because it provides the perfect opportunity to study. It’s a game I’ve devised where I look for paper when gathering—more specifically, paper with printing on it—and choose at random a letter from a word. I have five seconds to say the letter’s name and sound aloud. Each time I get ten in a row, I pretend to win exotic prizes—furniture, bags of rice, clothing, and packaged food.
I begin today with a torn green flyer, with pictures of an expensive home on the back, and I randomly select the letter a. I speak to Nisay, who is now sleeping, repeating the letter’s name first and then pronouncing its sound, as if the child lying nearby were even remotely interested.
“Nisay, this is the letter ( i ). It makes the I sound. Did you hear me?”
If someone were watching, they’d think I’d completely lost my mind—certainly a justifiable conclusion. I pick through layers of garbage, looking for recyclable trash, until I stuff two smashed aluminum cans and an empty perfume bottle into my canvas bag. I then snatch another loose piece of printed paper that looks to be from a magazine and randomly pick out my next letter. I know this one easily.
“This is the letter ( noo ) and it makes the N sound.”
I’m about to dig for more stray cans when I decide to cheat and sneak in another letter in between my searching. I snatch a light yellow wrapper that I recognize as packaging from one of the fast-food chains so popular with tourists in the city. It’s not the vivid artist’s rendering of an American hamburger on the front that catches my attention but the bright orange letters printed beneath. They are shadowed in blue and seem to float above the paper. As I admire the charm of the design, I arbitrarily pick the first letter of the last word.
“Nisay, this is the letter ( saa ). It makes the S sound.”
I am about to toss the wrapper and resume working when my eyes roll across each of the letters that follow. I have been repeating the tones of individual letters for so many days that my head doesn’t realize it should quit. As my brain stitches the sounds together, my tongue and mouth work in unison to pronounce them. It’s a short word, and in an instant, I understand that the letters grouped together spell the word samnang —meaning luck.
I am so astonished, I speak it aloud a second time, emphasizing each sound as my eyes pass over the letters, forcing my mind to confirm what my lips have already declared. “Sam—na—ng.”
Without any help from Sopeap, I have read my very first word!
I glance around for someone with whom I can share this amazing moment. Ki is picking. Nisay sleeps. Other gatherers work at a distance. I alone am aware of the miracle that has just occurred.
I have read my first word!
My brain must finally be grasping the depth of my accomplishment because it’s now telling my body to jump up and down and scream as loud as humanly possible—to let everyone know that I, Sang Ly, an illiterate, foolish girl from the province, living in Phnom Penh’s largest waste dump, have just read MY FIRST WORD.
I try to dance as best I can in rubber boots, and I’m about to shout in celebration, but my body doesn’t listen. Instead, my legs buckle and I slump down onto the trash that so generously provided my reading material. I pull my knees to my chest, bury my head in my lap, and cry the most personal and satisfying cry that I’ve had in a very long time.
Thank you, Grandfather, for helping me to read my first word.
When I am finished, I carefully fold the wrapper, place it in my pocket, throw my recycle sack over one shoulder and Nisay over the other, and then skip in my heavy boots toward home.
*****
By the time Ki arrives, I am unstoppable. I have deciphered the entire slogan and the wrapper now hangs on the wall below our clock. I pull it down to demonstrate my astounding newfound ability.
Even though I have already memorized every word, I point to each one for Ki as
I begin today with a torn green flyer, with pictures of an expensive home on the back, and I randomly select the letter a. I speak to Nisay, who is now sleeping, repeating the letter’s name first and then pronouncing its sound, as if the child lying nearby were even remotely interested.
“Nisay, this is the letter ( i ). It makes the I sound. Did you hear me?”
If someone were watching, they’d think I’d completely lost my mind—certainly a justifiable conclusion. I pick through layers of garbage, looking for recyclable trash, until I stuff two smashed aluminum cans and an empty perfume bottle into my canvas bag. I then snatch another loose piece of printed paper that looks to be from a magazine and randomly pick out my next letter. I know this one easily.
“This is the letter ( noo ) and it makes the N sound.”
I’m about to dig for more stray cans when I decide to cheat and sneak in another letter in between my searching. I snatch a light yellow wrapper that I recognize as packaging from one of the fast-food chains so popular with tourists in the city. It’s not the vivid artist’s rendering of an American hamburger on the front that catches my attention but the bright orange letters printed beneath. They are shadowed in blue and seem to float above the paper. As I admire the charm of the design, I arbitrarily pick the first letter of the last word.
“Nisay, this is the letter ( saa ). It makes the S sound.”
I am about to toss the wrapper and resume working when my eyes roll across each of the letters that follow. I have been repeating the tones of individual letters for so many days that my head doesn’t realize it should quit. As my brain stitches the sounds together, my tongue and mouth work in unison to pronounce them. It’s a short word, and in an instant, I understand that the letters grouped together spell the word samnang —meaning luck.
I am so astonished, I speak it aloud a second time, emphasizing each sound as my eyes pass over the letters, forcing my mind to confirm what my lips have already declared. “Sam—na—ng.”
Without any help from Sopeap, I have read my very first word!
I glance around for someone with whom I can share this amazing moment. Ki is picking. Nisay sleeps. Other gatherers work at a distance. I alone am aware of the miracle that has just occurred.
I have read my first word!
My brain must finally be grasping the depth of my accomplishment because it’s now telling my body to jump up and down and scream as loud as humanly possible—to let everyone know that I, Sang Ly, an illiterate, foolish girl from the province, living in Phnom Penh’s largest waste dump, have just read MY FIRST WORD.
I try to dance as best I can in rubber boots, and I’m about to shout in celebration, but my body doesn’t listen. Instead, my legs buckle and I slump down onto the trash that so generously provided my reading material. I pull my knees to my chest, bury my head in my lap, and cry the most personal and satisfying cry that I’ve had in a very long time.
Thank you, Grandfather, for helping me to read my first word.
When I am finished, I carefully fold the wrapper, place it in my pocket, throw my recycle sack over one shoulder and Nisay over the other, and then skip in my heavy boots toward home.
*****
By the time Ki arrives, I am unstoppable. I have deciphered the entire slogan and the wrapper now hangs on the wall below our clock. I pull it down to demonstrate my astounding newfound ability.
Even though I have already memorized every word, I point to each one for Ki as
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