from experience that I won’t discover the truth for the rest of the day.
“No,” he says with a straight and sincere face, “it’s not Lucky. The person I was counting as a half, the gutsy person willing to also take a stand and fight with me—I was talking about Lena, your mother. ”
*****
The air is heavy and warm, enough so that I pull back my canvas and sit on the ground in the shade. I look to the distant hut of Teva Mao and listen for Nisay. My good friend has been anxious to watch my son of late, when Mother can’t, and while I’m not certain, I suspect that Sopeap has made arrangements with Teva to forgive a portion of her rent.
I worry about Nisay, leaving him almost every morning for so long while I learn from Sopeap. Learning to read feels like the right thing to do, yet when my child cries as I pass him along to waiting hands, I want to throw away the books and pencils and just hold him close. But then, his constant whimpering throughout the day reminds me that if conditions don’t change, he’ll never improve. I wonder . . . is life so conflicted for everyone everywhere?
Sopeap notices my concern. “Don’t worry about your son,” she says. “He’ll be fine.”
“Will my learning help him?” I ask, needing to confirm that I’m making the right choice.
“Education is almost always good, especially when it brings us to an understanding of our place in the world.”
“And literature will do that?”
“Sang Ly, we are literature—our lives, our hopes, our desires, our despairs, our passions, our strengths, our weaknesses. Stories express our longing not only to make a difference today but to see what is possible for tomorrow. Literature has been called a handbook for the art of being human. So, yes. It will do that.”
“Will it help me to know how to get him better?”
She sets down her book. “I am a tired old woman who lives in a dump. I can’t say if this is the right direction for you. That is a question only you will be able to answer. But I should warn you.”
“Warn me? About what?”
“As you learn, as you read stories that speak to you and begin to understand how they relate to you and your family—you may find questions you weren’t expecting.”
“What kinds of questions?”
“The deepest questions of mankind: What is the meaning of my life? Why am I here at the dump? What’s in store for me on this path? Do the ancestors listen and care about me? Why is life so hard? What is good and what is evil? What must I do about it? The list goes on and on.”
“I don’t understand. How does reading stories about others answer those questions for me?”
“That is what I’m hoping you will understand—every story we read, Sang Ly, is about us, in one way or another.”
“But how . . . ?”
“Hold your questions, child. Let’s not let the morning pass and find out that we haven’t yet cracked open a book. We’ll begin today with the story Tum Teav by Cambodian author Preah Botumthera Som.”
She hands me a worn text. “I think you’ll enjoy this story,” she says. “It’s about a beautiful adolescent girl named Teav. She is caught in a rather unusual predicament.” Sopeap’s eyes lock on mine, as if she can read my thoughts, and her words carry such wryness that I’m certain she must have found out about the girl. And if she knows, who else also knows?
I freeze, not budging, not breathing, until Sopeap finally points to the book and says, “Open to the first page and we’ll get started.”
Chapter Twelve
Mother is causing trouble again at the shelters, and I seem to be the only one to notice. By the time I arrive, she has convinced Sida Son and Jorani Kahn to build a large single shelter together rather than two smaller shelters of their own. “If you work together,” she told them, “you’ll create the best shelter ever seen at Stung Meanchey.”
The problem is she knows full well that Sida and Jorani hate
“No,” he says with a straight and sincere face, “it’s not Lucky. The person I was counting as a half, the gutsy person willing to also take a stand and fight with me—I was talking about Lena, your mother. ”
*****
The air is heavy and warm, enough so that I pull back my canvas and sit on the ground in the shade. I look to the distant hut of Teva Mao and listen for Nisay. My good friend has been anxious to watch my son of late, when Mother can’t, and while I’m not certain, I suspect that Sopeap has made arrangements with Teva to forgive a portion of her rent.
I worry about Nisay, leaving him almost every morning for so long while I learn from Sopeap. Learning to read feels like the right thing to do, yet when my child cries as I pass him along to waiting hands, I want to throw away the books and pencils and just hold him close. But then, his constant whimpering throughout the day reminds me that if conditions don’t change, he’ll never improve. I wonder . . . is life so conflicted for everyone everywhere?
Sopeap notices my concern. “Don’t worry about your son,” she says. “He’ll be fine.”
“Will my learning help him?” I ask, needing to confirm that I’m making the right choice.
“Education is almost always good, especially when it brings us to an understanding of our place in the world.”
“And literature will do that?”
“Sang Ly, we are literature—our lives, our hopes, our desires, our despairs, our passions, our strengths, our weaknesses. Stories express our longing not only to make a difference today but to see what is possible for tomorrow. Literature has been called a handbook for the art of being human. So, yes. It will do that.”
“Will it help me to know how to get him better?”
She sets down her book. “I am a tired old woman who lives in a dump. I can’t say if this is the right direction for you. That is a question only you will be able to answer. But I should warn you.”
“Warn me? About what?”
“As you learn, as you read stories that speak to you and begin to understand how they relate to you and your family—you may find questions you weren’t expecting.”
“What kinds of questions?”
“The deepest questions of mankind: What is the meaning of my life? Why am I here at the dump? What’s in store for me on this path? Do the ancestors listen and care about me? Why is life so hard? What is good and what is evil? What must I do about it? The list goes on and on.”
“I don’t understand. How does reading stories about others answer those questions for me?”
“That is what I’m hoping you will understand—every story we read, Sang Ly, is about us, in one way or another.”
“But how . . . ?”
“Hold your questions, child. Let’s not let the morning pass and find out that we haven’t yet cracked open a book. We’ll begin today with the story Tum Teav by Cambodian author Preah Botumthera Som.”
She hands me a worn text. “I think you’ll enjoy this story,” she says. “It’s about a beautiful adolescent girl named Teav. She is caught in a rather unusual predicament.” Sopeap’s eyes lock on mine, as if she can read my thoughts, and her words carry such wryness that I’m certain she must have found out about the girl. And if she knows, who else also knows?
I freeze, not budging, not breathing, until Sopeap finally points to the book and says, “Open to the first page and we’ll get started.”
Chapter Twelve
Mother is causing trouble again at the shelters, and I seem to be the only one to notice. By the time I arrive, she has convinced Sida Son and Jorani Kahn to build a large single shelter together rather than two smaller shelters of their own. “If you work together,” she told them, “you’ll create the best shelter ever seen at Stung Meanchey.”
The problem is she knows full well that Sida and Jorani hate
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