My life is C+

Adcharawan Buripakdi, Thailand

Adcharawan Buripakdi earned a PhD degree in Composition and TESOL from Indiana University of Pennsylvania. She teaches at English program, School of Liberal Arts, Walailak University, Thailand. Her areas of interests include World Englishes, postcolonial discourse, L2 writing and Identity, minority and language rights. E-mail: ajgob@yahoo.com

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Foreword by Colleen Donovan
Foreword by Rebecca Garvin
My Life is C+, by Adcharawan Buripakdi

Foreword by Colleen Donovan

My first experience with Thai culture happened in Al-Khobar, Saudi Arabia at a crowded Thai restaurant in a narrow street filled to capacity with other expatriates where, as long as we arrived before the electric-megaphone ‘call to prayer’ at sundown, the Thai workers shut us in by slamming shut the metal grates of the front windows and doors. Once inside, locked tight – away from the religious police – the expatriates enjoyed a sumptuous dinner in this clandestine refuge, out of the heat and dust and the masculine masses engaging in their public ritual of evening prayers.

I was pregnant with my son then, so I had a special, spiritual relationship with food. And I was fervently grateful to the Thais who sheltered me with their hospitality because inside, it was divine! Heaps of noodles flavored with blends of citrus and ginger; pitchers of iced tea spritzed with lime; grilled fish, meats and fried rice! The scenery was nice too because, in that windowless concrete-block building, travel posters of beautiful beaches, blue seas and skies, bright and elegant flower arrangements floating on the river, adorned the walls and expressed the beauty of the country from where these nice men came.

I dreamed of traveling to Thailand then, a land famous for its sweet people with their love of beauty, its tropical warmth, its wonderful food, and quaint villages nestled in the mountains. I never had the opportunity until fifteen years later, I meet Adcharawan Buripakdi, better known as Kob, in the Composition and TESOL (C&T) program at Indiana University of Pennsylvania (IUP) who presented this enigmatic story to Dr. Hulbert’s 730 Teaching Writing class one cold February evening. With it, she invited me and the other readers on that journey that I have so longed to make, back to her origins in the rural highlands of Thailand away from the fashionable crowds along the beautiful beaches. Yes, this is my style of adventure!

But “My Life is C+” is a more than an invitation to visit the lovely countryside of her origins; by reading Kob’s story, we zoom across several continents and some oceans to arrive in “Pacific Time,” where “[her] mom is sleeping on the other side of the globe” in the tropical heat, a place of brighter colors, smells, tastes, and sights. Indeed, Kob’s invitation is a sensory experience of sight, sounds, smells, tastes, but most of all, her love for a land that had not yet experienced the dramatic forces of globalization, and thus, a childhood forever lost, not only to her, but to Thailand’s next generations. In describing the beauty of her homeland, Kob writes:

People, trees, blue sky, river, flock of fish, golden rice field, rubber plantations, never faint from my memory. Traces of my living history are queued up for me to pick them up to tell their stories, like I’m choosing a song from an album. Among the pace of time, I never forget these smells. The farther I am from home, the clearer I smell their beings.”

So with a random selection of these cerebral melodies of her youth, we experience her old, as well as odd, favorites from the past, on a trip inside our memories too, a place where “Memory never gets old. Some memory heals; some hurts; some haunts.” It is a mysterious journey, one that stirs our souls.

For Kob and I, despite our distance in age and locality, have similar reminiscences. Having grown up with Peter, Paul and Mary, a tune like “500 Miles” locks the machine inside my head into fast reverse. With that movement into another time and space, I can sense the younger body that used to be me, in surroundings that I no longer frequent. In this way, Kob has an uncanny way of inviting her readers to participate in her story. Kob explains that, “Every time I listen to this song, I see myself in there,” and I do too, in a childhood body in a world forever lost, just like hers. While “[m]y there” happened in the rural foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, for Kob “there” was in the rural highlands of Thailand. So much the same; so many worlds apart, but no longer. Now in our adult bodies, our adult work of teaching this language that I used to call my own, and that Kob demonstrates as hers in her beautiful writing, she provides us with some important observations:

We’re all an actor; we are playing; we are played. We are on a scene at different place and time. We can’t retire from an acting career. We’re all playing till death keeps us apart.

