works by william pham, 2005-present

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Pride
My brother told me when I was young
That Vietnam had never lost a war.
Like a tiger defending her cubs,
The land herself rose up alongside her people;
The boughs of trees brushed back the Chinese
Like ants swept off a dark-skinned knee,
And the rivers swallowed the French
As we South Vietnamese swallowed their culture.

I ate French bread with French butter,
Sitting in our home in Modesto, California,
While my brother explained that
Vietnam embodied Bruce Lee's philosophies
About water, and kung fu, but I don't remember
The specifics.

My father hates the Communists but whenever
I read about the Vietnam War in textbooks,
The casualties suffered by the United States,
The human loss measured out in
Declassified documents and
Presidential reassurances,
I cannot help but feel a measure of pride
For the dark-skinned hands that held
Russian AK-47's.

And then, shame.  My parents lost everything
Fleeing from the North Vietnamese;
Tigers cradled in the arms of American helicopters.
French butter, Russian guns, American helicopters:
I know these things better than
Vietnamese myths, Vietnamese rivers, and Vietnamese
Words.

My hands are not so dark,
And I have never been a tiger.

copyright (c) 2006 by william pham