~ a found journal
1. I write journal in their language
I write journal in their language, like teacher asks.
Not for show-me, she says, if hard to show? But write
what I observe of her country, to make sense of us.
Or write what I knew, my old life, and have lost. Share
only if I wish, for her to fix after—teach righter words.
(I understand good, but speak half-assed, my friend say.
Timboy. He the small boy of landlady. He is fun as shit.)
My teacher is old woman, and I am this foreigner boy,
but she lay her white warm hand softly on me: clammy,
she say the word is. Sorry! summer hot here! she say,
and this building bad. (Air less, I think say.) Oh dear,
she laughs, patting dry with cloth. She picks her hand
from my wrist, word I should knew, to pose on desk.
Her back of her hand sits next of my back of hand.
It have big, blue, tree root veins. Like elf writing.
There is an expression, teacher says. To know like
the back of your hand. Know half-assed, this mean?
This mean, see, not look good at? No, no, she laughs.
Know very well! Huh. The back of my hand all
crisscrossed (she tell word) with stitched cuts still,
from the wire, but is a young hand. Will heal. Huh,
I say. But back of hand, I ask, why even look at?
Just bony skin! But we sit. We look at the hands;
her blue veins and my scars, like there some clue
to figure, if we fit right. Maybe puzzle piece game
or assemble from kit thing or pirate treasure map.
2. I am studying after age of eight
I am studying after age of eight this language.
Am 16 now. Should know it righter, huh? But school
was not take serious always, I guess. Grammar dumb
anyway, like rules the government tells: no sense.
Vocabulary I learn more better—if you point, I go,
book, table, chair, hand, ass. Speak good is harder,
and the hearing it so fast they speak it. At food table
I fall a bit asleep, with the speaking of Mrs. Schwenk
and her Timboy, who is ten, who I understand good
if they just to me—but fast, both?—is like noise of sea.
Yeah, sure, sense bits blob through too, like wreckage
I feel the thump against, but most is noise, like surf
that crash, and batter of undertow I drown in. (Think this
in own language, and when write, ask teacher words.
She say, Oh, normal. Get harder too, sometime, like you
go digest first. Clear clogs from the head. Next day, pow,
more easy.) Meanwhile, mama so bad like me. More bad.
She speak with me together, though, if not too tired,
best as we can, to make better, knowing we do sound
like pair of dumbasses. Word I like. Hey dumbass,
Timboy teach me. Hey, dumbass, I say to mama,
and we giggle. (Timboy make fart noise to prove
his own ass not dumb, but I do not say to mama.)
Today Mrs. Schwenk take mama to church, to meet
the ladies. Or worship maybe? I tell Timboy of noise
of the sea, and of real sea that battering us for days,
until we sink. Luck in a million, man say who save
some of us. We clutch blob bits, not even long he say
but felt long, and we so scared still, in the man’s boat,
heaving like sea. I not make clear, and Timboy polite,
but not much listen. Bits of, he pick at to pronounce
good. "Is scared, not scarred! Worship, not warship!"
3. Mama is wait in lines again, for forms
Mama is wait in lines again, for forms. That last time
I go also, interpret, but I mess up a bit too lots. Better
she make own screw-ups. No biggie, I say, government
here not scary bad people! Oh, scary a bit, she say back,
but she laugh too. There no hide good or you die bad
scary bad people. So hey, I am sit in the park right
next their offices, right in the open, on bench by water!
And I talk to ducks! (Quack, quack, Timboy say is what
ducks say. But not what I hear!) Now those two by edge
of lake? Kid duck and his mama? That boy duck, see,
got plastic trash catched to his leg! He make duck noise.
Mama bends low her beak, for little boy duck to pull
away from her; and plop, it tugs off of him like my sock.
She spits white filth bits after. Plop! go white filths also.
Lotsa ducks and goose too occupying in the carpark—
government sign say, NOT FEED THE WATERFOWL.
