Your Wrath Cheng Vang

If you don't know me by now, it's probably because of my underwhelming knowledge of Hmong language— the language barrier between us. I'm sorry I could only understand to focus. I'm sorry that I was doing not nearly the bare minimum. You crossed the Mekong and got called ching chong, and all I had to do was go to school. I knew focusing on school would bring good in my life, but honestly, I felt like a tool: being forced to become a doctor, all because I could make money. I remember the time you laid my nose flat. BAM. My nose drenched my white shirt, now a new red. Yet my fear wasn't clear that it would be hard to build another relationship with you again. You busted my lip and almost broke my hip. Yet my fear wasn't clear. When it ended I know you wanted to say sorry, but your pride was the only thing that let you stride away from that. After your path of wrath you began fighting with mom. I remember nights when you’d say you’d leave. You were lost, and the frost encased you in a cube. Our family was in a feud. Your wrath imploded my confidence, blocking me like a dog in a yard surrounded by a fence. Your wrath henceforth pushed me to be better. Your words no longer held me down like a fetter. I know that school wasn't always my strong point, being called a fool often in family reunions. What about now? I have straight A’s, an almost perfect 4.0, and now this ode to you. You weren’t all bad, though. I remember the fishing trips,

teaching me how to cast my rod; I remember the first time catching the hook in the back of my shirt. You weren’t all that bad, though. I remember the trips to stores, malls. Me getting lost and you running to me with a single tear each time.

Cheng Vang, Grade 9 Patrick Henry High School, Minneapolis Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali