Teresa Mei Chuc

this morning weaving Chi in the garden invisible ball in my hand * Halong Bay battle distant memory smoke from Gulf of Tonkin * did the atom ever know its destiny how our hands create? A student asked me, “Why do your people believe in dragons?” * river birch – undressing in the wind * the solid bones of elk antlers or branches of a limber pine – memory bobcat with mange unwatered plants also dying * mountain lion her land, before ours invasive plants * scent of orange blossoms – memories of my late grandma who planted this tree yarrow seedlings pop up a week later – each moment a small beginning * stopped in my tracks by a primrose blooming – I, too, will overcome this * dinner a bowl of rice and soy sauce food to survive on * my heart the Santa Ana winds today branches fall to the ground

I close my eyes so that I can see it. What we so freely eliminate. Who is not guilty of it? We reek of paper. Everywhere we go is paper. Our hands are stained with paper. Walls. What echoes from our walls. The sweet whisper of rainforest— even the name makes the sound of rushing water or perhaps it’s a ghost that haunts us. They say the dead that did not die a peaceful death are doomed forever to wander the earth. But perhaps this earth is for them already a cemetery—stacks and stacks of flesh on a desk. Which one belongs to which tree? Already, we’ve traded oxygen for so much.

"In spite of everything I shall rise again: I will take up my pencil, which I have forsaken in my great discouragement, and I will go on with my drawing."— Vincent Van Gogh A missile is shaped like a pencil— its long, slender body and pointed end creates history. A girl walking down the street a few steps ahead of her sister and friend, two medics who were trying to help injured people, the parked ambulance— all were annihilated by the same weapon. Above, drones—silent, unmanned planes. A metal, predatory bird that shoots a missile with precision, identifying the colors of a shirt, the features on a face—the shape of a nose, the color and length of a mustache. In a room far away, in another country, a man sits at a desk and looks at a screen; he strokes his thick, dark mustache as he carefully contemplates, then pushes a button. There is a charred hole in the ground where the girl once stood. There are pencils that write and erase, write and erase, so that there is nothing to be read on the page. The page blank as the desert sky, blank as the smooth shell of a drone. There is a family drinking mint tea in a living room. The man holds a cup to his lips, the glass touches his mustache. A silent bird hovers above. In a split second, everyone is dead, the house is in rubbles—arms, legs, splattered organs among broken concrete. Soon, there will be no trace.

A bullet is made of copper or lead. Gunpowder is poured into the case. The firing pin hits the primer at the back of the bullet which starts the explosion.  Altogether, the bullet and the case are typically about two inches in length and weigh a few ounces. My father said that the Vietcongs told him and the other prisoners while in "re-education" camp that they were not worth a bullet. They would work for the Vietcongs and then die. A bamboo tree is smooth, long with roots that hold the earth with the strong grip of green knuckles and fingers. They are used to build houses, fences, etc. A bamboo tree can weigh sixty pounds or more and be twenty feet tall. The prisoners were forced to walk barefoot up the mountains and carry bamboo back to the camp. Due to the weight of the bamboo, they were only able to carry one at a time.

I am tired of having five different names;                      - Having to change them when I enter A new country or take on a new life. My First name is my truest, I suppose, but I Never use it and nobody calls me by this Vietnamese Name though it is on my birth certificate— Tue My Chuc. It makes the sound of a twang of a String pulled. My parents tell me my name in Cantonese is Chuc Mei Wai. Three soft bird chirps and they call me Ah Wai. Shortly after I moved to the U.S., I became Teresa My Chuc, then Teresa Mei Chuc. “Teresa” is the sound Water makes when one is washing one’s hands. After my first Marriage, my name was Teresa Chuc Prokopiev. After my second marriage, my name was Teresa Chuc Dowell. Now I am back to Teresa Mei Chuc, but I want to go way back. Reclaim that name once given and lost so quickly in its attempt to become someone that would fit in. Who is Tue My Chuc? I don’t really know. I was never really her and her birthday on March 16, I never celebrate because it’s not my real birthday though it is on my birth certificate. My birthday is on January 26, really, but I have to pretend that it’s on March 16 because my mother was late registering me after the war. Or it’s in December, the date changing every year according to the lunar calendar—this is the one my parents celebrate because it’s my Chinese birthday. All these names and birthdays make me dizzy. Sometimes I just don’t feel like a Teresa anymore; Tue (pronounced Twe) isn’t so embarrassing. A fruit learns to love its juice. Anyways, I’d like to be string... resonating. Pulled back tensely like a bow Then reverberate in the arrow’s release straight for the heart.

In standing position with arms to the side, jump while spreading the legs and lift arms above the head. Jump back into standing position and up again, spreading the legs and lifting the arms above the head. Repeat When a M16 landmine is triggered, it will spring into the air and explode with a capacity to level everything in a 150 metre radius. Deadly shrapnel spreading a further 350 metres. Metal casings from an unexploded bomb can fetch 25,000 Vietnamese dong or $1 for a poor family in Vietnam. Men comb the forests and beaches of Quang Tri looking for the metal that will feed their family, risking their lives. Children working in the fields think it’s a toy they’ve found. Nguyen was hoeing a small piece of land his parents gave him when an unexploded U.S. military bomb was triggered and blew off both his hands.

are real. They jump from roof-top to roof-top, do a backward flip down to the concrete floor and land perfectly on two feet. The metal of swords clang, the body moves with the precision of a praying mantis striking its prey. Their dresses are colorful, long and lacy, billow and flair with each turn and twist. Jewelry in the hair dangles and sparkles. Chinese female kung-fu superheroes are smart, fight bad guys, do good deeds, and risk their lives. They appear when least expected. Chinese female kung-fu superheroes never give up. They travel often alone by foot through mountains. They work hard training to master various martial arts forms. They do not care about Barbies, those plastic dolls of only one hair color that just looked pretty in the 80's. They aren't impressed; they do not want a boring life. Chinese female kung-fu superheroes venture out and save cities against villains. They steal into the night in their black ninja-like suits, soundlessly through a house to recover a magical sword and to release a prisoner, knowing exactly where to press with their two fingertips to freeze the guards and to accomplish their mission. After Jeannine Hall Gailey's

To kill correctly takes calculation. Down to a science. Arsenic cacodylic acid. Know water and rice on a cellular level. Make sure no surviving seed can be collected and planted. Because even a small seed assures survival. Because mortars, grenades and bombs cannot destroy a grain. Because our heart is made of seeds. Know what it takes to kill the seeds. Know what it takes to deprive the plant of water, to dehydrate it. To be surrounded by love but unable to absorb it.