You too many, I tell goose who swims the bank at me,
nibbling up the plants. Humans can't feed all! But I guess
he got to ask anyway. Waddle waddle honk! Not got food,
sorry. You guys too many! But summer, green things grow,
and our earth provides. With sun, it grow fat and lovely.
So he got grasses! For me, got apple and soda! No one die!
Know what? I tell goose. I dispose this here bad people
trash for you. In proper receptacle, out of waterfowl harm.
4. I am not writing in journal for a while
I am not writing in journal for a while. Things are
not worst, but not greatest. Mama, who is a hospital
nurse in our country, must study to do that kinda
work here. And must talk better also. It will happen,
they say, they will put in classes, so she will learn.
Mama cries, but is not so bad-bad. She has a job
of shops cleaning for now. The bus takes long,
but they say "honest work." Know what? Me too!
I sell, door to door for Mrs. Schwenk, orders for
cakes she bakes! Just till summer over, and teacher
fix me up for school. There is a nice dog today
I make friends with at a house I ring their bell for.
Most house nobody there, or not come see, or they
not think me "honest work," but some, so feel safe,
bring doggy. And this pooch jump up to love me.
Tail, I say, as she go hoppy wag. Ear, and I scratch
her ear. I know good my body parts vocab for maybe
most parts now, I tell the lady, who smiling. Her Bitsy
rubs against me. And I rub Bitsy gentle on belly and on
what of the neck I learn is called the scruff. (You can't
go out all scruffy, told Mrs. Schwenk. She fixes me
good clothes, trims the hair of my neck, the scruff.)
The hair flat by Bitsy's collar is thick and ginger,
and she likes when I press my hand to scrub where
she itchy. Where the collar and scruff chafe—this
lady teach word. And score! Lady buy my cake!
5. This country, it got all kind of sports
This country, it got all kind of sports. Sports
which you throw, you catch, you run. Nets sports!
Sports where there big hits with sticks! You gotta
know sports, dude! Timboy shout to me. You wanna
fit in here? This sport, that sport, you learn lotsa
sports. And you got a lil money now, right, dude?
Okay, got some. (Not lot, but I know to say, Okay,
and act like.) So you need your own glove now,
right? he asks. I can get you one in not so rough
shape, maybe five bucks, max. So I say, Cool
and soon I got me a glove, not new but not rough,
and Timboy and me, we throwin'. The ball a more
wildfly bird than balls back where I come from—
it coiled tighter, I guess—so it has lift-off at you—
why sometimes I hang my glove too low—and this
one time it gobsmacks me in the chin. Like, pow!
But worse is when Timboy throws it a bit big
and me with my glove wrong, and the dumbass
ball bust the shed window. Dude, cries out Timboy,
can't you catch a lick? Well, I guess not, lil buddy.
The shed is locked, but we peep through the hole
where the ball go and I spy it. Some flower pots
and puddle of maybe not so cheap glass around it.
Squish my face to the wood frame to look in good,
and ow, knock the sore spot, where it now hatching,
like new egg at my lip, where I take it on the chin.
6. I like this room, the sunroom
I like this room, the sunroom. Will miss.
This red round lacquer table. White blinds
like skimpy ladders, for light of sun
to sneak through rungs. Mrs. Schwenk says,
“Study in here today, dear—I will help you.”
Her house is too small for us "long term,"
she decide last night, after the man fix window.
But she’ll give two weeks to look. "So sorry!"
This morning, to be more nice, she walks mama to the bus.
She smiles to me. She sets pot of scented tea on the red table.
No news about your dad? she asks. No, ma'am, still missing.
Timmy misses his dad too, she says, like let that explain us.
(Timboy and me in doghouse, Timboy tell me.
"Our yard not for ball-throwing, and you know that, mister!")
Vocab list 27 is where I am reached today.
Stamina. Insomnia. Agenda.
Mrs. Schwenk says definitions from the flashcards,
my words ending in letter A, until I know them.