Kob’s journey to Thailand is a most delightful trip, not only to the magical Thailand of ordinary people, but on a trip through time, our senses, and our memories, back to the land from where we came; those places that exists now, only in our memories, but that call us back forever. She expresses this desire to return to that which is forever gone:

I’m longing for the train to take me home. This solo journey takes me far, far, far from the place where I belong. How long will this journey be? Is the train coming? To a beautiful place where she experiences a special childhood: “My birthday party was under moonlight, under a mango tree, listening to an insect singing a song, an owl preying at night.”

While Kob’s story “My Life is C+” takes us to a place and time with her teacher with another idea about good writing – an experience we all share – her readers give her an A+ for her wonderful descriptions, heartfelt memories, and her generosity for sharing her homeland, the one I longed for as the sun approached the horizon to the west of Al-Khobar, Saudi Arabia. Deliciously different, simple, yet profound, exotic, yet so earthy, I feel at home there, in that small village where I can dream about hunting frogs, catching fish, avoiding snakes, and listening to the downpours during the rainy season on the thatched roofs of villages that will never be the same. Destiny rears its head again, as I always get what I wish for, that trip to Thailand rendered possible in “My Life is C+”. Thank you Kob; I couldn’t have made the trip otherwise!

Colleen Donovan

Foreword by Rebecca Garvin

“My Life is C+” is the story of the struggles and strength of one woman on a journey, a journey that takes her to a foreign land far from home, to meet her destiny. A destiny that was not chosen by her, but one that chose her. With the song “Five Hundred Miles” in her heart, in the beginning a sad and soulful tune, Adcharawan Buripakdi is torn from her beloved mom, her family, and eventually, Thailand, to go out alone and meet this fate. A fate that promises to restore and heal her family from the years of hardships and pain.

With the intimacy of a personal journal, Adcharawan invites the reader into her life as an international Ph.D. student. Struggling to meet a paper deadline she writes “I have been squeezing my tiny worn out brain for three hours like I’m trying to get milk from a rubber tree in summer when a leaf turns yellow, when a tree cannot keep moisture so it has to let a leaf go, when a stem turns dry and tries to save its energy, breathing slowly, waiting for a rain drop in a new season.” At once, the reader identifies with the experiences of the student, but at the same time is completely disconnected from, although enchanted by her obviously first-hand knowledge of rubber trees.

In each story, Adcharawan takes the reader home with her. With a voice that conveys an intense love of nature, and an irresistible sense of humor, the author masterfully creates wonderful, rich, deep descriptions of places in Thailand and the experiences of growing up in the country. She travels back and forth through time uncovering memories of pivotal moments in her life. Memories of a birthday party “under moonlight, under a mango tree, listening to an insect singing a song, an owl preying at the night,” or memories of “sailing a boat out to a river, sometimes by myself, sometimes with my brothers, getting back home with a boat of fish, a boat of purple, white and pink lotus.” The writer’s thoughts and actions reveal how much her identity is intricately interwoven with the place of her birth.

A constant source of loneliness is the pain of being separated from her family and homeland. A constant source of inspiration, the author writes of her mother whose own strength guides her and helps her to stay the course. Throughout her solitary journey, she never forgets or stops longing for her family, her home that has made her who she is. In her final story “Country Road Takes Me Home” her words breathe like a fish on the beach desperate for the waters of the ocean: “I’m longing for the train to take me home. This solo journey takes me far, far, far from the place where I belong.”

While the struggles are always present, her strength, optimism, humor, and love for her family shine above all else. Her stories, her life will inspire you.

Rebecca Garvin
Indiana University of Pennsylvania

My Life is C+, by Adcharawan Buripakdi

11:30 am Pacific Time, while my mom is sleeping on the other side of the globe, I’m still killing a paper to meet deadline for tonight class. It’s really a “die hard” moment for me to get each paper done. I really want to be reborn with blonde hair and blue eyes every time I’m stuck. I really mean it! I have been squeezing my tiny worn out brain for three hours like I’m trying to get milk from a rubber tree in summer when a leaf turns yellow, when a tree cannot keep moisture so it has to let a leaf go, when a stem turns dry and tries to save its energy, breathing slowly and softly, waiting for a rain drop in a new season. A tree meditates to survive. Like a tree, my brain really needs a break and a nicer owner. I shouldn’t be too mean to it.

