What We All Long For by Dionne Brand (phonics story books txt) 📕

“Isn’t Jamal still a juvenile, Carla? Isn’t your father obliged?”

“Obliged?” She laughed this time. “He’s not obliged to do shit. Jamal is eighteen. He’s not a juvie any more.”

“That’s some dope shit.” It was inconceivable to Oku. His own father would never let him out of his sight. He thought of this with fear and relief.

“You know, Carla, maybe this time he’s just got to figure it out himself.”

“You don’t understand. You have people, Tuyen, right? You, both of you, always had people.”

“He had people too, Carla.”

“Not like you. Anyway, he’s my brother. I’ll deal with it.”

“Carla”—Tuyen’s voice was soft—“we’re not saying … you know, like, abandon him, but he always does this and then you’re the one who has to … you know, clean it up, fix it.”

“Yes, the point is, you always rescue him, see. He expects it. So we’re saying you can’t keep up. He never takes care of you! He’s not a baby! So maybe just let him handle this for himself, like a man, this time.”

“Would you want that for your brother, Tuyen? You don’t have anybody, Oku, so you don’t know. If you did, you think you’d just let them stay in jail?”

“I don’t know. You’re right, okay, but what I’m saying is why doesn’t he ever think of you? Where you going to find ten thousand dollars? That’s just whack!” Oku was incredulous.

“Well, I’m probably back to where I don’t want to be, I guess. Gotta go see Derek. I was on my way there this morning, but …”

“Your father?”

“Yes, the fucking asshole.”

“Well, he should take it on, Carla. Why should you have to alone?”

“Okay, okay, done already. I don’t want to talk about it any more.”

Carla started briskly packing up dishes again. Tuyen made no move to help. She poured another rum from Oku’s stolen bottle.

“What the hell is this made of, Oku?”

“Good stuff.” Oku smiled at her, wandering over to the stereo.

“Hey, Carla, take one, let’s just chill out. Kick back.” Tuyen rose. Going toward Carla at the sink and holding Carla’s head back, she poured a shot into Carla’s mouth. Carla gasped from the bracing fumes, bent over. Laughing now.

“Hey, Carla, where’s my Dizzy?”

“Doesn’t look like she’s coming, Oku.” And they laughed together drunkenly.

Quy

Time. All of them have time. I had waiting. They have their friends and this city. I had shit. I guess you’d say I should have made better of myself. I didn’t have anybody sacrifice a whole life for me. Every one of them had that. A city like this is built on that. I can feel it all around.

After a year and a half at Pulau Bidong I learned a little English. My first step to humanity. My father had hung around the assholes of enough Americans to know the value of English. He came home with words like “cool” and “Charlie.” At Bidong I buzzed around the UNCHR people, hoping one of them would find me interesting or cute and take me with them. I almost did it. There was one lady who looked at me fondly, and whenever she came, I made it my business to be less hungry-looking and more charming. It’s hard to look cute after a year and a half of loneliness. I offered her little objects I made with twine and sticks and bottle caps. I collected plastic debris and gave it to her. And after all that, the bitch didn’t take me. She was French. My father spoke French. The UNCHR people kept looking at us and asking us how we were treated. Us, the children parents had abandoned or lost. We punched each other out for their attention. All they did was count us and write reports.

When I first saw Pulau Bidong, I’ve got to say it was beautiful. The boat I was in was called the Dong Khoi. We had drifted for the last ninety-six hours without water or food. Mercifully, although I don’t believe in mercy, we looked up one dawn to see Bidong. The water between the Dong Khoi and the island was blue-black. The air was cold, even though it was hot. The water—did I say?—was a wonderful misty blue-black, and there out of the mist rose Pulau Bidong. Green and greener where the sun hadn’t touched it yet. If I got to that island, I thought, I would stomp all over it. But this is the future and I’m recasting. I didn’t feel that. I thought instead that my mother and father, my sisters, would be there waiting for me. I thought all boats went to Bidong. The sight of the island lifted my hopes. I’ve never been able to get rid of the feeling I had at the sight of Bidong in the dawn. The sky was a blue-grey mist too, yet all three hues of sea and sky and land, I could see clearly through to the waking sun. It may have been about four or five in the morning. There was a silence. Sometimes I wish that I had stayed right there in that picture in that dawn. I see me leaning off the Dong Khoi with the beautiful island in front of me and that feeling of expectation. Right then, nothing is wrong. Nothing.

I could’ve had a different life if that moment—ah, sure. My father and mother had already dragged me from a certain trajectory. Truly, the war had already dragged us up and ripped up our planned course. People like me don’t have control of life. Anonymity is a useful thing. In some places they think people like me are preparing to bomb buildings and murder children. My mother and father and my sisters went off to join them, and I suppose I would’ve gone right along with them and never had these thoughts if I hadn’t followed those legs onto the Dong Khoi. Perhaps I would’ve had these thoughts anyway. Perhaps they’re having these thoughts but have stuffed them so far down their own gullets they’re inexpressible.

I’m grateful