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ART ARTIST BIOGRAPHIES Dame Christa Fowles Oil on board 12 x 12 in cover on print edition Farsighted Adam Idris Photograph Everyone Mark Strehlow Ink on paper 16 x 10 in Old Town Portland Early Morning Blake L. Johnson Photograph 20 x 15 in Intrusion Dean Wilson Photograph The Procession Mark Strehlow Ink, charcoal, and pencil on paper 18 x 24 in Kitchen in Blue Christa Fowles Oil on board 24 x 30 in Crickets Mark Strehlow Charcoal and white charcoal on paper 11 x 8 in Grouch LW Woods Stricklin Digital photograph The Dinner Guest Dean Wilson Photograph Eternal Life Addie Berry Screenprint 14 x 11 in Big Step on the Big Stepping Stone Adam Idris Digital photograph Growth Grows from my Fingertips Carter Kohler Digital illustration 11 x 16 in Leaving Home LW Woods Stricklin Digital photograph Hug Dean Wilson Linoleum print on drawing paper 1 x 2 in Gene's Christa Fowles Oil on board 18 x 24 in moonglade Eleanor Song Stickers on paper 6.5 x 8.5 in Brooke Benefits Shane Allison Mixed media collage 9 x 12 in Force Field Shane Allison Magazine page & mixed media 9 x 12 in The Garden Mark Strehlow Ink and oil pastel on paper 20 x 10 in Goose Witch Hannah Lavender Gouache on paper 9.5 x 7.5 in Aerial at City Hall Adam Idris Digital photograph

The Bellwether Review promotes original art and writing cultivated by authors and artists attending PCC. We value showcasing work that expresses a diversity of voice and thought. We encourage a passion for meaningful creation, and provide a platform for students to appreciate art. ART POETRY FICTION NONFICTION Thank you for visiting our website. The Bellwether Review is a literary journal that hopes to promote and inspire creativity amongst those not only at Portland Community College Rock Creek but also throughout the broader global community of writers and artists. We hope you take the time to review these great pieces that were sent in to us and selected for publication by our editorial team. Visit our Submissions page if you are interested in having your work considered for publication in a future issue. Email us at bellwetherreview@gmail.com with any questions. 2025 LETTER FROM THE EDITORS Dear Reader, Welcome to the 2025 edition of The Bellwether Review. Thank you for taking the time of day (or night) to come with us on this jour- ney. From the 140 submissions we received, the editors selected 59 works by 28 individuals to feature in this year’s publication. We are proud to present some of the best of what the PCC Rock Creek community has to offer. While we wish that all submitted work could have a chance to be seen in print, only so many can be accepted. Thank you to all who submitted—without you we would not be here. In this political climate, many organizations dedicated to the arts are losing their federal funding. The fact that this journal exists right now is a privilege. Enjoy the arts, for they are the words and images of the many. And with that, let the journey begin. —2025 Editorial Team Copyright © 2025 Portland Community College Portland Community College reserves all rights to the material contained herein for the contributors’ protection. On publication, all rights revert to the respective authors and artists.

< Back The Man in the Red House Rowan Hartley Archie had lived in the red house for twenty-six years before Evelyn moved in across the street. It had seen the latter half of his marriage, three kids leaving home, four dogs, and as of recent years, the death of his wife. At seventy-three, Archie wasn’t expecting anything or anyone to change his mind. He was old. The only change he was willing to accept was the adoption of his cat, Ladybug, and the perpetual transformation of his garden. The introduction of Evelyn and her husband, Isaac, was at first an unwelcome one. They arrived on a sunny day in February, unusually sunny enough that Archie’s hands were able to stand the biting cold to dig up last year’s lily bulbs. Lilies were poisonous to cats, after all. Isaac and the movers were noisy when they unpacked the trucks, his two-finger point harsh and his voice ringing. Evelyn mostly stood beside him and grimaced apologetically at the workers, sometimes directing, always gentle in her movements. They settled down, though. A week in, they rang his doorbell with a pie and a small orchid plant. Safe for cats , Archie thought to himself. Guess they can’t be too bad. “I hope you like apple,” Evelyn smiled. She had dark hair and rosy cheeks and smelled of flowers. “Thank you very much, I’ll be sure to return the favor,” Archie told her, shaking Isaac’s cold hand. “Oh, there’s no need,” Isaac’s eyes darkened, and he gripped Archie’s hand tightly. “Keep the pie tin,” he grinned as they left, hand tense on the small of Evelyn’s back. # Evelyn and Isaac reminded him of his own relationship with his wife, prior to his retirement, and later, her death. Their routine every weekday morning was the same. The lights came on at seven. Archie knew this because he was up by five-thirty most mornings. In his youth, he had been a sound sleeper, but he was restless now. It worked out well though; he preferred to walk the dogs before anyone else was up and about. Evelyn was always up first. Archie liked to sit in the living room facing the window to watch the sunrise, and he would see her silhouetted in the kitchen. Isaac joined her around seven-thirty, always slipping his hands around her waist and kissing her neck. Sometimes it seemed that Isaac was gripping her arms too tightly. Sometimes Archie thought he saw Evelyn flinch a little when her husband turned towards her. But what did he know—he was old, his eyesight was going, and the dim light could be playing tricks. And anyway, he was no longer in the habit of involving himself with the neighbors, or anyone, really. # Not long after moving in, Isaac and Evelyn threw a housewarming party: open invite to everyone on the block. Archie hadn’t planned on going. He hadn’t interacted with his neighbors in a long time, so long in fact that most of the original inhabitants had moved away. But Ladybug was curious about the noise, and Archie about the smell of cooking food, so he decided to make his way over. “Just for a few minutes,” he told Ladybug, lifting her into his arms. Archie approached the front door, but a sign stating “Party in the back!” redirected him. He approached the back gate, and briefly considered turning around—it was loud, and the voices inside were all young. But before he could make up his mind, the gate swung open. “Oh-em-gee, a cat!” Two women swarmed him. He flinched away, but they persisted. “What a beautiful calico!” one of the women, the taller one, reached