Aroma, for which I smell the tea, say Ah! We laugh.
Chutzpa, I speak wrong. Okay, say Mrs. S., but speak right!
You gonna need some of that there chutzpa in this country!
Dilemma. Most we spell it chutzpah, though, she tells me,
a-h, still on the old word. The blinds' lines of shine
and shadow let the dark and light in. Some bars of them
on Mrs. Schwenk, some bars behind her, less wavier,
on the wall. Not all the way whites and blacks like book print,
though—more soft, like skins; colors of my skin, her skin.
Except same shine-shadow skin, like stripes of zebra.
7. There is a aid organization
There is a aid organization—The Friends, it means,
but it has the friends word in our language. Friends people,
long time, arrive here from our country. But lotsa aid groups!
Like Refugee Resettlement is government, like New Roots
which is church, like the language tutors at the R.L.C.
Lotsa folks who mean good here. So what if the gov org
is scary a bit, and gee louise their forms? So what if maybe
New Roots have an "agenda"? Be as it may, Friends
is who fix us up with Mrs. Schwenk. Friends is how
we been in this house. So Friends is mama say to call.
Uh-oh, I think to me. I don't like the Friends folks much.
The old ones do not know or understand, since they long gone,
but they are so sure they do. The youngs have skimpy sense of
but at least don't care. Young Friend fetched us at the airport,
down big, big roads sun-splintered with big, bright cars—
not speaking us in our language (because not know well),
but singing a song we learned as little: a song of revolution,
that she not seem to know say, kill our people. "Sing with,
sing with!" Sorry, don't sing too good, mama telling her.
She put a window down and I hanged my head out like a dog.
See green fields, forests, rivers. Choke a bit on stink of fuel.
This Friend woman say, "This is called the Bible Belt."
And then while she singing more, real loud, with the radio,
a police wail pull us stopped. We are speeding. His name
says OFFICER BIBLE. "Oh fuck!" the Friend woman saying,
real soft, when she sees his name. Legit, that was his name,
Officer Bible! So Friend woman very polite to Officer Bible.
His face, it shows her nothing—it's not a mean look;
more so a hard look, like he one of the tanks of the military.
Our Friend hands him her forms. Mama asks, he want ours?
But only the Friend's forms needed. Slowly, so slowly,
this policeman looks, then looks again at them. Like he thinking,
Lady, are you friend or foe? Court date July 27. That when
they decide, maybe, which one is she, if she belong here yet.
8. This new place we got
This place we got, not so far! Keep same school zone,
everyone say, so mama be ridin' that same ol' bus ride still.
But she’ll find a more close job, hopefully. Timboy say
he'll cycle to visit us, dude, which Mrs. Schwenk
don't seem so happy at. (He not your brother,
he says she tell him, and you too little for his friend.)
Timboy, I say, forget me, dude, I'm trouble for you.
But our last days—last before school also—
we go camp out in the sunroom, at that ol' red table,
and he teachin' me card games. Crazy eights, one called.
Bit fun, bit boring. Know poker, Timboy? I ask. I teach!
Was at internment camp I learned. We played for rocks.
Dirt floors, some fat shade trees. Was okay there, I reckon.
Not safe always, if you think you more smart, but okay,
as long as you not poke your head. You can wait the time.
Even with poker. Mama said, Keep the head low. Don't
anger the hard men to win big! We just want get our forms.
Oh, I listened. It just good sense. I had a lizard short time,
pet for a day, it think it smart? It poke its head.
Then pow, quick, gobbled, like a wink!
Timboy not bad. Don't hide his cards good, holds low
when he check his phone, but he do have chutzpa.
Gonna find some chumps, when his school start back,
he say, and not for no play stakes, neither. Real money.
Get rich a little. Uh-oh, you trouble like me, Timboy!
We the trouble brothers, dude, he say. Nah, I tell him,
that not smart. Keep the head low. Let the little
green lizards make the dumbass move, get eat.
