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Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Part One

Snow

Old Words, New Words

Questions

What The Heck

God With A Wet Nose

Welcome To Minnesota

Family

Lessons

Good-Byes

Father

Bed

Brother

Tv Machine

Night

Mama

Sleep Story

Part Two

Paperwork

Information

School Clothes

Once There Was …

New Desk

Ready

Cattle

Lunch

Fries

Not Knowing

Home

Time

Helping

How Not To Wash Dishes

Not-Smart Boy

Magic Milk

Wet Feet

Bus

Lou

Cows And Cookies

Night Talk

Part Three

Cowboy

Working

Ganwar, Meet Gol

An Idea

Field Trip

The Question

Apple

Grocery Store

The Story I Tell Hannah On The Way Home

Library

Going Up

Hearts

White Girl

Scars

Bad News

No More

Last Day

Summer

More Bad News

Sleep Story

Confession

Running Away

Bus

Treed

Ganwar

Talk

Changes

Part Four

Herding

Traffic Jam

Cops

Zoo

Epilogue

Homecoming

Copyright

For Michael, Jake, and Julia, with love

PART ONE

When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.

—AFRICAN PROVERB

SNOW

When the flying boat

returns to earth at last,

I open my eyes

and gaze out the round window.

What is all the white? I whisper.

Where is all the world?

The helping man greets me

and there are many lines and questions

and pieces of paper.

At last I follow him outside.

We call that snow, he says.

Isn't it beautiful?

Do you like the cold?

I want to say

No, this cold is like claws on my skin!

I look around me.

Dead grass pokes through

the unkind blanket of white.

Everywhere the snow

sparkles with light

hard as high sun.

I close my eyes.

I try out my new English words:

How can you live

in this place called America?

It burns your eyes!

The man gives me a fat shirt

and soft things like hands.

Coat, he says. Gloves.

He smiles. You'll get used to it, Kek.

I am a tall boy,

like all my people.

My arms stick out of the coat

like lonely trees.

My fingers cannot make

the gloves work.

I shake my head.

I say, This America is hard work.

His laughter makes little clouds.

OLD WORDS, NEW WORDS

The helping man

is called Dave.

He tells me he's from the

Refugee Resettlement Center,

but I don't know what those

words are trying to say.

He isn't tall

like my father was,

and there is hair on his face

the color of clouds before rain.

His car is red

and coughs and burps

when he tries to make it go.

Doesn't much like

the cold, either, he says.

I smile to say I understand,

although I do not.

Sometimes Dave speaks English,

the tangled sounds

they tried to teach us

in the refugee camp.

And sometimes he

uses my words.

He's like a song always out of tune,

missing notes.

To help him,

I try some English,

but my mouth just wants to chew the words

and spit them on the ground.

We are like a cow and a goat,

wanting to be friends

but wondering if it

can ever be.

QUESTIONS

We drive past buildings,

everywhere buildings.

Everywhere cars.

Everywhere dead trees.

Who killed all the trees? I ask.

They're not dead, Dave says.

This is called winter,

and it happens every year.

In spring their leaves will come back.

You'll see.

He turns to smile.

His eyes are wise and calm,

the eyes of a village elder.

Your family will be happy

to see you, Dave says,

but he doesn't mean my truest family,

my mother and father and brother.

I don't answer.

I reach into my pocket

and feel the soft cloth

I carry with me everywhere.

Blue and yellow,

torn at the edges,

the size of my hand,

soft as new grass after good rain.

Dave asks, When did you last see

your aunt and cousin?

A long time ago, I say.

Before the camp.

I can tell that Dave

has many questions.

I wonder if all America people

will be so curious.

My mouth is going to get very sore,

stumbling on words all day long.

We stop at a light

hung high in the air,

red and round

like a baby sun.

How was the airplane trip?

Dave asks in English.

When I don't answer, he tries again,

using my words:

Did you like the flying boat?

I liked it very much, I say.

I'd like to fly such a boat

one day myself.

When Mama comes,

we'll take a flying boat

around the world.

Dave turns to look at me.

You know, Kek, he says,

we aren't sure where your mother is.

His voice has the soft sting of pity in it.

We don't know if she is—

She's fine, I tell him,

and I look out the window

at the not-dead trees.

She will come, I say,

and this time

/>
I use my words,

my music.

WHAT THE HECK

We drive down a long road

with many fast cars.

Still there are buildings,

but sometimes not.

I see a long fence

made of old gray boards.

And then I see the cow.

Stop! I yell.

I feel regret in my heart

to use such a harsh sound

with my new helping friend.

Please stop, I say,

gently this time.

What? Dave asks.

What's wrong?

Did you not see her?

The brave cow

in the snow?

Dave glances

in the looking-back glass.

Cow? Oh, yeah. That used to be

a big farm. Lot of land around here's

getting sold off now.

But that farmer's hanging on.

I don't understand his words,

but I can hear that he doesn't

love cattle as I do,

and I feel sorry for him.

I twist in my seat.

The don't-move belt across my chest

pulls back.

Oh, what the heck? Dave says.

I have not yet learned

the meaning of heck,

but I can see that

it's a fine and useful word,

because he turns the car around.

GOD WITH A WET NOSE

We park by the side

of the fast-car road.

Walking through the snow

is hard work,

like wading across a river

wild with rain.

The cow is near a fine,

wide-armed,

good-for-climbing tree.

To say the truth of it,

she is not the most beautiful of cows.

Her belly sags

and her coat is scarred

and her face tells me

she remembers sweeter days.

My father would not have stood

for such a weary old woman in his herd,

and yet to see her here

in this strange land

makes my eyes glad.