A tick-tock from an alarm clock is the most disgusting melody for this moment. My room is not different from a war-ground (more horrible than my Nigerian roommate’s). In a war zone like this, I am the only one who knows where my stuffs are hiding! It takes me five minutes to seek for a pocket mirror to appreciate my beauty; I look like a veteran of World War II. I’m trying to resist my youth. I surrender. Where is all my beauty gone? I figure out something from a school life. A secret of being young is trying to avoid textbooks and stays a way from a logo P-H-D. Academic business is nothing but an invader and a crime of the youth! Each morning, I’m counting a line on my face as if I discover something new on Mars. Each day, I comb my hair with hope and fear. I get new gray hair without paying any penny to a salon. I’m thankful to my papers, a library, JAVA coffee, and classrooms!

Outside my window, snow has been pouring down since last night. My first snow was so exciting; the third season is horrifying. It must be great if my idea when writing paper flows like snowstorm. I’m still at a second page after a long hours sitting, dragging, wandering, pushing a word to another word, sentence to new sentence, a paragraph to a page. My bigger butt proves the time I spend on a chair. My brain is running out of oxygen now. A second cup of coffee from this morning is swiftly absorbed to my blood so quickly. I’m shaking!

500 Miles: 500 Memories

A song from an old CD I bought from Goodwill halts me from typing. I walk to a kitchen, making another cup of coffee. Doctors told me I better stop drinking coffee if I wish to live longer. No way! Life is hard enough. Let me choose my destiny. I would die for its smell. Why doesn’t a paper smell like coffee? I want to get back to my job but my brain boycotts. I close my eyes, leaning back on a chair, replaying the same song one more time.

If you miss the train I'm on,
You will know that I am gone,
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.
A hundred miles, a hundred miles,
A hundred miles, A hundred miles,
You can hear the whistle blow A hundred miles

The song calms me down. I wonder for how long I haven’t listened to this song. Its impact is like an injection. It works fast and powerfully. The song melts my nerve, absorbs into my blood. My heart is beaten! The familiar melody sparks and switches my mood. The song is retelling my living history.

Have you ever felt teary when listening, singing along with a song? Some songs take your breath away. Some pump your heartbeat, dragging you to an emergency room. Some put a smile on your face; some do the opposite. Sometimes you feel all songs are just for you. When your life is up, you’re so honored to own all songs in this universe. When you’re down, you want to be deaf. You hate that song; you hate your ears; you hate your memory. I bet we all have our song. Our life is a song. We play it with our own melody.

Every time I listen to this song, I see myself in there. The song flashes back to my unforgettable life three decades ago. People, trees, blue sky, river, flock of fish, golden rice field, rubber plantations, never faint from my memory. Traces of my living history are queued up for me to pick them up to tell their stories, like I’m choosing a song from an album. Among the pace of time, I never forget these smells. The farther I am from home, the clearer I smell their beings.

I remember the day when I was ten; my mom woke me up before dawn. I cried in her arms the whole night. I didn’t understand why I had to go. Why me? I needed to move to stay with my sister in a town. Mom told me to hurry up for breakfast. My favorite fried fish tasted like a painkiller that morning. Still dark, we rented a motorcycle to the train station. My solo journey was going to embark. I hugged my mom, saying goodbye, like I was dying. I wished something happened with the train; I wished the train would never come; I wished the train was delayed for my whole life so that I had a reason for not be able to go.

I got up on the train, finding a seat near an old lady. I pretended not to look at mom, not turning back. The train screamed “shoo-shoo” and crawled from the station. I shouted to my mom “Don’t cry, mom”. My heartbeat dropped while the train speeded up! I closed my eyes seeing my mom shedding her tears, waving her hands, shedding her tears, waving her hands, standing still until the train disappeared. The old train took me far from a village, from the frog-hunting gangs, from my beloved river, from a school of fish, from my root – my home.

If you miss the train I'm on,
You will know that I am gone,
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.
A hundred miles, a hundred miles,

500 Miles song opens up my memories, brings me back to an unforgettable childhood, a once-upon-a-time experience. It is like I’m watching a movie, which I direct by myself. The older I become, the clearer the memory is. Memory never gets old. Some memory heals; some hurts; some haunts. Memory can turn to a scary movie when we are trying to forget. What does memory mean to me? It’s like oxygen, keeping me breathing. Memory breeds life; memory breeds memory.

