Home of the Brave

  C’mon, hurry up.

  The driver makes a face that says

  stupid-new-to-this-country-boy.

  But Hannah, I say,

  I can’t take more money from you.

  Hannah tips my glove over the box

  and the quarters slip in with a

  happy jangle.

  She grabs my arm as the bus

  rushes forward.

  We pile into a seat near the back.

  See, my mom sends me money sometimes, Hannah says.

  Her nose and cheeks are red as sunset sky.

  Just, you know, out of the blue.

  No explanation, no letter.

  It just shows up.

  I used to write her and say thanks,

  but now I don’t bother.

  She never writes back.

  Anyway, my foster mom always

  hands the money over to me.

  I give her some and then the rest

  I put in a box under my bed.

  But it’s yours to spend, I say.

  Not mine.

  Hey, you get a job,

  you can pay me back.

  Meantime, keep your eyes open.

  I blink. But they are—

  I mean, look out the window for this farm.

  I’m not sure if Dave’s got

  the right stop or not.

  I never noticed a farm out this way.

  It’s a very small farm, I admit.

  After much snow and many buildings,

  I see at last the little farm.

  The bus pulls over and

  we step into a pile of snow

  as high as our knees.

  There she is, I say.

  The cow is standing near a shed.

  She looks bored. And cold.

  I thought she was a girl, Hannah says.

  She has horns.

  Girl cattle can have horns, I explain.

  Really? Hannah asks.

  Way to go, girl cow.

  So now what?

  When I take a deep breath of icy air,

  it is like swallowing an arrow.

  Now, I say, I get my job.

  LOU

  It’s a hard walk to the house

  where the owner of the cow lives.

  Much snow makes a home in my boots.

  When we get to the door,

  Hannah shows me a button

  that makes music happen,

  and soon the door opens.

  The old woman standing there

  doesn’t seem surprised to see us.

  Well, hello, she says. May I help you kids?

  I am Kek, I say, from Africa.

  And this is Hannah.

  From Minneapolis, Hannah adds.

  I’m Louise, the woman says.

  From the wrong side of the tracks.

  Call me Lou.

  Weren’t you here the other day,

  talking to my cow?

  I nod. I just wanted to say hello to her.

  Lou thinks about this for a moment.

  It’s bitter out there. C’mon in.

  We step into safe, warm air

  and sweet cooking smells.

  So, are you two selling something? Lou asks.

  Raising money for school?

  I’m here about your cow, I say.

  I see. Lou nods slowly.

  I think that she is

  not so happy, I say.

  I try to say it gently so that

  my words will not sting like an insect.

  Lou puts her hands on her hips.

  She’s wearing jeans like mine and a big shirt.

  Her hair is short and silver

  like a fresh moon.

  She has many wrinkles

  to show her great knowledge

  of the world.

  You two better sit. This may take some time.

  Lou points to the kitchen table.

  I was unaware that my cow’s depressed.

  Although I’m not entirely surprised.

  She’s seen better days.

  Lou pushes a plate of cookies

  in front of us.

  Chocolate pieces tease

  like jewels in sand.

  Please, she says, have some.

  I don’t want to be impolite,

  so I take five.

  He’s big on chocolate, Hannah explains.

  Lou laughs. Now tell me, Kek,

  how you come by your

  knowledge of cows.

  COWS AND COOKIES

  Of course I want to answer,

  but I know it’s important to

  eat all the cookies first,

  so that Lou won’t be offended.

  Hannah helps. See, Kek just got here from Africa.

  He’s staying with his aunt and cousin,

  and he accidentally put her dishes

  in the washing machine

  and now he needs some money

  to buy new ones.

  And since in Africa his family had lots of cattle,

  he thought maybe you could use some help.

  She pauses to take a bite of cookie,

  and now she can’t talk, either.

  Hmmm, Lou says.

  She goes to the cold tall box to get some milk.

  I’m a little sad to see that the milk

  is not the chocolate cow kind.

  She pours the milk into glasses

  and watches while we drink.

  My husband’s family came here from Norway, Lou says.

  And my great-great grandfather came to the U.S.

  on a boat from Ireland.

  She pours herself a glass of milk.

  But Africa. Wow. How are you handling winter?

  The cold … hurts, I answer.

  But the snowballs are good.

  Lou smiles. So tell me why you think

  my cow is unhappy.

  It isn’t because you don’t care well for her, I say quickly.

  Not as well as I should, Lou says.

  My husband died last year, and with my

  achy old bones, I’m having a hard time keeping up.

  She picks up a cookie, but doesn’t eat it.

  I may have to sell the place soon. I had an offer,

  a good offer. And I have a lot

  of hospital bills to pay off.

