My Dearest Đạo,

It’s hard to believe our first-born turns 14 today. You are well-liked in school as well as scouting and you have friends in both places.

I am glad to see that you don’t get bullied or discriminated against for being an Asian American. When I was your age, I faced both; therefore, I dreaded going to school. Everyday seemed long as hell. Maybe I got picked on because my English was not good.

Speaking of school, I hope you are doing well. I haven’t checked on your assignments because I want you to be independent and to be responsible for your own work. You still need to get better at staying on tasks.

At home, you get along with Đán the most. I wish you treat Xuân and Vương better. Even if they annoy you, they are still your baby brothers. I want you to love and protect them. You are always a big brother they will look up to.

As for your mother, you, and me, we are getting along fine for the most part. Well, happy birthday, my son!

Love,
Dad

At home Đán is a caring grandson, son, and brother. He loves his grandmother and he is closest to Đạo, his older brother. His interactions with his parents and younger siblings depend on his mood. Đán enjoys speedy, challenging sports including snowboarding and rollerblading. He’s a fast learner, especially with any activities he is interested in. For example, he likes building PCs; therefore, he excels at learning all the parts and putting them all together.

His challenges are lack of self-control and discipline. He doesn’t know when to turn off his brain. Asking him to get off his game or taking a break from his PC would spark an emotional breakdown. Some nights he couldn’t go to sleep because he could not stop thinking about what he was doing during the day. Once he is focused on something, he can’t turn his mind off. As a result, he can’t concentrate on schoolworks or other activities.

At school, he didn’t do too well in previous years. He struggled the most during the pandemic. He could not stay focused through online learning. He fell behind academically in math and language arts. He often zoomed out during class time. His father had to sit next to him to remind him to pay attention.

This academic year, however, he has made tremendous improvements. He listens to his teachers. He gets along well with his classmates. He enjoys school more this year. His teachers speak positively of his performance and behavior in classes. Although he seems to be doing better in a smaller environment, he is still struggling with staying focused on reading comprehension and staying on tasks.

One of his previous teachers recognized his weakness during the pandemic; therefore, whenever he was taking his tests, she would pull him out of the group and read the questions to him. Because she was reading the questions, he couldn’t rush through to just click on an answer without knowing the question. As a result, he was able to slow down and to think before selecting a random answer. Đán needs to be reminded to help him stay on track.

Đen Vâu:

Ở trong xóm anh rất ngoan, chẳng ai thấy anh say mèm
Mẹ anh dặn anh đủ thứ, nhưng quên dặn đừng say em

Binz:

Em ơi, em ơi đừng làm khổ anh
Anh chỉ muốn chân em ở trên cổ anh

after Romare Bearden’s Patchwork Quilt (1969)

My back is turned from him again,
but this time I’m not hunched
over the quilt—his rough thumbs
gripping my waist—I’m standing
in the middle of a room constructed
with pencil, adhesive, and paper.
One foot in the basin, I will scrub
his cigarette hands and yellow eyes
off my skin. I will clean my sex
and start again. Another will come
and I’ll forget the coat hung gently
on the hook—different than the way
he took me. He shook like a startled
fish caught in a great blue heron’s beak.
Yes, a woman of my kind
has seen the sea. The first time, I gasped
at its glistening mouth.
Endlessly the waves replaced themselves.
I launder my nakedness like a uniform
with water from the pitcher.
Soon another will arrive who I will
wash away. There is a man who dares
to face me, he considers
every angle. He built my form
with precise lines and foraged scraps
of brown. From the harsh shape
my elbow makes, the builder knows
this is a portrait of work,
not pleasure. I love how softly
he touches me, though all I want
is to be left, to spend a morning in bed
alone with the images of dream.

Ama Codjoe

This collection took me a bit to feel the vibes. Tibble’s poems are honest, heartfelt, and humorous. She is a young poet with so much potential. I’ll definitely go back for a second read.

To get the number of pages for the dynamic portions, I logged into MODX admin and started with the Faculty Working Papers. The record shows 1,404 pages. Since SiteImprove crawled 2,098 pages and the Faculty Working Papers alone take 70% of the total pages, I wanted to dig a bit further into the database. The MySQL table for content shows a total of 5,164 pages (these included everything from public to hidden to unpublished pages).

Here are the numbers for the current dynamic portions:

• Faculty Working Papers: 1404 pages
• Course Catalog: 373 pages
• Course Schedules: 72 pages (Backend programming is required to import the Excel file (CSV) into the database (MySQL) and populate an HTML table for the course schedules)
• Student Organizations: 70 pages
• JD Focus Areas & Concentrations: 18 pages
• Class Notes: 70 pages
• Clinic & Externships: 15 pages
• People Finder (Dynamically pulled from faculty, admin & staff directories in MODX as well as linking to bios and departments outside of MODX)

There’s a body marching toward mine.
I can feel its breasts and stomach, hot

against my back. Its breath in my hair.
I accumulate bodies—my own.

The tattoo braceleting my wrist.
My earlobe like a pin hole camera.

My vagina, untouched. My vagina,
stretched. So many bodies treading

toward the others. And the bruises I conceal
with makeup and denial. The scars I inflict

on myself, and the ones I contort
with a mirror to see. I didn’t always know

we’d be joined like this—that I couldn’t
leave any of myself behind.

In Trisha Brown’s Spanish Dance
a performer raises both arms like a bailora

and shifts her weight from hip to hip, knee
to knee, ankle to ankle, until she softly

collides with another dancer. The two travel
forward, pelvis to sacrum, stylized fingers

flared overhead, until they meet a third woman
and touch her back like stacked spoons.