When I was in college, I wrote an autobiography in an introduction to literature class. At the end of the class, my teacher asked me to talk with her in her office. She said she did not want to hurt my feeling in front of my friends; she spent more than thirty minutes just to tell me that my paper wasn’t mine. It’s not autobiography; it’s a fiction. She asked “Do you make it up, don’t you?” I was not surprised with her surprise. I insisted “this is my story”. Our life is fiction; sometimes it’s more than fiction. We’re all an actor; we are playing; we are played. We are on a scene at different place and time. We can’t retire from an acting career. We’re all playing till death keeps us apart.

I said sorry to my teacher. I didn’t know why I did that. Yon won’t believe me, I bet. She told me to revise the paper. She graded my life, trying to mark my reality with a red pen, like she corrected my paper. She’s trying to erase my memory; she’s telling me to live my life like someone else. I had no idea how to respond to her. I zipped up my mouth, looking outside a window, counting 1-10(although I hated mathematics like crazy), thinking of my mom, finding a door and walked a way. I got c+ in this class! I talked to myself “it wasn’t the end of the world”. In stead, I better felt thankful to her. She saved my life. I didn’t have to retake the course; she didn’t have to reread my fiction; I didn’t have to repeat saying sorry. This teacher never dies from my memory. The song brings her back!

A hundred miles, a hundred miles,
A hundred miles, A hundred miles,
You can hear the whistle blow A hundred miles

When I grow up, this song never feels the same to me since the first day I listened to it. I’m going to tell you who introduced me this song. Welcome to my world!

Birthday Party, Under Moonlight

One full moon night in 1968, in a small remote village in southern Thailand, I was born as the youngest girl into a poor family of nine. We had modest choices- either to live or to survive. One heartbreaking morning in 1970, I said goodbye to my dad and was in his arms before he went to see my brother in another town. Without knowing, that was the last hug from him I ever had.

Three days later, a fisherman found his body in a lake not far from our village. He was seen the last time on a boat. We lost dad; students lost their teacher. My dad never dies from that generation’s people. But to me, at that age, my memory about him was gone with his death.

Thus, my dad only lives in my imagination; my mom is always in my memory and the present moment; it’s clearer and clearer. My mom is a great fighter. I remember the day one of our mother’s creditors scolded us in front of our house since we owed her a ton of money for a few years. Naked, crying and frightened, my sister and I helped our mother carry wooden baskets, pots, pans, old bags and whatever we could find in our house. “Scold me as much as you want into these stuffs. Once they’re full, I will empty them and let you scold us as much as you want”. This event brought me the most miserable and beautiful laugh in my life. On the downside, it makes me cry every time I am reminded of it; on the upside, it gives me an unbelievable strength. I can laugh at every pain.

I was born a girl but grew up like a boy-diving, exploring, hunting, fishing, and boxing. My sister, two years older than me, was quite the opposite. Nobody believed we shared our parent’s blood. My friends teased me if she’s from heaven, I should be from somewhere else (not over the rainbow). True friends never lie!

I never had a doll; my business to survive kept me busy. We all struggled. My mom almost forgot to send me to school (she recognized she got pregnant with me when I was five months old. My super mom! ). My formal education never started until I was eight. So, it’s no wonder why I took over a “leader” position in classrooms every year; there was nothing to do with my brain.

Talking about rural life reminds of my Bangkokian friend-Nan. The first day when I was in college, we were selected to be in the same group. Nan asked me “Do you ride an elephant?” Oh! My Buddha! This was a normal question from city people who thought Bangkok was Thailand, who never went out of their home and working places. I wanted to laugh in another language to deserve my real feeling at that moment. I smiled with my answer, “Yes, but not me. My mom did”. She bulleted another question to me “Do you have TV?”, “Do you have electricity?”, “What do you eat? (No, I don’t eat. Hahaha!).

And another Cinderella question that was struck me most was: “What kind of pajamas (PJ) you have”. I told her “What is PJ? I don’t wear any. I have one for all occasion and season. Shorts and a T-shirt. That’s it!” I tried to look those questions as “innocent” rather than “stupid” and appreciated her curiosity! This event reminds me of my mom as well. One day, after visiting my sister in a town, my mom returned home with a big surprise to me- a new T-shirt and shorts to replace the old ones I tortured them for a number of seasons. On that day, I ran through a village in a new outfit, showing off my beauty to my gangs. I worshiped the new outfit for a week, without washing it (yee..stink, isn’t it?).

Throughout the freshman year, Nan still expressed her great concerns to me. In a boring religion class, she woke me up with her adorable question again. “Gob, how do you celebrate your birthday?” She asked as if she was interviewing a foreigner. This is what I told her. I never knew what a birthday party was like until I moved to Bangkok. Lucky enough, my mom still remembered when I was born although she almost forgot to take me to school.