In my old home back in Africa,

cattle mean life.

They are our reason

to rise with the sun,

to move with the rains,

to rest with the stars.

They are the way we know

our place in the world.

The cow looks past me.

I can see that she's pouting,

with only snow and dead grass

to keep her company.

I shake my head. A cow can be trouble,

with her slow, stubborn body,

her belly ripe with milk,

her pleading eyes that shine at you

like river rocks in sun.

An old woman comes out of the barn.

She's carrying a bucket.

Two chickens trot behind her

scolding and fussing.

The woman waves.

Just saying hello to the cow,

Dave calls.

Let me know if she answers,

the woman calls back,

and she returns to the barn.

We should go, Dave says.

Your aunt is expecting us.

A little longer, I say.

Please?

I know cattle are important

to your people, Dave says.

Again he tries to use my words.

A man I helped to settle here

taught me a saying from Africa.

I'll bet you would like it:

A cow is God with a wet nose.

I laugh. We wait.

The wind sneaks through my coat.

My teeth shiver.

I take off a glove

and hold out my hand,

and at last the cow comes to me.

She moos,

a harsh and mournful sound.

It isn't the fault of the cow.

She doesn't know another way to talk.

She can't learn

the way I am learning,

word

by slow, slow

word.

I stroke her cold, wet coat,

and for a moment I hold

all I've lost

and all I want

right there in my hand.

WELCOME TO MINNESOTA

It's growing dark

when I say good-bye to the cow

and we go back to the car to drive again.

At last we park before a brown building,

taller than trees.

Its window-eyes

weep yellow light.

Under a street lamp,

children throw white balls

at the not-dead trees.

Snowballs, Dave explains.

A smiling girl throws

one of the balls at Dave's car.

He shakes his head.

Welcome to Minnesota, he says.

We climb out of the car.

The snowball girl's face is red

and her long brown hair is wet.

Hi, she says. I'm Hannah.

You the new kid?

I'm not sure of the answer,

so I make my shoulders go up and down.

Catch, she says,

and she throws a cold white ball to me.

It falls apart in my hands.

I follow Dave across the noisy snow.

Two times I slip and fall.

Two times I rise, pants wet, knees burning.

Take it slow, buddy, Dave says.

Tears trace my cheeks like tiny knives.

I look away so Dave will not see my shame.

How can I trust a place

where even the ground plays tricks?

Inside, we climb up many stairs.

We walk down a long hall,

passing door after door.

Dave knocks on one of them,

and behind it I hear the

muffled voices of my past.

Much time has come and gone,

but still I know the worn, gray voice

of my mother's sister, Nyatal.

I hear another voice, too,

the sound of a young man,

a strong man.

The door opens

and my old life is waiting on the other side.

FAMILY

I'm hugged and kissed

and there is much welcoming

from my aunt.

She's rounder than I remember,

with a moon face to match,

her black eyes set deep.

My cousin, Ganwar,

shakes my hand.

I have learned about shaking hands.

At the camp they taught us how:

be firm, but do not squeeze too hard!

Still, when Ganwar grasps my hand

we are like two calves in the clouds

pretending we know how to fly.

The man's voice belongs to Ganwar,

and he has my father's height now,

though Ganwar is thin and reedy

where my father

was sturdy with strength.

His eyes are wary and smart,

always taking the measure of a person.

Six long scars line his forehead,

the marks of manhood

I watched Ganwar and my brother receive

in our village ceremony.

How jealous I had been that day,

too young for such an honor.

I try hard not to look at

another scar,

the place where Ganwar's left hand

should be,

round and bare and waiting

like an ugly question

no one can answer.<

br />
The night Ganwar lost his hand

was the night I lost

my father and brother,

the night of men in the sky with guns,

the night the earth opened up like a black pit

and swallowed my old life whole.

My aunt holds my face in her hands

and I see that she's crying.

I know her to be a woman of many sorrows,

carved down to a sharp stone

by her luckless life.

She isn't like my mother,

whose laughter is

like bubbling water from a deep spring.

I look into her eyes

and then my tears come hard and fast,

not for her, not for my cousin,

not even for myself,

but because when I look there,

I see my mother's eyes

looking back at me.

LESSONS

I'll let you get settled, Dave says,

but first I'll give you some lessons.

Your aunt and your cousin know these things,

but you'll need to know them, too.

Number one, he says,

always lock your door.

Ganwar, show Kek what a key looks like.

In my old home,

my real home,

my father kept us safe.

We had no need for locks.

Number two, he says,

this is a light switch.

He pushes a tiny stick on the wall

and the room turns to night,

then blinks awake.

In my old home,

my real home,

the sun gave us light,

and the stars

watched us sleep.

This thermostat, Dave says,

helps keep you warm.

He pretends to shiver

to paint a picture for his words.

In my old home,

my real home,

we were a family,

and our laughter kept us warm.

We didn't need a magic switch

on a wall.

I nod to say yes,

I understand,

but I wonder if I will ever understand,

even if Dave stands here,

pointing and talking

forever.

GOOD-BYES

I'll be going now, Kek, Dave says,

but I'll see you tomorrow.

I smile to show my thanking.

Remember that this'll take time, he says.

It isn't easy to make such a big change.

Things are very different here.

In the camp, I say,

they called America

heaven on earth.

They say many things in the camps, Ganwar says.

You'll see how wrong they were.

Dave shakes his finger at Ganwar.

You behaving lately, buddy?

he asks with a smile.

My aunt answers

when Ganwar doesn't:

He had another fight last week.

Ganwar looks at the ceiling.

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