her hand towards Ladybug, who headbutted it happily. She always loved new people. “Oh, she’s such an angel,” the first woman said as Ladybug sniffed her hand. “What’s her name?” Archie felt himself relax slightly. “Ladybug… She’s about thirteen months old.” “How precious,” the girls giggled and walked off. Archie breathed a sigh of relief, Ladybug content in his arms. He made his way through the gates. Tables were set up, draped in floral tablecloths and covered with food. He eyed it anxiously; he hadn’t had anything other than his own cooking in a long time, which was barely passable as cooking at all. Does it count as cooking if you don’t use any heat? He had found himself wondering on many occasions. He made his way through the sparse crowd of well-dressed people. For the first time in years, he felt a little ashamed of his worn-in slacks and faded button down. But none of them gave him a second glance. He filled a ceramic plate with cornbread and pulled pork. There were brownies too, decadent on their pretty glass plate. These were the kind of people who took their brownies out of the pan and cut them up. These were the kind of people his wife wanted so desperately to be like, the kind of people that he always resented for making her feel like the life he had built for them wasn’t enough. “Oh, excuse me,” a woman bumped into him, spilling a drink on his arm. “I’m so sorry, let me get you a paper towel.” Archie’s fist clenched instinctively. Ladybug meowed in his arms, and he relaxed. “No worries. Accidents happen,” he said gruffly. He set Ladybug down, looping her leash around his wrist. “I really am sorry,” the woman dabbed at his arm with a napkin. “I’m Noel, by the way. Over there is my husband Leon,” she pointed towards a tall, ginger-haired man, who waved. Archie waved back hesitantly. “Nice to meet you, I’m Archie.” “How do you know the Coopers?” Noel asked. “The Coopers?” “Isaac and Evelyn.” “Oh, I live across the street,” Archie told her. “Ah, you can keep an eye on them now instead of us,” Noel laughed. “We all used to be roommates in college—those two are always getting in trouble.” Archie chuckled. “That’s nice that you’re all still friends,” “It is,” Noel smiled. “Well, I’d better be off. Leon and I are just finishing our rounds before we leave.” They bade their goodbyes. More confident, Archie strolled around the garden, admiring all the places one could plant the perfect rose. Archie was very nearly having a good time when Ladybug started kicking at the grass, a surefire sign she was about to try and use it as her own personal litter box. He picked her up before she could. It was a welcome excuse to leave… Best not to get too talkative with the neighbors. The lot next to Isaac and Evelyn’s home was empty and extended far back into the woods. He took Ladybug and the dogs there on walks sometimes. It was a sandy, grassy playground for them, and he loved to see the wildflowers when they were blooming. But tonight, he wasn’t the only one there. As Ladybug searched for the perfect place to do her business, Archie heard voices. He made his way towards the bushes where the sound was coming from before realizing that he really had no intention of talking to them. It’s not like they were trespassing anymore than he was. Still, something in him was curious. He knelt to tie his shoe and listen for a moment. “I won’t have you running your mouth about our financial business again,” the voice was quiet but harsh. Peering up through the bushes, Archie could make out Isaac and Evelyn. His hands held her wrists so tightly that they looked white. “I’m sorry,” Evelyn’s chin quivered and she looked down, the leaves obscuring the top half of her face. Isaac’s hands let go of Evelyn’s, and Archie almost breathed a sigh of relief, but the ringing sound of a slap caused the breath to catch in his throat. He gasped, and Isaac’s eyes met his through the bushes. He stumbled back, landing on his bottom: surely the grass would stain, but it was no matter. He leapt to his feet. The adrenaline made him feel like a younger man, but he remembered this anxious tightness in his chest, and it wasn’t worth it. Isaac was still staring at him through the bushes. Evelyn clutched her cheek. Archie met Isaac’s eyes, turned slowly, grabbing Ladybug’s leash, and made his way home. # In late March, there was a knock at Archie’s door. Archie looked through the peephole: Evelyn and Isaac, the former holding a plate and looking quite nervous, the latter with a bottle of wine and a boisterous grin. It had been over three weeks since the party, and Archie had barely seen them since. Every time Evelyn walked Isaac to his car in the mornings or accompanied him out while Archie was sitting on his porch, she avoided Archie’s gaze. Isaac always waved. He supposed it wasn’t a surprise that they were here now. He unlocked the door. “Oh, I’m so glad to have caught you,” Evelyn smiled cheerfully. “More pie?” Archie joked. Isaac smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, I wish!” Evelyn chuckled. “Brownies, this time.” Archie accepted the plate graciously. “Wow, are these the same ones you had at the housewarming party? They were delicious.” “Thank you,” Evelyn blushed. “It was my grandmother’s recipe.” Isaac held out the wine. “Not sure if you drink, but this is a great Pinot from my friend’s vineyard down in California.” “Thank you,” Archie balanced the plate in one hand, taking the wine in the other. “Can I invite you in?” The married couple looked at each other, and Isaac held out his hand for Evelyn to go ahead. “Don’t mind the dogs, they’re friendly,” Archie said, nearly tripping over one of his greyhounds, Lila. “I have lemonade and some cookies, if you’re interested? They’re from a box, so don’t get your hopes up about the quality.” “That’s alright,” Isaac said at the same time as Evelyn replied, “Sounds lovely!” “Whatever she wants,” Isaac smiled tightly. Archie made his way to the kitchen, setting the wine down carefully and pouring lemonade for his guests. “Stupid dogs stinking up the place,” he heard Isaac mutter to Evelyn. Archie added ice to the drinks—less for Isaac—and made his way back into the living room. “So, we just wanted to stop to say that we hope you enjoyed the party a few weeks ago,” Evelyn started. “Right, just wanted to swing by,” Isaac added. “We’re trying to get off on the right foot with the neighbors, you know?” “Of course,” Archie folded his hands in his lap. “So, are we? Off on the right foot?” Archie stared at Isaac. “I should think so, do you?” “I agree,” Isaac smiled and sipped his lemonade. “So, beautiful garden you have here. My wife takes an interest in gardening as well, but we’ve never had property with