  I don’t know. We’ll see.

  We’re all quiet for a moment.

  So, Lou says at last, what is it

  you think my old cow is in need of?

  She needs to be brushed, and fed the finest hay.

  And without other cattle, she’s lonely, I answer.

  She needs someone to talk to her.

  In my old home they would laugh at me,

  but when I talked to the cattle,

  they would grow calm and easy to herd.

  I wait. Maybe my words are

  broken like my aunt’s dishes,

  chips and shards

  that will not make a whole.

  Maybe this Lou will think

  I am a moron boy.

  Have another cookie, Kek, says Lou.

  NIGHT TALK

  That night I wait far into the darkness

  for Ganwar to come home.

  He stumbles a little when he crosses the room,

  and he carries the bitter smell of smoke.

  Where were you? I ask.

  With some friends, he says,

  and he plops onto the sofa

  like a sack of grain.

  I’ve been waiting for you, I say.

  I wanted to tell you my news.

  I got a job!

  Ganwar lifts his head

  to stare at me. A job?

  Doing what?

  Helping a lady take care of her farm.

  For a while, at least.

  She’s old and her husband died last year.

  She can’t pay me very much,

  but I think I’ll

  make enough to buy new
dishes

  for your mother.

  Ganwar’s eyes say I am telling a lie,

  or maybe a joke.

  How did you get a job like that?

  I lift my shoulders. I just went to her door and asked.

  Her cow didn’t look good. Father would never

  have owned such a sad-looking animal.

  Ganwar drops his head

  and covers his eyes with his hand.

  Amazing. You just went to her door?

  I nod.

  I’ve been here a year and a half.

  Ganwar sighs. You’ve been here—what?

  A week?

  We’re quiet for a while.

  I can hear the cold box humming.

  I do not want Ganwar to be angry with me.

  I want him to understand,

  because he is the only one who can.

  I miss the cattle, I say at last.

  I miss moving them,

  watching them graze.

  The sun so hot on your back.

  Father singing.

  Ganwar doesn’t answer.

  I think maybe I should not talk of days past

  with my cousin.

  I cringe, waiting for the heat of his words.

  Ganwar rubs his eyes.

  When he speaks,

  his voice is sad, not angry.

  I always knew what to do, he says.

  Morning they’d graze,

  noon we’d lead them to a stream,

  afternoon we’d head for home.

  We always had somewhere to go.

  Not like here, stuck in the apartment

  or at school.

  He sighs. It all made sense.

  Here, nothing makes sense.

  Maybe it will, I say.

  Maybe if we’re patient.

  I hear the fear and hope fighting in my voice.

  We don’t belong here, Kek, Ganwar says.

  This isn’t our country.

  It never will be.

  Lots of people come to America from other countries,

  I say. Ms. Hernandez taught us that.

  Ganwar rolls his eyes.

  Poor immigrants. Illegal immigrants.

  Maybe someday we can go home again, I say.

  The war is older than our fathers were.

  The war is forever, Ganwar replies.

  He closes his eyes.

  Then where do we belong? I ask.

  I can see that he’s sleepy,

  but I want Ganwar to tell me this one thing.

  I wait a long time

  for Ganwar to reply,

  but he’s asleep, snoring softly.

  I watch his untroubled face.

  I cannot seem to get up.

  Ganwar’s words lie in my lap

  like huge rocks

  I am not strong enough to move.

  I sit and sit,

  waiting for the sleep

  my cousin has found,

  wishing for dreams of our old life,

  of fine, strong cattle

  gently complaining

  like tired children

  as we guide them safely home.

  PART THREE

  One doesn’t forego sleeping because of the possibility of nightmares.

  —AFRICAN PROVERB

  COWBOY

  In ESL class

  we learn a new game

  called Interview.

  Ms. Hernandez says it makes us

  more confident

  when we use our English words.

  Plus it’s a good way to learn

  about our classmates.

  First we have to hold a cardboard tube

  and pretend that it’s

  something called a microphone

  to make our voices loud.

  I saw one once on the TV machine

  with a lady singing into it.

  She howled like a sick animal

  till my ears wanted to run away.

  I’m the first to go.

  I have to stand up and say five sentences.

  I say, I have a new job.

  I help Lou with her farm.

  She has a cow, three goats, many chickens and a pig.

  I will go there after school sometimes and on the days

  named Saturday and Sunday.

  Lou says I can name the cow.

  I take a deep breath. I’m weary from my long speech.

  Next comes the Interview part.

  That is where each student asks you a question.

  If they run out of questions,

  then the teachers can help.

  Nishan is first.

  Why does the cow not have a name?

  I take another deep breath.

  I like the questions best

  with yes or no for an answer,

  but this time I’m not so lucky.

