He liked to stretch his legs and arms in an old wooden bench by the garage.
Every time we dropped by to see our parents-in-law, he was there laying in
that position.  Sometimes, if I was not in a hurry, I would chat around with him.
In fact, that was not the chatting with him that interested me but  his skill in
playing the Khene.  At times, I would linger around long enough to listen
to his Siengkhene until he was tired to play any more.  Most of the time,
I would find any excuse to leave him as soon as his monologue is heating up.
Yes, it is really boring for he has a tendency to go on and on with his exploits
of the past as if this were his first recount.  Maybe, he forgot that he had
already told me this kind of story a couple of times.  You might wonder why
I keep seeing him again and again.  Yes, partly, it was due to Siengkhene but,
more, to the person who made Siengkhene more meaningful

I think telling a little story would do the job.  It begins like this:
Back in Laos, he was a junior military officer in charge of a small unit.
Though skinny and not well-educated, he was a man skilled in the art of
combat.  He could easily identify any kind of weaponry.  Better yet, he
can use it with a very little instruction.  I learned, of course, through his
own account that he had participated in rescuing team to get the American
pilots shot down in the liberated area.  Many times, he led the special force
(Thaharn Team) to do the intelligence in the Pathet Lao zone.  As with any
of his daring exploits, I took it with a grain of salt.  One reason that stood
against them was his tendency to blow things up.  Sometimes, I even caught
his benign twisting of words when heard the same story over and over but,
through to his form, each time his story told slightly in a different version.
To those who knew him back in Laos agreed that part of his story was true.
One thing that was strongly in his favor was his ability to mingle easily with
people.  Equipped with a big heart, street-smart mind, a strong voice mostly
associated with the people from the south, he obviously stood out.  Only if
the old regime still exists, he would easily move up in the military rank and
make good of his inborn talent.  As we know, any military men who didn't
escape across the Mekong River would end up in the Samana camp.
Through to his form, he was shrewd enough to leave Laos with the first
wave of refugees.

When he first landed in America, everything went smoothly that I had no
inkling to write about him at all.   He got a job, bought a new truck and
thought of settling down to a family life.  Then, things just happened.
He got laid off from his job.  Years of hard work made his body deteriorated.
He couldn't do the kind of job that used his strength any more.  With that,
it signified the crushing end of his dream to have a family, to get a decent job
and to have a life of a better future, It was sad indeed to be constantly
reminded of  his fate as I had to drop by his place to pick up my two kids
nearby on a daily basis.  The last time I saw him, he was still stretching his
legs and arms in the wooden bench by the garage.  As it was quite dark
already, he was again in the mood to grab the Khene and play a sad tune
- like a tune of his life, like a tune of the ethnic Lao life - always on the move,
with no place to call anywhere their home.

A parting note: since I first wrote this story half a year ago, everything was
kind of changing now.  He is not living at a place next to my parents-in-law's
house any more.  Some said that the people where he lived with couldn't
stand his drunkenness.  With that, I couldn't even say that only Siengkhene
was left because there was no sound, even a tiny one.

Hakphaang,
Kongkeo Saycocie

1997

After acquainting ourselves for a while, I asked him, "By the way, what are you doing here?"

"Selling drugs."

"Drugs?" I emphasized this word --hardly believing my ears.

"Yes," he firmly resounded.

"Not afraid of the cops?" I still had not come to terms with what I had heard.

"Yes, but so far I luckily haven't met one yet." He put his two hands together and raised them above his head.

Though I had just met him, I felt like he was sincere. There was no tinge of haughtiness as shown among the likely drug peddlers. That saddened me greatly.

"I catch the bus to here everyday," he continued. "Have you ever gone to Richmond? I live over there with my mom."

"A couple of times," I said. Switching the subject, I asked him with concern, "Do you go to school?"

"No. I am not good at it. In fact, I can't even write my own name." His remorseful voice saddened me even more.

"That is not too late. You can start it now. You are still young. Look at me! I am much older than you and I still go to school." I tried to encourage him the best I could.

"Maybe someday," he said with a sign of hope flickering in his eyes.

Before I could say another word, a potential customer walked by. He stood up suddenly and left me with this incredibly meaningful word "Thanks."

I sat there motionless for a while. A series of memories flashed back into my mind. Back in Laos, one of my early childhood friends took hours to read a single paragraph of a newspaper. Yet, he had finished the compulsory third grade education. When he read, he used his finger to point at each word as if a 4-5 year old child was learning to read. It was tortuous to witness this struggle.

To be fair, it was not his fault that he could not read. The teachers did their best with their scarce resources. But as his family always struggled to survive each day, he had to periodically skip class to go and dig for bamboo shoots in the forest.

Here, in the U.S., young Lao kids of school age walked leisurely along the lobby of the high school. They were well-fed and well-dressed, but not many of them were seriously committed to education. Some just hung on and got at most a diploma to go on to join the army of the unskilled laborers. I asked them why they did not plan to go on to college.

Their responses varied:

"I need a car."

"I want to make money."

"School is too hard for me. Besides, there is no one to help."

"I am tired of this shit."

These prevalent answers made me sigh heavily. These kids did not think far enough. They did not realize that a solid education was the way for their future, for their offspring, and for our ethnic group.

At the far end of the street, the bus was trotting along. I got up, hurled my two bags, one of school books and the other of my clothes to be washed at home, across my shoulders and dashed off to the bus stop.

The sun was setting behind the big tall buildings. A gust of wind blew against my dry face. I thankfully felt it. I turned to the plaza where the young man had exchanged some 'stuff' with his "customers"; he was not there any more. His brief presence had thrown some hard questions into my heart: Where would he be? What kind of future lied ahead for him? What would he do if he had a chance to go back to school? Would he make the most out of it? Or would he be like other Lao youths wandering aimlessly through the hallow halls of their high school?

I let my thoughts wander as the Golden Gate transit bus carried my tired body but fighting heart back to the warmth of my beloved wife and dearest daughter.

Hakphaang,

At the dawn of April the 13th, the first day of Pimai, the young girl I just mentioned, dressed in traditional Lao dress - sinhmaii and phabieng across her shoulder, appeared at the temple. She was there for the takbath, an alm-giving to the Buddha disciples. In her right arm, she carried a Kan (bowl) with cooked rice, bananas, oranges, kaotom and kaonom in it. She looked like an angel coming down from Heaven.

At the yard of the temple, with the straw mat laid open, she sat down with her legs folded under her (naang phab phiep) and looked at the far end of the temple where the monks were coming down that way. With the poised gait, the much-awaited monks finally appeared. They slowly filed slowly past a row of the alms-givers. Kneeling down, the beautifully adorned girl picked up a handful of rice and bananas and respectfully placed them onto the Bath of the monks. This picture really held my eyes fixed. Beauty in the form of grace was hard to put into words. It was like watching a little duckling sipping water at the pond -innocent but yet awestruck.

When the last monk filed past her, she put her two hands together and nob in reverence. Then, she poured water from a small bottle down slowly --almost drop by drop. As the water touched the ground, I could not help but think what a pious Buddhadhamma follower she was. If only Lao people were as immersed in Buddhadhamma ideals as she was, we, as a people and an ethnic group, would be a shining star in the midst of utter darkness.

Hakphaang,

Kongkeo Saycocie

1995