My birthday party was under moonlight, under a mango tree, listening to an insect singing a song, an owl preying at night. My friends and I celebrated nights and days in a river, standing on each other shoulders, and throwing our partners into a running current, jumping over our heads, catching a fish, collecting a shell. And we ended the party with wild fruits.

I told Nan that nobody was surprised seeing me catching fish in a school uniform. One kilometer walking from school to home was not a big deal for a rural kid, but it never took me home before dark. My family knew well how wild (& weird) I am (even now). They said I must be a re-born Tarzan. On a rainy night, about 4 a.m., while most of people were dreaming, snoring in their bed, I woke up, putting a small flashlight on my forehead, joining my gangs, going for our mission-hunting a frog! Fried fog was our first class menu in rainy days. Some year, if we were lucky- lots of frogs were willing to sacrifice their life for us, we would dry and kept them for a summer time. As for now, I feel like an outsider, those pictures are so beautiful. I’m smiling at my memory. But if asking me the real feeling at that time, life was hard.

The River of No Return

During rainy season, I woke up before dawn, sailing a boat out to a river, sometimes by my self, sometimes with my brothers, getting back home with a boat of fish, a boat of purple, white and pink lotus. If I was lucky, if my mom was not too busy in a rice field, I would have lotus and fish in a green curry for my lunch. A wonderful restaurant menu! Two decades later, the village turned to a new phase. Such change scared me! I longed for the old village. Lots of new faces, new houses, and new vehicles. I smelled something unusual!

When I was in high school, I still hung out with the old gang and their family during school break. When I was in college, I seldom did. My world was home, rubber plantations, a temple and a wet market. I felt there was some space coming up between us. I hate this space; it didn’t make us comfortable but apart. The space of loneliness! The way they looked at me was different from when we were young. They asked if I still knew how to harvest, how to catch fish, how to breed milk from a rubber tree. Was I embarrassed being a farmer when I was at school? Who could forget? Not me!

Recently, I saw villagers got back with an empty boat. Where was all the fish gone? During the last decade, river turned shallow; the boats were hanged. My mom said “This is Karma. You’re what you do”. Devil people used electric shot to catch fish. They controlled nature. Young or old, big or small all died, floating over the river after got shot 2-3 times. Nobody is smarter than men; men are paying a high price for their greed. My mom said another thing was a governmental project. It turned a river to a dam. It changed the route of the river’s current; it’s against the nature. That’s why we have nothing left!

I went back home last winter break, sitting near a river bank, feeling sorry for the destiny of the river and the village. I longed for my childhood. But who could return the tide? Who could resist change? Compared to my nieces, I was very much luckier than them to touch real nature, breathing fresh, eating green. The big fish I used to catch was gone; a boat missed a river; I missed my boat. We could see such life only from a movie. Tap water visited every home. TV knocked on every door. Folk dance was dying. There was no music for the older generation anymore. They didn’t make a profit.

I understood why my mom never lived with the moment. Our moment was too plain for her! She looked very happy every time she recalled her paradise - childhood. Her memory never fainted. Nothing was able to compare with “her moment” when she was young. Likewise, I’m in my mom’s shoe now when I look at the way my nieces and nephews grow up. They never get a chance to experience what I used to have. They never appreciate the beauty of nature like I and my mom do. Only history left! Life style has changed. They are proud to be called a generation Y or a generation “Next” (Pepsi Cola’s Slogan). They grew up among cable TV, McDonald, computer games, seeing their parents shopping at a supermarket rather than a wet market. Who can resist a new kind of waves? Capitalism!

Super Meal

What I can do to slow the influx and the pace of the McDonalization culture is trying my very best to encourage my kids and my students to appreciate and to be exposed to the nature and show them that we should harmonize with nature. A few years ago, I took a new naughty gang, my nieces and nephews, who were in a primary school to learn a real life lesson, which in their entire life they would never get from a school book. I utilized resources we still had and used my childhood experience (it’s not the same, though) to simulate and match with their age (to allure them for first impression).

We started from planning what we were going to do the night before our mission began. Before I fell asleep, I recalled my college friend, Nan. I missed her innocent face and voice every time she bulleted the questions to me. The mission I was going to do with my new gang tomorrow made me miss her so badly. Was she still asking questions to her friends? Did she find the answers? The most recent memory between Nan and me was on my graduation day seven years ago. Her showing up with her husband on that day surprised me very much because that was our first meeting since we all left college eight years ago. She said “I come on behalf of your family”. Those were her last words, not a question. Nan also changed!