  Lou says her husband called the cow

  The Cow.

  She didn’t think that was

  such a right name.

  Very good answer, Kek,

  says Mr. Franklin.

  Aisha is next.

  You could call the cow “Mr. Franklin.”

  The class thinks this is a good joke,

  and there is much laughing.

  She’s a girl,

  so she needs a girl name, I explain.

  Now each person has an idea

  for a name. This isn’t exactly how to play

  Interview, but the teachers

  don’t seem to mind.

  Ms. Hernandez writes the names on the board.

  Some are very silly:

  Mr. Franklin

  Milkshake

  Ms. Hernandez

  Kek, Jr.

  Kitty Kitty

  Salama

  Rover

  Chiku

  Angelita

  Zlata

  Big Mac

  When they’re done, Mr. Franklin asks me

  if I have a name in mind.

  I think for a moment.

  We have a word in my language, I say.

  Gol.

  And what does it mean? Mr. Franklin asks.

  I feel my face heat.

  It means family, I say.

  Ms. Hernandez says it’s up to me.

  But I say I would like to have a vote,

  because Ms. Hernandez taught us

  that’s how things are decided

  in America.

  We vote.

  Gol wins.

  Hamburger gets two votes.

  Nice job, Cowboy, Mr. Franklin says

  when I sit down

  at last.

  The rest of the day,

  everyone calls me “Cowboy.”

  It’s a good day.

  The cow has a new name.

  And I have one, too.

  WORKING

  The snow and muck yank at my boots.

  The wind slaps my cheeks.

  In my heavy coat I plod like an old donkey

  on market day.

  So why am I so glad in my heart?

  The work at Lou’s is simple:

  feed the animals, clean the stalls,

  shovel the front porch.

  But when I am working, my mind doesn’t travel

  where it shouldn’t go.

  I’m only here,

  with the chickens underfoot

  and Gol nudging for an ear scratch.

  Sometimes I talk to her softly.

  I tell her of my father’s great herd

  and how they would graze each day,

  walking for miles,

  the sun in our bones,

  the grass whispering its shy music.

  I sing her one of my father’s songs

  and listen for an echo of his voice in mine.

  She nuzzles me and flicks her ears

  and chews her cud.

  When I bury my face in Gol’s old hide

  I smell hay and dung and life.

  She shelters me like a warm
wall,

  and that is enough for this day.

  GANWAR, MEET GOL

  On Saturday Dave comes to pick up Ganwar.

  They’re going to fill out paperwork

  asking for a job

  at the places that sell fries.

  Dave says he can drop me off

  at Lou’s on the way.

  Ganwar doesn’t talk on the way to the farm.

  His face looks frozen,

  but his eyes are hot.

  He keeps rubbing the place

  where his hand once was.

  When we get to Lou’s, I say,

  Would it be all right if I showed Ganwar the farm?

  He hasn’t seen a cow in a long time.

  I wait for Ganwar

  to spit out the word no,

  but he gives a slow nod.

  Dave looks at his arm clock.

  Ten minutes, he says, tops.

  We go to Lou’s door and when she opens it I say,

  This is my cousin, Ganwar.

  He’d like to see the farm.

  Be my guest, Lou says.

  There’s a new bag of chicken feed

  in the shed, Kek.

  Ganwar follows me

  through the thick, crunching snow.

  It isn’t much of a farm, he says.

  Hardly any animals, and the big road so near.

  Still, it isn’t so bad

  if you don’t think about it,

  I say. I shake my head.

  I’m getting very good at

  not thinking about things.

  We enter the gray, sagging barn.

  Sun and angry wind sneak through the broken spots.

  There she is, I say, pointing.

  Ganwar groans.

  Are you sure that’s a cow?

  Our fathers wouldn’t think so, I admit.

  I stroke her flank while Ganwar watches.

  She has old eyes, tired but patient.

  Gol is her new name, I add.

  Ganwar takes his glove off his good hand

  with his teeth.

  He strokes her, too.

  I meet Ganwar’s eyes.

  Don’t worry about the job too much, I say.

  What another man takes two hands to do,

  you can do with one.

  Ganwar puts his head

  against Gol’s neck.

  You’re lucky to have found this job.

  But you made the luck happen.

  I wish I could be herding, I say.

  I don’t know anything about farms, really.

  Except that they have cows.

  We stand there,

  watching the cow’s breath

  come in soft puffs.

  Suddenly another big idea

  jumps into my head.

  I think that if I knew where such ideas come from,

  I would be a wealthy man

  with a thousand cattle

  and a flying boat.

  Stay here, I say.

  Keep her company for me.

  AN IDEA

  A few minutes later I race back to the barn,