enough light for it.” Archie smiled. Finally something he could talk about. “Well, I’m always happy to give you some pointers. What’s in season, and whatnot. I built a small pond last year as well, if you’re interested in that kind of thing.” “Oh, that would be lovely!” Evelyn exclaimed. “I’m not sure where to start, and I would love some ideas. Say Saturday morning? If that’s okay with you, Isaac.” “Sure,” he relented. At that moment Dory, the Great Dane, licked his hand. “Agh!” “I’m so sorry about that,” Archie said apologetically. Evelyn was stifling a smile. “There’s a washroom down the hall and to the left.” Isaac left the room, lip curled. Archie waited until he heard the bathroom door click closed. “Are you okay?” Archie asked Evelyn after a moment of silence. “Do you need help?” “I want to leave,” Evelyn told him. Her eyes unwaveringly met his. Archie gripped her hands, eyes welling up. “You must try. I knew a woman once… I knew a woman who was being abused by her husband.” Evelyn looked up curiously at him. “She never left,” Archie told her. “She died unhappy. It is… I have a lot of regrets. If there is anything I can do…” At that moment, Isaac opened the bathroom door. Archie quickly released Evelyn’s hands. “We’d best be going. Nice chatting with you, Archie,” Isaac pulled his wife up. Archie hoped he hadn’t seen their touching hands, now that he knew the temper he had. “Sure,” Archie stood awkwardly, brushing imaginary crumbs from his jeans. “I guess I’ll see you on Saturday then.” Evelyn smiled gratefully. Isaac smiled too, his eyes familiarly cold. # Archie’s days were painfully mundane, and he was grateful for the distraction of gardening with Evelyn. They met every Saturday morning at one house or the other, always in the front yard—that was all Isaac allowed. “I don’t want the neighbors to see my wife going somewhere private with another man,” Archie had overheard Isaac say one day when Evelyn asked if she could show Archie the backyard. As soon as he returned from golfing, Evelyn would stand up in a hurry. “He just likes to get his snack when he gets home,” she would tell him. “What was your wife like?” Evelyn asked one day. They were sitting on his porch, taking a break from the hot sun. She had a bruise on her arm the same color as the mango iced tea she brought over. Archie had never tried mangos until now, and he wasn’t sure he liked them. “I’ve seen the pictures in your living room, but you never mention her.” Archie’s hand slipped a little on the condensation of the glass and he set it down quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evelyn flinch at the sudden movement. Ladybug, who was sitting on her lap, stirred, but soon relaxed again. The young cat had taken quite the liking to Evelyn. “She was lovely,” he answered. Suddenly, there was a rock in his throat. “Really lovely. She passed about ten years ago.” “I’m sorry,” Evelyn said. “My mom lost my dad a few years ago. It was very hard on her.” Archie nodded. He wrung his hands, popped the knuckle of his thumb. It wasn’t ready; it cracked sharply. “Did you have kids?” “Three,” he forced himself to meet her eyes. “They’re all grown up. I haven’t seen them since the funeral; they live far away.” Evelyn reached over and put her warm hand on his. “I’m sorry, Archie.” Archie looked away. “They have good reason not to see me. I don’t blame them for not visiting.” It was true that he didn’t blame them—in fact, he was thankful for it. His sons had been hotheaded and his daughter had been meek but direct, like her mother. Grown up, with their anger and resentment, he wondered what they could do to him. “My wife loved gardening,” Archie added after a moment. “I let everything grow over after she died. I only started taking care of it again about three years ago.” “Well, it looks beautiful,” Evelyn smiled. “I’m sure she would be very proud.” # Archie was standing on his porch one day, using the door to fan out the house. Evelyn had written down her brownie recipe for him, and he’d tried to make it—disaster. He stomped his foot when Ladybug dashed out without her harness, and scurried into the bushes. “Ladybug,” he cried angrily, letting the door bang shut. She had made it under the thorny raspberry bush and meowed at him happily when he knelt to look at her. She was completely out of reach. Archie took a deep breath and sat back on his knees. This wasn’t the first time she had done this, and it wouldn’t be the last. It was fine. He would hang out in the garden with her, and eventually she would come out. He wouldn’t normally be so anxious, but he had recently planted hemlock in his backyard, near the koi pond, and he was nervous about her eating it. “Archie, right?” the voice snapped him back to the present. “It’s Noel! From the party?” He hadn’t heard anyone pull up, but there she was, curly hair tied in a cloud on her head. She and her husband walked over in what could only be described as an enthusiastic trot. “Oh, hello,” Archie stood, shaking hands with the husband. Leo, or Leon… “Leon, nice to officially meet you,” he smiled. “You as well,” Archie looked over their shoulders towards Evelyn’s house. “Plans with the Coopers?” “You could say that,” Noel smiled tightly. “Evelyn has some family in town who Isaac isn’t a fan of, so we’re taking her out to dinner to see them. Don’t mention it to Isaac, alright? I’m sure you’ve seen how he can be.” “Do you mean…” Archie’s voice trailed off. Did they know? They were her friends; they would know, right? His eyes darted between the two. “Evelyn told us she confided in you,” Leon told him affirmatively, clutching his wife’s hand. “We’re glad she has more people in her corner,” Noel smiled. “Well, it was great to see you.” Archie nodded. As they walked away, Ladybug darted out from under the bushes and jumped out at Archie’s legs. He scooped her up. His mind was reeling. Evelyn had people. Why was she talking to him? Did she even need his help at all? As he looked back out towards the Coopers’ house, he could see Evelyn greeting Noel and Leon at the door. From the window, he could see Isaac. He wasn’t sure, but Isaac seemed to be staring right at him. # “I’ve gotten a job,” Evelyn told him one day, red flushing up her neck as she dug in the soft soil. “I told Isaac it was a volunteer position at the community center, but it’s paid. I asked them to send my checks here, if that’s okay?” “Of course,” Archie staked his small hand shovel into the planting bed. “What happens if he finds out?” Evelyn sat back, brushing the hair out of her face with the back of her hand, dirt smudging on her forehead. “I’ll tell him that I didn’t know it was paid. That I must have put my address down wrong.” “You don’t