That morning, the kids looked over-excited; they made me so proud of my mission. The program finally kicked off from waking me up (it was a must!), cooking, having breakfast together, and preparing lunch box. We then took three kilometers journaling to survey rice fields and rubber plantations. Walking pass rice fields, palm tree fields, small canals, the kids sang a song along the way, breaking the silence of the village. Workers on rubber plantation site got more energized too. Like me, they captured the kids’ curiosity to learn the whole process of making rubber. I showed them how to get milk from a tree. On that day, the workers sacrificed a container of rubber milk for the kids to “work & play”. This mission made them starve for lunch like they never ate before in their life. McDonald’s Super Meal was unable to compare with fried rice and omelet cooked from the heart of their aunt.

We then continued another activity. I took them to our used-to-be food land, which now becomes the food land for the village because we left it behind for a decade since our emperor, my mom, is getting older. The food land looked like a jungle, complaining that nobody took care of it at all. We spent almost one hour to know a name of plants, vegetables and wild fruits, which the gang seldom saw in a super market.

The climax of the activity arrived when one of the gang members stepped on a green snake! Such a chaotic and fun moment! Since it’s the first time experience and they didn’t know that such kind of snake wasn’t harmful, they shouted and swiftly ran out of the jungle.

Before nightfall, we ended up the lesson with swimming in the river. The gang enjoyed it the most even though the river was quite shallow. Villagers took a couple of cows to drink water in the river from time to time.

During dinner, the adventure with the snake was a hot issue on the table. Before we ended the night with unforgettable stories, one of the kids teased their grand mom that “Grand mom’s food land has a snake too. Grand mom eats snake, don’t you? Yee! So scary!” Grand mom smiled and said “yes, don’t you know? It’s delicious”. That night, I wondered if the kids dared to dream of their grand mom’s Super Meal or not.

Tales of Terror: Falling Leaves

I’m trying to get back to my work. My brain has enough breaks, I guess. Snow stops; an apartment’s workers are clearing a road. My red car is covered with snowflakes; it looks like a mushroom. This winter I owe my mom a picture of snow. I have to update her all-the- time kid life in America. The sky is clearer than a couple days ago. Such a nice day! I turn on the TV, quickly update the temperature from a weather channel and then tune into news channels to see what happens this morning.

CNN is reporting a Srilankan baby boy who has survived from recent Tsunami by miracle. I’m still scared and overwhelmed with reality TV report about the disaster. I was cut off from the world for a couple weeks since I cancelled my cable TV. I was also very busy with my moving to a new apartment, so the day the Tsunami hit, without e-mail and telephone calls, I didn’t know the humankind tragedy.

We never realize how death is until it calls you, until it gets close to the one you love. I recall the days when my brother, a law sophomore, escaped into the hills, and joined the communist party for four years. I strongly believe that nobody will ever forget the October’s massacre in Thailand during 1973-1976. I remember the days my mom and I listened to urgent national news from an old transistor radio, holding our breath when the names of students who died were announced. We exhaled out deeply with relief when the name was not of my brother or of the ones we knew. Such a cruel and torturous moment in our life! The picture of my mom watching the transistor and holding it tight for days and nights without eating and doing anything is still in my mind.

I will never forget days, weeks and months during those years that my mother left home without telling me where her destination was. But when she came back, she was so proud to present me a story of acupuncture she had learned from her beloved communist comrades and told me to hide the books she had carried back from the hills.

Counting Stars, Under a Roof, Feeling Raindrops

It was not my promise but I tried to go back home, spending time with my mom and my family members twice a year. Working like a slave in Bangkok kept me too busy to do that even though I valued the bond of family and tried to spend time as much as I could. Days and nights were gone with a pace of city life. Every time I went back home, I was like a stranger. I forgot my friends’ names. We said hello, talking about weather like we were foreigners. Our world was apart since the day I decided to step on the train, running away from poverty. I never want to be stranger; nothing was worse than being an alien at my own home.

500 Miles seems too exhausting now. I better go get a new one! I completely forget my paper. My brain is recharged. I change a new CD. The nice and easy listening song from Jim Croche is bringing my C+ story to the last chapter.