9. We on the fifth floor here
We on the fifth floor here. A new new place, east side,
coz first new place “fell through.” I nervous to ask!
But just mean we didn’t get. So this one. Walls thin,
neighbors loud, funny smells. Little ugly, but it's ours
mama says. She is worried, coz I'm not sleeping right.
Three nights the weather bad, all kaboom of thunder.
We got no curtains, so weird shapes let into the room
when a lightning smacks it. It a bit like this movie I saw,
I say to my Learning Center tutor—boom! flash bomb!—
then when the flickers go dark again your eyes got wild
bad pictures. When for the real of it it's just my pants
slung over the chair lumpy, or my shirt swinging a bit
where I hung it. Not some dead thing all flung up there.
She asks many questions over this. Just to care, be nice.
Like some she asks because the Friends have got me
into this different school now, this religious school?
RLC teacher she say, uh-oh, she don't know about that.
She worries too much, though, like mama. Like maybe
I sleep bad coz my dumbass life has been so scary.
Nah, I say, it's just loud here, and the cot too hard.
Uh-huh, she says. Ma’am, I say, the thunder
is nothing like no bombs, if that's your worry.
With thunder there's a sweetness in the air, you know?
The way the rain raise up the, the… Fragrances,
she say. The fragrances. And I am snug in my sheet
on the floor, mostly, lately, coz the cot also too narrow,
and on the cot now I got my school books spread out,
so if the bad men come with bayonets, all they’ll get
to stab will be my algebra! Nah, ma’am, I'm good.
10. You faking with me, boy?
You faking with me, boy? says the Counselor. Like
I don’t know you learning English since you eight?
Look, I want to tell her. At eight, one day a week,
I start school. I taught to count. At ten I go more,
but the rains bad, the river big, school close for months.
When twelve, I needed for work work. For kids like me,
I want to say, I speak good! So I angry, but she is true:
ten weeks here—and I still feel like a dumbass.
I do! Which should on no account spill guts of! But she
keep not seeing me, see label this, label that—I got
who you are, mister. So I poke head, for real, to tell!
Which is dumb. Coz her eyes all, Oho, I thought so.
But I still saying! And saying it more wrong! I for real
cry, wow, like the rains that close the school! This lady,
she a bit nice at that, coz I so pitiful. Also coz gotcha.
Lays hand on top my back of, like friends. Bit more
to trap it. She holds her papers made for the nose at me.
She waits I stop. Then quiet, she say, Listen. Listen.
I gotta be put back, just for now, with the littler kids.
The school here tough. The teachers don't put up,
way they say it, with no darn hooey. You talk back—
you look at shit during prayer time—just you list
new word in journal—they take your shit. They confiscate.
(Fancy word for take!) Gimme that, what is this hooey?
How the heck help you to write, write all wrong English?
Dispose in receptacle! Copy out is better a few prayers!
Fine, put me back with the littler kids. But lady,
why you like when you think me weak? Like I’m
the crybaby boy, the shows you his cards boy,
like I can’t read what deal I got? Counselor, I did
terrible things, once. I am not your dumbass pet
gets eat. You do not know how hard a boy I been.
So we sit, her palm on top my back of. Real gently,
eyes down, no chutzpa, I press my other hand. I find
for her a face. Not angry face. Not a bit quiet angry.
Only the needing nice boy, the bit scared good boy.
Smiling like shy, like trying not to cry no more.
Thank you, Dr. Solomon. Help me be better.
(Final entry. At the back are sixteen pages of vocabulary lists.)
Derek Kannemeyer's works since 2018 include two poetry collections (Mutt Spirituals and You Go In By The Gate That Isn't There) a light verse/animal factoid ("A Betabestiary'), a novel (The Memory Addicts) a play (The Play of Gilgamesh), and a non-fiction/photography hybrid (Unsay Their Names) which was listed as one of Kirkus Review's 100 Best Indie Books of 2022.