think he’ll come over here asking about the checks?” Archie asked, white eyebrows furrowing together. He was afraid for her, and selfishly, a little afraid for himself. He had seen what Isaac could do to a woman, to his own wife; he knew Isaac had little regard for the elderly and worried that whatever could happen to him would be worse. “I’ve told him that your memory is going,” Evelyn told him sheepishly. “But I don’t think he’ll suspect anything. I just can’t give him any reason to. I’ll have to be good.” Archie looked down at the ground, at the dark dirt and the line of holes and the pale peas in each hole. “If being ‘good’ was enough, you wouldn’t be trying to leave.” # Evelyn proved to be right—Isaac didn’t catch on, and every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Evelyn would bike down to the community center when Isaac left for work, always back by 4:30 to make him dinner. The checks came every two weeks, and Archie religiously stowed them in his living room, tucked between his late wife’s recipe books. Archie was right too though—the abuse didn’t stop. One night, Archie was awoken suddenly. He laid sleepily in his bed, confused, before a loud voice carried across the street and through the open window. He shuffled over, joints creaking. A car had pulled up outside of Evelyn’s home, parked haphazardly on the driveway. The porch light was out; the blinding LED headlights of the car silhouetted what he recognized as the halo of Noel’s curls. He watched, curious, and ashamed at his curiosity. When the door opened, there was no yelling—he could only assume Evelyn had opened it. He watched Noel and her boyfriend grab the shoulders of a figure to support her. The light obscured most everything, but what he saw was tinged in red. Noel and Leon practically carried Evelyn to the car. The doors slammed shut, the engine hummed, and then the street was quiet again. Archie waited. A few minutes passed, and the kitchen light came on. A shadow appeared inside the door, closing it noiselessly. Isaac’s silhouette held a bottle. Archie imagined blood dripping from it, and shuddered. He pictured the bottle cracking on Evelyn’s pale temple, leaving behind bright blood and fizzing beer. He felt the acid rise in his throat, and he gagged. Nothing came up. Ladybug, disturbed by the noise, ran out from her seat at the foot of his bed. He hadn’t thrown up since his kids had the stomach bug back in elementary school—he wouldn’t start now. He swallowed hard and crawled back into bed. # In August, the day arrived that Evelyn planned to leave. It was a Thursday, so hot and muggy that when Archie stepped outside to check for mail, it felt like breathing in honey. Evelyn had gotten her wrist cast off last week. Her bruises from the attack when her friends had to take her to the ER were long healed. The community center was planning an event that week, and for all Isaac knew, that was where Evelyn was. But in reality, she was packing a bag and her important documents, and getting ready to leave. Archie’s wife had left behind an old VW bug in their garage. He had offered it to Evelyn when they first started planning her escape. She’d refused. “This is practically a piece of art,” she had told him. He hadn’t worn her down, but just in case, had taken it to get new plates and transfer the title to her name, and had parked it safely in front of his house once Isaac left for work. Evelyn stopped by around four. Archie knew it was goodbye, and his hands, holding Evelyn’s latest check and a small envelope with a few hundred dollars, shook when he answered the door. Ladybug purred happily by his feet, unaware of the sobriety of the situation. “Thank you, Archie, for everything,” Evelyn said, petting Ladybug. Her voice was confident in a way it hadn’t been until now. “You helped save me. I cannot thank you enough.” “Please,” Archie gripped her hands. “Don’t do that. That story I told you about the woman who was being abused? The one who died? That was my wife. I hurt my wife. I had to help you. I had to.” Evelyn’s shocked face stared back at him, but there was no time to unpack it. Archie pressed the car keys and envelopes into her hands, chest heavy with guilt. “Please, go. Take the car. Let me do this for you.” Evelyn grasped his hands around the keys before finally taking them. As she turned away, decades worth of tears dripped down Archie’s face. He watched through the open door as she packed her bags into the little car. Ladybug meowed at his feet. The car rumbled, the engine turned on. Archie sank to his knees as she drove away. She didn’t wave goodbye. Author Bio A writer from the young age of eleven, Rowan Hartley strives to write thought-provoking, vaguely surrealist works. “The Man in the Red House” is her first published work, and her eventual goal is to publish a book of short stories. Hartley is currently working on earning her Bachelor’s Degree in Public Health. Outside of writing and academics, she enjoys ceramics, long urban hikes in Portland, reviewing movies on Letterboxd, and hanging out with her four cats. You can follow her work on Instagram @superlunaryyyy.

< Back Fucking rip, I kinda liked you Moriendi Lenore Brown doe eyes stare at a ‘Wolf’ in disbelief, she wonders what she did wrong— Panicked fight, blade makes a mess. A lamb watches, ‘Fucking rip, I guess’ ‘Fucking rip, this is a mess to clean.’ She chose the painful way out. Faded red dye, brown eyes adore us both. She doesn’t mind the mess. Devoted brown eyes gaze at a ‘Wolf’, understanding c’est la vie in the cabin. Quick slash, she didn’t suffer. A lamb sighs, ‘Fucking rip, I kinda liked you’ Badges, sirens, my eyes meet a quick slash. A sacrificial Lamb— ‘Fucking rip me’—time passes, scars fade, knowledge gained, tarot read. The cards are flipped, why am I here—tarot read—she sees without knowing how close to the truth she is. ‘Fucking rip, you fascinate me.’ Friends with a badge hidden in plain sight, the truth in our mothers’ graves. A bond I don’t want to shake. ‘Fucking rip, why are you a magnet for death.’ Tricked by a ‘Wolf’, blades meet. His cold grin of proudness ends our bond. Safe, together, two lambs—one with teeth. ‘Fucking rip, I kinda care about you.’ Author Bio Moriendi Lenore is a Southern California native who moved to Oregon in 2008. They are finishing up their second year at PCC and plan to pursue a degree in Creative Writing and Film Studies. Their writing tends to focus around all things that go bump in the night; along with variations of folklore and mythology. When not at home with their cat, Schrödinger, working on projects or playing TTRPGs with friends, they are with their dog, Chopper, and can be found hiking around Oregon.

