Home of the Brave

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  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 timer />
  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
.

  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.