I read them aloud. “It’s from Lucky Burger. See, this is their name right here.” I motion to the words above the picture, in case he has any doubt.
He glances first at the lettering and then at me, I hope understanding that now is not a good time to be funny. I continue. “The slogan underneath, right here, says Roal Thngai-mean samnang—Where Every Day Is Lucky.
Ki can’t help himself. “Does this mean we have to eat hamburgers?”
I leap toward him, wrap my arms around his waist, pull his body close against mine, and hold tightly. We embrace for a long time, but the best part of the evening—the moment I will remember more than any other—is that Ki hugs back.
Chapter Eight
Kim Pan plants rice.
Then Kim rides on the wat-er buff-a-lo.
Kim calls to Bora Chan.
The pictures on each page are simple sketches; I don’t care. It’s my concentration on the words that opens up a more colorful and moving visual picture in my head.
Yes, I stumble at first on such words as buffalo, but after I’ve read them two or three times, if I falter it’s only because I don’t want to make a mistake and disappoint the teacher. It’s as if my head knows their meaning but my mouth wants to take it extra slow, just to be sure. At times I think I can hear my brain screaming, “ I am reading here, so please, all other body parts, do your best to keep up! ”
“I should have brought harder books,” Sopeap says, as I finish one page and move to the next. I bite my lip and remember what happened last time I was prideful. “I will drop off some harder books tomorrow before I leave.”
“You are leaving?”
“I have an appointment that will keep me away for a few days. I want you to practice reading at least four hours a day until I return.”
“Ki says if I practice much more, my head will explode.”
“Your head will not explode, I assure you. Just work hard, raise your reading level, and next time, we will discuss grammar.”
“Grammar?”
“Yes, the policeman of writing. But don’t worry, there is not much written grammar in our language. Besides, you already understand most of it from speaking. After that, we will finish.”
“But I don’t want our lessons to end.”
“Why not? You are reading sentences. You need to become more proficient, but with practice, it will come.”
“There are more things I want to learn.”
“Things? What things?”
“I want to learn about literature. ”
“Literature?” Sopeap halts, turns. “What do you know about literature?”
“Only that you said you taught literature at the university.”
“Sang Ly, you’ve just learned how to read. I think it’s a bit early to jump into stories.”
“I don’t,” I plead. “I think it would be the perfect way for me to practice.” I can’t tell if Sopeap is annoyed or flattered that I would even ask.
“Tell me what you think literature is,” she finally questions, shuffling a step back.
“It’s reading, I guess—important reading—from books.”
“Reading, yes, but there’s more . . . well . . . how do I explain?”
Her eyes are perplexed, her mouth open. “To be honest,” she says, “I am tired. I haven’t been feeling well and I just don’t think I will ever have enough energy to teach you literature.”
“But you have enough energy to collect rent—and to drink. That can’t be good for your body.”
Why can’t I just keep my big mouth shut? I regret my words as, for just a second, it looks as though Sopeap will berate me—but she stops.
She doesn’t answer right away, and when she does, she speaks to herself. “It’s not my body I soothe. How do I explain it to the child?”
When she looks up, I shrug. She continues: “Teaching someone to read, Sang Ly, is very mechanical. It is like picking trash—straightforward, simple rules—you just follow the motions instinctively as your brain directs.”
“Okay, I understand that.”
“But literature is unique. To
He glances first at the lettering and then at me, I hope understanding that now is not a good time to be funny. I continue. “The slogan underneath, right here, says Roal Thngai-mean samnang—Where Every Day Is Lucky.
Ki can’t help himself. “Does this mean we have to eat hamburgers?”
I leap toward him, wrap my arms around his waist, pull his body close against mine, and hold tightly. We embrace for a long time, but the best part of the evening—the moment I will remember more than any other—is that Ki hugs back.
Chapter Eight
Kim Pan plants rice.
Then Kim rides on the wat-er buff-a-lo.
Kim calls to Bora Chan.
The pictures on each page are simple sketches; I don’t care. It’s my concentration on the words that opens up a more colorful and moving visual picture in my head.
Yes, I stumble at first on such words as buffalo, but after I’ve read them two or three times, if I falter it’s only because I don’t want to make a mistake and disappoint the teacher. It’s as if my head knows their meaning but my mouth wants to take it extra slow, just to be sure. At times I think I can hear my brain screaming, “ I am reading here, so please, all other body parts, do your best to keep up! ”
“I should have brought harder books,” Sopeap says, as I finish one page and move to the next. I bite my lip and remember what happened last time I was prideful. “I will drop off some harder books tomorrow before I leave.”
“You are leaving?”
“I have an appointment that will keep me away for a few days. I want you to practice reading at least four hours a day until I return.”
“Ki says if I practice much more, my head will explode.”
“Your head will not explode, I assure you. Just work hard, raise your reading level, and next time, we will discuss grammar.”
“Grammar?”
“Yes, the policeman of writing. But don’t worry, there is not much written grammar in our language. Besides, you already understand most of it from speaking. After that, we will finish.”
“But I don’t want our lessons to end.”
“Why not? You are reading sentences. You need to become more proficient, but with practice, it will come.”
“There are more things I want to learn.”
“Things? What things?”
“I want to learn about literature. ”
“Literature?” Sopeap halts, turns. “What do you know about literature?”
“Only that you said you taught literature at the university.”
“Sang Ly, you’ve just learned how to read. I think it’s a bit early to jump into stories.”
“I don’t,” I plead. “I think it would be the perfect way for me to practice.” I can’t tell if Sopeap is annoyed or flattered that I would even ask.
“Tell me what you think literature is,” she finally questions, shuffling a step back.
“It’s reading, I guess—important reading—from books.”
“Reading, yes, but there’s more . . . well . . . how do I explain?”
Her eyes are perplexed, her mouth open. “To be honest,” she says, “I am tired. I haven’t been feeling well and I just don’t think I will ever have enough energy to teach you literature.”
“But you have enough energy to collect rent—and to drink. That can’t be good for your body.”
Why can’t I just keep my big mouth shut? I regret my words as, for just a second, it looks as though Sopeap will berate me—but she stops.
She doesn’t answer right away, and when she does, she speaks to herself. “It’s not my body I soothe. How do I explain it to the child?”
When she looks up, I shrug. She continues: “Teaching someone to read, Sang Ly, is very mechanical. It is like picking trash—straightforward, simple rules—you just follow the motions instinctively as your brain directs.”
“Okay, I understand that.”
“But literature is unique. To
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