< Back Peace Machete Moriendi Lenore A naturally curious mind is stuck with me Forever wishing and hoping to wander so It is never content to sit and just be. Must you be so persistent? I plea Onlookers stare in my direction apropos A naturally curious mind is stuck with me Aggravation dresses my face, a marquee Be cool, calm, chill, you got this , breathe slow It is never content to sit and just be. I know just what to do to set us both free Headphones on, full blast, a temporary deathblow A naturally curious mind is stuck with me Content, I lean against the shade of a tree Music cannot be stopped, reverberating, we let go It is never content to sit and just be. You are a peace machete, lacking chivalry Do I relent, has our parlay hit a plateau? A naturally curious mind is stuck with me It is never content to sit and just be. Author Bio Moriendi Lenore is a Southern California native who moved to Oregon in 2008. They are finishing up their second year at PCC and plan to pursue a degree in Creative Writing and Film Studies. Their writing tends to focus around all things that go bump in the night; along with variations of folklore and mythology. When not at home with their cat, Schrödinger, working on projects or playing TTRPGs with friends, they are with their dog, Chopper, and can be found hiking around Oregon.

< Back Amir Nisha Shamik Banerjee Congested footpaths slowed us down that day. The sun, imperious, laughed during noon And mocked our plodding as we made our way To your most-stopped-by marketplace that June. Our bottles had run out of fluid, and though Your lips became deserts, you acted nice To prove “no thirst” (and thought I wouldn’t know). But then, a glass of cane juice helped your lips Like rainfall helps a dry farm, and your eyes Said, “You’ve relieved me” as you took those sips. We reached there. Oh, the bee-like crowd! Its buzz! We muscled through it, feeling every shove. Your right hand was latched to my left. It was Just like a journey through some shrubby grove. Alluring marts and outlets cast their shine Upon your heart whose throbs of boundless glee United with the joyfulness of mine. Taking me to some common trinket store, You browsed through every earring, while in me, The bliss of buying some for you grew more. Located nearby was a small boutique With fair abayas, but your modesty Held your desires. I used that old technique Of drawing your stiff body tenderly Towards the shop (your white cheeks made their change into light claret red). Your action of Examining a cloth, its colours’ range, The fabric’s quality, designs, and prints Appeared as if some craftswoman of love Was painting me with golden-yellow tints. At five, precisely, being too fatigued, We found a seat within the public square. Iced cane juice (once again!); we were relieved! The sky’s expanding ochre touched your hair. Thievishly, as I tried to hold your hand, You hawed and said, “What would the public think?” A pause, and then I said, “I understand.” Your manners! Oh, so Indian and plain That all I did was watch your eyes unblink- ingly, then turn aside and watch again. Sundown. It was your maghrib time. We found A mosque. I stayed outside—my faith did not Permit me in. You entered, sat upon the ground, Postured yourself, and gently checked the knot Of your hijab. Outside the gate, I prayed Too (to your God, but with a different name), “O’ Lord, will You not grace our souls and aid Our clashing fates? Remove religion’s pall?” Then you arrived. “Did she, too, pray the same?” I wondered, but your long hug answered all. Word Meanings Amir Nisha: A marketplace in the region of Aligarh (a place in North India). Maghrib: The sunset Islamic prayer. Abaya: A loose-fitting full-length robe worn by some Muslim women. Hijab: A traditional headscarf covering the hair and neck worn by Muslim women. Author Bio Shamik Banerjee is a poet from Assam, India. Some of his recent publications include Spelt , Ink Sweat and Tears , St. Austin Review , Modern Reformation , San Antonio Review , The Society of Classical Poets , Third Wednesday , and Amethyst Review , among others. He secured second position in the Southern Shakespeare Company Sonnet Contest, 2024.

< Back Far Away in a Place Nearby Sarah Myton Where the owl hoots in the morning And the birds sing at night. Fire ravages through cities Leaving them clean and bright. Water is like crystals Falling from the sky, You’ll never feel lost or lonely, But you won’t really know why. The harder you try The more you’ll find, “Lost” is not a state of being, It is a state of mind. How frustrating it was Being happy all the time. It was as if there were a hill You were never allowed to climb. The wind never had A path straight to your heart, Until you dug a hole there, Your sullen piece of art. “If only I could make it To the other side of the world” “There things would be different Nothing would get old” The pain of a small cut, While making lemonade Would not exist there, You would never be afraid. Vanilla would taste Exactly how it smells, And markers would never dry, Never hearing the sound of knells. The ice that forms there Is not so bad, At least it could numb All the pain you’ve had. Author Bio Sarah Myton : I am a first-year student at PCC, working on discovering the career path that I want to pursue. This is my first time being published in a journal, but I have really enjoyed writing for a couple of years now. The poems written by me were created during the WR 242 poetry class taught by Dr. Embry. I hope to continue being creative in my future career and to be a light in the world.

< Back Late Fruit Sarah Myton after Richard Thompson’s Late Fruit (Oil on Canvas, 1989, PCC Rock Creek art collection) In the dark of winter we hide away In the comfort of our homes. We see only the smallest evidence of life and imagine the whole world is at rest. Not until your hard work Is ripe for the picking Do we notice what you’ve done. While we rejoice, Satisfying our hunger, You carry on. The evergreen laugh At the deciduous that never lost its leaves The foliage below Barely holding on, Gives in to the cold But still and steady You carry on. Author Bio Sarah Myton : I am a first-year student at PCC, working on discovering the career path that I want to pursue. This is my first time being published in a journal, but I have really enjoyed writing for a couple of years now. The poems written by me were created during the WR 242 poetry class taught by Dr. Embry. I hope to continue being creative in my future career and to be a light in the world.

< Back dyspraxic J. Artemis Mackay limbs find unsteady rest, weak upon the earth stirring from the bird-song dawn gelatin legs of the fawn crowbarred in traumatic birth sired unready dys praxic ; Greek for “difficult activity.” page seven five, DSM five, prior name “clumsy child syndrome” precious pathology how can a jigsaw piece make fingers feel weak yet heavy as structural steel feel fall; clatter how my brainpan laden with ready-mix concrete feel in ten thousand places besides I fall onto sand castles unto circles counted nine into journey a journey a special sunrise, javelin rays turn every wall to doors ajar time did not heal my muscles yet waited on the fever-bed a sculpture is not broken no matter how many swings of the sledgehammer; my ulcers dry, crumble into rice heaved skyward at the wedding my body fails but it does not betray I’ve honed being a faggot in a way sports and dance never stuck working out masculine—disability perhaps if not a ballerina, my body does a riveting performance of homosexual conduct the manual labor persists libido explains hand tremors and inexpert affection— [a jigsaw is difficult activity joy-breathed in its completion] Author Bio Artemis Mackay (they/them) is a queer, trans writer living near a bridge in Portland. They hold a Master’s Degree in Comparative Social Change from University College Dublin and several DSM-V diagnoses.

