Reenactments

By Hai-Dang Phan

In Reenactments, poet Hai-Dang Phan explores the history, memory, and legacy of the Vietnam War from his vantage point as a second-generation Vietnamese American. Woven throughout the poems is a narrative of his family’s exodus from Vietnam that beautifully elucidates the American record of immigration, dislocation, inheritance, and ultimately hope. The poems are persuasively varied in their approach. The past and present, the remembered and imagined, all intersect at shifting angles, providing bold new perspectives. And, in a fresh move, Phan widens the lens, interspersing translations of several other contemporary Vietnamese poems to the mix. This subtle and moving debut is an important addition to the literature of immigration.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarabande Books
• Release date: Feb 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781946448293

Book preview

SMALL WARS

It was my turn to play dead, so I zipped up my flight suit

and monkeyed into the cockpit. Larry, Tobias, and Tim formed

the commando unit. Alfredo got the shaft again and played Charlie

all by himself. Wasting no time, they slipped back into the woods

like ghost soldiers and waited for the signal. Sunlight bombed

the forest floor. I pulled the pin on the smoke grenade, tossed it

under a tremendous wing, then slumped over my aircraft like a limp ragdoll.

In minutes, the shooting began. All hell broke loose, as planned.

Someone sprayed blanks into the enemy trees, laying cover for the others.

I could hear the branches and twigs snapping under the boots of my rescuers.

Someone radioed for helicopters and Phantom jets that would never materialize.

Pinecones dropped from great invisible heights. Black smoke seeped

into my eyes and blood rushed to my head and dangling arms.

A giant cicada singed the air with its emergency song, too late too late.

When I came to, the stars in my jungle burned like sodium flares.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF REENACTMENT

On day one the photographer walks into camp

and immediately starts shooting. She shoots us

at breakfast eating our C rations, in our hammocks

reading Stars and Stripes. She shoots us in her sleep.

When we first cross paths at the creek, she says,

"Hello, Tiger! Nice combat boots. Is that thing real?"

pointing to my Special Forces jungle shirt.

I’m afraid so, I say nonchalantly, trying to mask

my satisfaction. Day two: no more messing around.

The photographer has agreed to join the action.

So what’s the scenario? A lone guerrilla left over

in a booby-trapped village jumps out of a hidey-hole

and ambushes the platoon on a search-and-destroy.

Good thing I brought my black pajamas and sandals!

What a trooper. She also plays the captured prisoner,

the native informant, and the beautiful turncoat.

The sniper girl is her favorite role because

it’s like taking pictures. The beauty, the beauty!

Her voice volleys spookily from behind some rocks

as she picks off one of my men after another.

Sometimes the photographer shoots herself.

I know she has her own personal baggage—

later I find her sobbing in the bamboo grove.

I tell her it’s okay, these wars only last three days.

What will you do when it’s all over? she