperies over the window.
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