Kyu Kyu Thein
A Madonna song
echoed throughout my ears
as I walked by the spot
a classmate of mine
was shot down weeks ago.
In the place where his body fell,
a flower grew
through the cracks of the cement.
We had seen more people die
than we had seen them smile.
We were tired.
We were young
but we felt like our fathers already.
But through all the blood
seeping into the sidewalk,
the screams from children,
the cries from their parents,
there was a box TV
with a fuzzy screen
and muffled songs playing.
And there were Americans on that screen
with jean jackets and cool sunglasses.
And they were laughing and singing and dancing.
I wanted to be an American. I wanted to be happy too.
But at home,
my mother cooked me my favorite food
and my little sisters begged me to take them shopping.
My older brother was still my older brother
and my father was still my father.
I watched little babies grow into teenagers
and I watched my aunties and uncles grow older.
I could understand everything,
I could speak to anyone and
they would know what I was saying.
I could walk to my friends houses
and we would watch those Americans dance to their songs on tv.
We sang along,
we would use all we had left in our voices to sing along.
We laughed and talked
and we danced too.
We danced too.