Internment(8)

I’ve never seen this look on my father’s face before. It’s terror or fear or confusion. No. None of those are the right words. We’re all small, scared, helpless animals, our legs caught in the teeth of a steel trap. I understand; this has nothing to do with me. How stupid am I? This isn’t about breaking curfew. It’s about something far, far worse.

Suit #1, obviously the one in charge, pushes my dad toward my mom, whose face is wet with tears. She reaches out for my dad, her arms, her entire body, shaking. Suit #1 speaks, his voice a taut wire. “Under order of the Exclusion Authority and by the powers vested in the secretary of war under Presidential Order 1455, we are here to serve notice and carry out your relocation.”

Relocation. What does that mean? I turn from the Suits to my parents; my mom is sobbing into her hands, and my dad looks like the house is burning down around him.

“Relocation?” I repeat. “For us? To where? Why?”

Suit #1 turns toward the stairs, narrowing his eyes at me. “Near Manzanar. And you would do best to keep quiet.”

I clamp my mouth shut and bite my lip. The looks on my parents’ faces. I clutch my stomach; I’m afraid I might throw up.

Suit #1 addresses my dad. “You are the author of this book, Nameless Saints, correct?” he says in a gravelly voice, gesturing to the book in his hand. Suit #2 has barely uttered a word since the pair marched into our house.

“Yes,” my dad answers slowly, uncertainly.

His poems. They’re coming after us because of poetry? I rack my brain to try to think what could be in these poems that would get us in trouble. His last book was published a couple of months before the election. But my dad—his poems—they’re not fire-and-brimstone political. His poems are about people and moments and polishing tiny nuggets of truth.

“And this poem? ‘Revolution’?” Suit #1 asks, showing my dad a page in the book.

“Yes,” my dad says, his voice low. It’s probably my dad’s best-known poem. When it was published in the New Yorker, my mom and I had Mrs. Brown make him one of those picture cakes, with the cover of the issue his poem was printed in. Mrs. Brown, the woman who was off to burn my dad’s books. Dad once came to school to do a writer’s workshop with us in English class. I memorized his poem so I could recite it that day.

Revolution

By Ali Amin


Speak to me with your tongue while it is still free,

while your body is still yours.


Let your words travel through the air,

uncontrolled

spontaneous

necessary

tumbling through clouds of dust that dim the sun.


Until they reach my ear

and so many ears, spilled onto the table,

waiting.


Speak the truth while it is still alive, while lips, cracked and bleeding, can still move.


Time is beholden to neither lover nor tyrant.


Say what you must.

I will listen.





Ten minutes.

That’s how long we’ve been given to pack up our lives, to leave our home. To prepare for relocation. How do we even begin? That’s not even time enough to say good-bye.

Suit #1’s voice blasts at us as we begin to walk upstairs to collect our things. “Only the necessities. One bag per person.” He turns away, stops, and yells back, “Guards are posted in the front and back.”

My parents and I continue up the stairs quietly. There are no more words. I feel like a fish that’s been caught on a line and slapped onto a stone. My tail flaps; my body lurches. I’m about to be gutted, and all I can do is watch the knife coming for me.

My dad silently ushers all of us into my room. My eyes scan this space that suddenly feels like it’s not my own, not the place I’ve spent every night for over a decade. The book left open on my bed, the disheveled kantha quilt, the long black cotton scarf with red roses embroidered on it, my phone plugged into the nightstand. My phone. David. I need to tell him. I stutter-step toward my phone.

Boots stomp up the stairs.

“No,” my mom whispers, snatching the phone from my hands. There’s no time to protest, let alone tap out a text. I can only watch, wide-eyed, as my phone falls to the ground, hitting the carpet with a soft thud and a bounce that lands it on the bare wood floor under my bed. I drop to my knees to reach for it amid the dust and detritus.

“I’ll take your phones now.” I look up. It’s the Boots. A man in a khaki Army uniform steps into my room, hand extended. His jaw juts out, showcasing a prominent underbite.

My dad reaches into his pocket and turns over his phone. He doesn’t make eye contact with the guard, or with me or my mom.

“My… my phone—” Mom stumbles over her words, then clears her throat. “It’s on the small table in the foyer.” She takes my dad’s hand, and they step a little closer to me. My mom reaches for me. I take her hand and let her pull me to standing. She nods at me. I look down at my phone, the bejeweled rubber case, the scratches on the glass surface, the screensaver of David and me—a selfie of us on a hike not far from here. His arm is around my shoulders, I’m flashing a peace sign, and we both have these goofy grins on our faces. There’s a tightness in my chest. There’s a deep coldness in my bones, and my blood is like ice.

My mom turns to me and carefully unwraps each of the fingers that clutch my phone. My knuckles are white. Without another word, she gives my phone to the guard.