< Back Over the Under Waves Moriendi Lenore Is this what quicksand feels like? Ocean waves dampen the sand around my feet with each return, sinking me towards the center of the Earth. Are those screams? No, just laughter… Gaze torn from my disappearing limbs, to my cousins as they dive under the waves like sea creatures in a film. Water crashes into my legs again, hitting my knees with the force to throw me overboard, I do not waver from my perch. The sand has held me to it with grainy hands, molded me into a monument, chiseled, then smoothed by sandpaper wind, an unlikely sculptor my curiosity has become. Am I the only artifact the sea foam has tricked into existence? What an image that must be, do tourists gawk and flock to view how curiosity tempts the cat? Do they simply check it off, another item on their bucket-list. Tide leaves, the intrusive blight of what if demands I sit down, back to the waves, just to see… Beach has me firm as a pedestal to marble, like the fall from a rollercoaster peak, heart swaps with my stomach, while my feet are ripped free from the bind the sand alluded to hold dear. Somersaulting under the sea, no gravity can hold me, until the archaeologists find the remains of a sculpture held once more in the briny grip of the beach. Wringing out the memories of the last failed attempt to swim from my hair, my father sits under an umbrella, not content to smell of salt, hey! You tried going under, good job! ; I nod in acquiescence. Today was not a day for killing the hopes of others. Summoned to the waves, I watch sea and sand move over my feet, with a sweet caress, unbothered by the way they nearly claimed me as their lifelong companion. What would happen if I did it again? Author Bio Moriendi Lenore is a Southern California native who moved to Oregon in 2008. They are finishing up their second year at PCC and plan to pursue a degree in Creative Writing and Film Studies. Their writing tends to focus around all things that go bump in the night; along with variations of folklore and mythology. When not at home with their cat, Schrödinger, working on projects or playing TTRPGs with friends, they are with their dog, Chopper, and can be found hiking around Oregon.

< Back Rose City J. Artemis Mackay Impurity midwinter baptism rain motor oil swells concrete crevices disgorge towards spotless white sneakers rhapsodic fit with light blue denim, what a throwback, how eighties I arrive penitent at the bourbon altar a stranger makes turgid confession I can’t take {that} I wait out side for rideshare rain falls in the biblical sense – hey noah – what a nightscape, how cozy city worn to the nub – hallelujah through gritted teeth. – Absolution I’m not waterproof but body can hack it, half gills sprout in northwestern damp hurried steps down cue the groaning hardwood staircase quartet strike a rhythm to the front door weather forecast unconsulted fragrant asphalt pirouette around the street water turn back take caution [heed the roses forever forward] Author Bio Artemis Mackay (they/them) is a queer, trans writer living near a bridge in Portland. They hold a Master’s Degree in Comparative Social Change from University College Dublin and several DSM-V diagnoses.

< Back War Through Chan's Eyes Chan Truong Jones “Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness,” Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. once said. These words resonate deeply with me because although I was born after the wars were over in Vietnam, their impact remained constant in my life. The memories of war live on not in history books, but in the experiences of my parents, siblings, and neighbors, carrying unspoken pain and struggles of my community. The experiences of my childhood have never truly faded. Through them, I learned the power of empathy—the ability to listen, to share, and to understand what came before me. The past cannot be changed, but we can learn from it and carry its lessons forward with compassion rather than bitterness. Many stories have been deeply imprinted in my mind from childhood to adult life, and I would love to share them with you. Lost in Their Own Home When I was six years old, my neighbors, Uncle Sau and Uncle Nam, came home from a faraway place called Cambodia. Everyone in the village knew them. Even though they weren’t my real uncles, my family loved them like they were. But when they returned, they weren’t the same, according to my parents and neighbors. I had never met them before because they left Vietnam before I was born. My parents and older siblings used to talk about them like they were heroes. They left when they were just eighteen, young and full of energy. Uncle Sau would talk in a strange language at night— words that didn’t belong there. My mother whispered that it was Cambodian. I didn’t understand why he spoke it in his sleep, or why his voice trembled between fear and anger. His words drifted through the quiet village like ghosts searching for a way home. Uncle Nam, on the other hand, was always quiet, like a shadow moving without a sound. If Uncle Sau was fire, burning with something he could never put out, then Uncle Nam was stone, heavy and still. I was a curious child, always asking questions. One evening, I sat beside Uncle Sau as he stared at the sky. "What happened in Cambodia?” I asked, expecting an adventure story, like the ones my oldest brother told me about heroes and ghosts. He looked at me for a long time before sighing. “We were lucky, little one. We came home with all our arms and legs. Some never came home at all.” His voice was heavy, like a rock sinking in the water. As the days passed, I noticed more things that didn’t make sense. My uncles never slept at night. While the rest of the village rested, they sat outside my grandmother’s house, awake in the dark. Uncle Sau started drinking from a glass bottle that smelled sour. “It helps him sleep,” my mother told me. But the more he drank, the louder he became—yelling at the neighbors, at the sky, at the war. He was angry at everything and nothing at the same time. Uncle Nam didn’t drink. He just sat there, quiet, always staring into the distance, as if his body had returned, but his soul was still somewhere far away. I didn’t understand why they had no home of their own, or why they couldn’t go back to who they were before. The war was over, but it still clung to them like a shadow that never faded. One night, as I lay in bed, I listened to Uncle Sau whispering in his strange language, his voice rising and falling like the wind before a storm. Uncle Nam sat beside him, silent as always. I pulled my blanket up to my chin and whispered to myself, “If they are home now, why do they still seem so lost?” Shadows of the Past The Vietnam War was already over—or so the adults said. But in our village, whispers of it still clung to the air, like the thick smoke of burning rice fields. The war had taken so much from people’s houses, their land, and their families. But I didn’t understand any of that yet. I was just a child, playing barefoot with my friends in the dusk, when the older kids ran toward us, eyes wide with