Dressed in identical white pants and long
sleeves, the dancers repeat the steps

until, single file, five women shuffle
forward-they go no further.

The dance lasts the exact length of Bob Dylan’s
rendition of “Early Mornin’ Rain.”

How many versions of myself pile
into the others, arms lifted in surrender,

torsos twisting to the harmonica?
But the dancers—I’m moved by their strange

conga line. A train of women traversing
the stage, running gently into a wall.

Ama Codjoe

Tuần trước Dượng Chín (em rể út của mẹ tôi) qua đời ở tuổi 90. Nếu như tôi may mắn sống bằng ông ta thì tôi đã mất hết nửa đời người. 45 không còn trẻ cũng chưa phải là già. Tôi đang tiến đến giai đoạn khủng hoảng tuổi trung niên. Từ nghề nghiệp đến cuộc sống riêng tư, mọi thứ đều bắt đầu đi xuống.

Tôi vẫn đam mê thiết kế trang web nhưng chỉ cho chính mình. Tôi thích thiết kế những gì mình muốn hơn là cho kẻ khác. Tôi đã mất hứng thú với nghề thiết kế. Tuy nhiên tôi vẫn phải đeo theo nó để nuôi sống gia đình. Tương lai sẽ ra sao, tôi không biết. Tôi không muốn phải suy nghĩ nhiều làm chi cho thêm phiền muộn.

Trong gia đình, con cái càng lớn thách thức càng cao. Làm cha mẹ ai không thương yêu và lo lắng cho các con của mình. Yếu điểm của tôi là đầu tư quá nhiều cảm xúc vào các con. Kết quả chỉ khiến mình thêm phiền muộn, trầm cảm, và mất đi nhẫn nại.Nhìn thấy bọn nó rơi vào cơn nghiện điện tử mà không thể nào kéo ra được. Đó là nỗi thất bại lớn nhất của người làm cha này.

Trong tình vợ chồng thì có những giây phút êm đềm cũng có những phút giây gây cấn. Nhưng ở bên nhau mười mấy năm, chúng tôi hiểu nhau hơn nên tình cảm mặn nồng hơn. Tôi kính trọng sự thương yêu của vợ dành cho chồng con. Tôi vẫn tin rằng chúng tôi sẽ tiếp tục đi với nhau hết cuộc đời.

Mấy mươi năm cứ tưởng rằng cuộc sống của tôi sẽ không có bạn bè ngoài gia đình. Ở tuổi 45, tôi may mắn được làm quen với một vài người bạn hợp gu. Chúng tôi có con cái cùng lứa tuổi. Chúng tôi thích ăn nhậu và nói chuyện trên trời dưới đất. Sống ở đây có một vài người bạn bè chơi đẹp với nhau là vui rồi. Chúng tôi chơi đồng điều và không lợi dụng nhau.

Với nhạc sĩ Trịnh Công Sơn, “Sống trong đời sống cần có một tấm lòng”. Còn tôi, nhất là ở tuổi 45, sống trong đời sống quan trọng nhất là biết điều. Bạn bè có qua có lại. Nếu không biết điều thì đường ai nấy đi. Ngay cả người thân trong gia đình, đối xử với nhau không biết điều cũng dễ mất lòng.

Ở tuổi 45, tôi muốn có được cuộc sống an nhàn. Tránh đụng chạm tới người khác nhất là những gì không xứng đáng. Dĩ nhiên gia đình vẫn là điểm quan trọng nhất của tôi. Sau đó là sức khỏe. Tôi cố gắng chơi những môn thể thao như skiing, snowboarding, rollerblading để giữ gìn sức khỏe. Tôi vẫn luôn đọc sách và tập viết hằng ngày để mở mang trí óc. Hy vọng bước qua tuổi 45 sẽ bớt đi sự phiền muộn và căng thẳng trong cuộc sống. Được như vậy là vui rồi.

I feel naive when I think of it now,
how carelessly I stood before him,

like a ballet dancer in a dressing room
bright with the backs of other girls.

This was before the coldness he nursed
and kept warm between his thighs.

I waited too long for a thaw—he waited too.
Taking him into my mouth, I knew the ache

of winter. I heard the silences
grow as a field of stones between us.

When I look back at my body, young
in the bedroom dark, lit by a perpetual city,

I am gripping a rock in my right hand
and he is gripping a rock in his right hand.

We face each other, muscles poised for sex
or war. Who dropped the rock?

Who cast it? I’m unsure,
even now, who cried mercy first.

Ama Codjoe

I was newly naked: aware of myself
as a separate self, distinct from dirt and bone.

I had not hands enough,
and so, finally, uncrossed my arms.

In trying to examine one body part,
I’d lose sight of another. I couldn’t

imagine what I looked like during
the fractured angles of sex.

At the river’s edge, it was impossible
to see all of myself at once.

I began to understand nakedness
as a feeling.

It was a snake, loose and green;
it was the snake skin, coiled and discarded.

The shedding chained itself
like a balloon ribboned to a child’s wrist.

Morning’s birdsong reminded me
of the sloughing off of skin.

The rumored beauty of my husband’s first
wife never bothered me before.

I missed the sensation of being fixed
in amber. Then the hair in the comb,

fingernail clippings, the red mole on my
left breast grown suddenly bigger.

I perceived my likeness in everything:
the lines on my palm as the veins

of a leaf, my mind as a swarm of flies
humming over something sugary or dead,

my vulnerability as the buck
I’d kill, then wrap myself inside,

my hair as switchgrass, twine, and nest,
a roving cloud my every limb.

Ama Codjoe