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you
If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day like a treasure
And then again I would spend them with you

Three years ago, before I came to America to pursue my mission (and passion), I spent two nights with my mom. It’s hard to explain my real feeling on those days. In her late eighties, my mom, now a grand mom of seventeen nieces and nephews, seldom goes out by herself because of being diabetic. She’s on medicine and sees doctors from time to time. Her adventurous life has gone with time. Her mission in saving her kids is over! Her fighting was accomplished! She has paved a way and gets us through hardships. She has shown us how to swim across a river of life.

Comparing to when I was a ten years old kid, I felt more than sad to leave home again this time even if I didn’t spend much life time at home. It’s my home. No matter where I live, I never feel home. On the last night, I felt homesick although I didn’t leave home yet. Dinner which my mom specially prepared for me was tasteless. Though I was not a young girl any more, I had to hide my tears. I slept on a mat in the middle of the wide-opened room, where we used to talk, eat, laugh, and cry together. I kept awake the whole night. I had a number of business trips abroad before but this time was totally different. This time it was about 6-7 years, not a week or a month like I did. I listened to a rain drop on a roof. When I was young, my sister and I slept together here, counting stars and moved our bed around the floor to get away from a raindrop leaked from a roof. We found beauty in the difficulty.

On my departure, my family members, including my mom, saw me off at Bangkok airport. I asked my mom to stay home since her health was not in a good condition to travel sixteen hours just to spend thirty minutes with me. Nonetheless, she strongly insisted to do that. So did all other family members! My sister- in- law said everybody had an excuse not to say bye-bye to me except my mom. My friends always teased me “The whole village better see you off to deserve your fame, huh”. True friends never die from our heart!

The moment I hugged my mom this time was not different but stronger than the feeling I stepped on the train twenty five years ago. I hugged her like a last hug; I was so afraid I wouldn’t get a change to do it again. Even though I made this long journey on my own, I felt so scared and sad. This feeling never happened to me before. Looking at my mom, I feared death and unforeseen future. Deeply in my heart, I felt terrified. I said to her “Mom, don’t die. Promise me, don’t die. I’ll be back pretty soon. You have to wait for me. I’ll be your doctoral girl. I promise”

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day like a treasure
And then again I would spend them with you

Country Road Takes Me Home, (To the place…I belong)

Last winter break, I decided to go back home after giving up convincing doctors to do a surgery for me here. I was so exhausted fighting with a tricky insurance company and didn’t want to donate money to American advertising and pharmaceutical business any more.

I returned to my mom’s arms like a dead body walking. For a couple days, I kept awake because of Jet lag. On the first night, I decided to go out, getting fresh air. I did as if I was a young kid. The Tarzan soul in me never dies! In the dark, I walked passed a bridge, rubber plantations, palm trees, rice fields. I lied down under a mango tree, smelling the good old days. There were two gigantic wild mangos in our village. They were our playground in harvesting time and our food land year round. Before dawn, the gangs would get together here. We chose our territory, marking our spot, waiting until the wind blew. Then a mango fell down. We ran to fight for it. Such an exciting moment for a rural life!

A call from my roommate wakes me up. She needs a ride! I really don’t want to go out for now.

I’m lying on my war ground, replaying 500 miles song one more time as if I’m starving for a long time, as if I won’t listen to it again. I’m listening like I’m dying. This song never means the same to me since the first time I listened to it. On the harvesting day, my brother and my sister, both in high school, and I went out to work in a rice field. Both of them sang this song happily but I didn’t get it. They enjoyed an English song but left me sing a country song alone. It wasn’t fair. So, I asked them “what song are you guys singing? Teach me!” They said, “Wait till you grow up. School will teach you”. I said,” why not now?” they said “It’s not about time yet. You don’t know anything. It means nothing. ”. I said “ok, ok. I will sing it louder than you guys do. I bet!” When I grow up, the song really means so many things; it beats my heart like it has been doing during these hours. It really does!

If you miss the train I'm on,
You will know that I am gone,
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.
A hundred miles, a hundred miles,
A hundred miles, A hundred miles,
You can hear the whistle blow A hundred miles

I’m longing for the train to take me home. This solo journey takes me far, far, far from the place where I belong. How long will this journey be? Is the train coming?

Ooop! I almost forget. My roommate is waiting for me! She also needs to get back home. I shouldn’t keep her waiting.

Adcharawan Buripakdi

Please check the Train the Trainer course at Pilgrims website.