excitement and fear. “There’s a dead body at Ba Muoi’s house… it was a murder,” one of them whispered, his voice trembling. “Do you want to see it?” Ba Muoi worked for the new government at the time, holding the power to decide who could stay in the village and who would be forced to leave for the distant, undeveloped Kinh Te Moi economic zones. Her house was located just fifteen minutes away from ours, up in the neighborhood everyone calls the “upper village.” All the people in our area knew Ba Muoi because of her authority. She was friendly enough to us children, often smiling or nodding as we passed by, but families who had worked for the old government rarely received any warmth from her. A dead body and murder. I had never seen one before. My heart pounded, not with fear but with curiosity. Death was just a word, a thing from stories my siblings told at night, full of ghosts and shadows. “Yes,” I said. And we ran. As we reached Ba Muoi’s house, the air felt wrong. The evening breeze had stopped. The cicadas, usually so loud, had gone silent. The kitchen door was open, swinging slightly as if someone had just passed through. Then I smelled it. A mix of something sweet and something sour. Incense smoke. Flowers. And something heavier, something metallic. Something my young mind could not yet name. The other kids pushed me forward. My feet stepped onto the hard dirt floor, and my eyes landed on the first thing—the blood. It was dark and thick, pooled near a long knife that gleamed in the dim kitchen yellow light. My stomach twisted and hurt, but I couldn’t look away. Then I saw the white chalk lines. And inside the white chalk lines, Ba Muoi was lying there. She wasn’t moving. Her body looked stiff, twisted in a way that didn’t seem real. Her hair was matted to the side of her face; one of her hands held the bloody area, and the other hand was over her head. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I saw what was next to her: green bananas and a bundle of tuberose flowers, their white petals glowing under the flickering candlelight. The smell of tuberose was too strong. It stuck to my nose and clung to my skin. My chest felt tight. I wanted to turn away, but I couldn’t. I heard whispers behind me. “Thang De giet ba ay!” De. I knew that name. Everyone in the upper village knew that name. He was young, just a little older than my oldest brother. They sent him away to Kinh Te Moi—the Economic Zone—before I was even born. I didn’t really know what “Kinh Te Moi” meant, but I’d heard grown-ups whisper about it when they thought no kids were listening. They said families who went there didn’t come back the same—if they ever came back at all. There was never enough food to eat, and mosquitoes as big as bees bit people all night. The forest was full of scary animals that made people sick. I imagined snakes hiding under their beds, rats running around their feet when they tried to sleep, and people shivering with fevers they couldn’t escape. De’s family has been sent there. His father died first, then his little brother, and another sister. Some said it was sickness. Others said it was hunger. Now, De had returned, but not as the boy who had left—he came back with anger in his chest and a knife in his hand. I didn’t know what anger that big could feel like. I didn’t understand how grief could turn into something sharp, something deadly. But standing there, staring at the blood on the floor, I knew that whatever had happened to De had followed him home. I couldn’t breathe. The walls felt too close. The incense smoke curled toward the ceiling, twisting into shapes I didn’t want to see. Then I ran. I ran past the darkening houses, past the voices of the village women whispering, past the fields that stretched toward longan trees and large tamarind trees with big branches. I could imagine Ba Muoi’s dead body lying there in my mind. I closed my eyes and ran as fast as I could. I didn’t stop until I was home, throwing myself into bed and yanking the blanket over my head. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I could still see the chalk outline, the blood, the sweet smell of tuberose. That night, I didn’t eat. I didn’t speak. I didn’t sleep. I kept the window by my bed closed. Days later, I heard my mother whispering to my father. “Thang De bi bat roi. Ba no chet. Em no chet. No han ba Muoi vi dua nha no di Kinh Te Moi. No ve giet ba.” The police had taken De away. I imagined him sitting in a dark cell, the smell of blood still clinging to his hands. He was only twenty-five, but what would happen to his life next? Was it over? Ba Muoi was gone. De was gone. The war ended years ago, but it was still taking people—it had taken Ba Muoi’s life and De’s future. I didn’t understand war yet, but I knew one thing: it wasn’t over, just hiding in the hearts of those who had survived it. And from that night on, I could never look at green bananas or smell the scent of tuberose the same way again. The Mother Who Chose Love A sharp crack, the radio buzzed, shattering the afternoon quiet, breaking the stillness like a sudden bolt of electricity. I was just 14 years old, sitting on the floor in a traditional Asian squat, carefully cleaning morning glory—long green stems with hollow interiors and tender, arrow-shaped leaves. My fingers moved methodically, stripping away wilted leaves and snapping each stem into bite-sized pieces, preparing the familiar vegetable for dinner. The radio hummed with static before the voice of an American soldier came through—his words foreign and strange, yet heavy with emotion. He was searching for a woman he called his Mother. Her name was “Me Co.” He had come to Vietnam, to my hometown, in search of her. But everything has changed since 1972. The road, the houses, even the people—he could no longer find the place he once knew. It was the first time since the war that Vietnam had opened its doors to American visitors, and I couldn’t understand why this man, with “his blonde hair and blue eyes,” as the radio host described him, was calling an old Vietnamese woman mother. We were taught in school that De Quoc My la sau—“Đế Quốc Mỹ là xấu”—Imperialist America is bad. But this man’s voice, shaking on the radio, made me wonder if there was more to the story than what we were told. For three weeks, I listened to it every day, waiting for news. Then one afternoon, the radio host announced that someone had found Me Co. The soldier rushed to her house, but when he arrived, all he saw was an altar. A single framed picture of an old woman stared back at him. She was gone. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Me oi, con ve tre roi”— “Mother, I came back too late!” I imagined the scene as the host described it. The soldier saw a small plate in front of the altar, and inside was a ring. He picked it up, turning it over in his fingers, his breath hitching. It was his. His name and his wife’s name were engraved on the inside. Turning to the woman who now lived in the house, he asked for a hug. Without hesitation, she embraced him, and they both cried. Me Co had been a single mother. Her husband had died in the First Indochina War in 1954, leaving her to raise five children—four sons and a daughter. One by one, her sons joined the war, fighting as Viet Cong soldiers. Three never came home. The last one was still somewhere in the jungle, and Me Co was left alive with her young daughter. By 1972, her daughter was studying in town and couldn’t safely travel back home due to the constant threat of the war, leaving Me Co to live alone. One evening, she found an American soldier crawling into her yard, bleeding heavily from a wound in his leg. He was barely conscious, his body shaking with pain. She froze. He was the enemy, the reason her sons had died. She could have turned him in and reported him to the Viet Cong soldiers who patrolled the village. But when she looked into his face, she didn’t see an enemy. She saw someone’s son. A young man, no older than her own children, afraid and in pain. Her heart clenched, but she hid him. She moved him into the rice warehouse, cleaned his wounds, and wiped away his blood where he had crawled. That night, the Viet Cong came through the village, asking about an American soldier. She stayed silent. The next day, she intentionally cut her own hand, making the wound deep enough to need medicine. This gave her an excuse to visit the doctor, where she secretly gathered the medical supplies she needed to treat him. She nursed him back to health in secret for two weeks, risking her life every day. When he could finally walk again, she disguised him in her son’s old clothes. Wrapping a scarf around his face, she led him through the village, pretending he was her nephew as she walked toward town. When they reached the edge of the safety area, she pointed him toward the American base. Before he left, he took off his ring and placed it in her hands. “To remember me.” Then, with tears in his eyes, he hugged her tightly one last time. He never forgot her, but decades later, when he finally returned, he found her too late; instead, he found her daughter. Holding her hands, he said, “Me Co saved my life. She was my mother. And you—you are her daughter. That makes you my sister.” The daughter told him that her last brother had died in 1975. Her mother had lived the rest of her life alone, missing her children and holding onto the memories of war. And the ring, she had never sold it. She had never lost it. “It was a piece of a life she saved. A reminder of love, even in war.” I sat there, listening to the radio, my heart full. I had learned about the war in school, but I had never learned about this love, about compassion, about forgiveness. Me Co had lost her own children to war, yet she had still saved the life of a soldier—one who had fought on the other side. She had looked past politics, past hatred, past grief. She had simply seen a person in need. That day, I realized that war does not make people enemies. It is fear, pain, and loss that divide us. But kindness—kindness has the power to bring us back together. Sometimes, when we talk about war, we focus on the bombs and the bullets, on everything that’s been destroyed or lost. But what resonates with me most in Me Co’s story isn’t the violence. It’s the warmth of her heart—the way she chose compassion over anger at a moment when most people would have chosen otherwise. I grew up understanding that Vietnamese mothers embody a special kind of love: it’s patient, unwavering, and, most of all, boundless. Even though Me Co had every reason to hate the soldier—he was, in a way, tied to the tragedy of her own sons—she saw past the uniform. She recognized a human being in pain. In that instant, she was not thinking of sides or politics; she was simply a mother who saw someone’s child in need of help. That choice to show mercy rather than vengeance taught me something profound: forgiveness isn’t about forgetting what happened; it’s about refusing to let bitterness define us. We can acknowledge the wounds inflicted by war while still reaching out with kindness. Me Co lost her sons, but she saved another mother’s son. In doing so, she proved that even in the midst of unimaginable hardship, our capacity for empathy can overcome our fears and our anger. This story reminds me of the quiet strength many Vietnamese mothers hold in their hearts: an instinct to protect and nurture life, regardless of who stands before them. It shows how a single act of compassion can bridge the gap between enemies, turning them into family, even if only briefly. That is what I carry with me: the knowledge that a mother’s love transcends borders, ideologies, and resentments. Rather than dwelling on the violence of war, Me Co chose love—a love that says, “Yes, we have suffered, but we will not pass on the suffering.” I will never forget her story, because it urges us to see beyond labels of “enemy” or “ally” and recognize the humanity underneath. In a world that so often chooses war, may we learn to choose love. Letting Go In 2000, my sister, Minh, decided to travel to Angkor Wat, Siem Reap, and Phnom Penh. She needed a companion, so I joined her on a tour group heading from Vietnam to Cambodia. Only later would we realize that half the people on this tour were veterans of the “forgotten war” in Cambodia. At nineteen, I was the youngest one on the bus, and my life was as uncomplicated as a blank sheet of paper. We began our journey by crossing the Tay Ninh border gate, and almost at once, everyone on the bus introduced themselves. Some explained they had come on a memorial trip—an opportunity to remember a time gone by and perhaps find closure. My sister and I hadn’t known we were joining what was essentially a commemorative pilgrimage. We simply wanted to see historic sites. One woman in particular caught my attention: Chi Ha, who looked to be in her early forties. She sat quietly near the front, her expression warm yet tinged with sadness. When she finally spoke, the entire bus fell silent to listen. “Chay di, chay di, giac Pol pot toi!” (Run, run! The Pol Pot soldiers are here!) Her voice trembled as she recalled that desperate warning, living near the border between An Giang Province (Vietnam) and Kandal and Takeo Province (Cambodia). One moonlit night, she said, terror swept through her village. People sprinted down the dirt road, bare feet slapping the ground, trying to escape the Khmer Rouge soldiers. The air was thick with panic-rushed whispers, muffled sobs, and the rustling of bodies pushing against each other. “No time to ask questions. No time to think. We just ran,” she said softly. She recounted how she and her sisters were separated in the chaos. Hiding in a bush, she cowered under branches that clawed her arms, fearing for her life. At dawn, she returned to unimaginable horror: the bodies of mutilated and dismembered men, women, children lay everywhere. She found her parents and sisters among the dead. I felt a knot tighten in my throat. My ears burned, and I noticed her polite smile give way to raw, heart-rending pain. My hand started sweating as I tried to absorb the shock of her words. After a long pause, I managed to ask in Vietnamese: “Chi Ha oi, chi bao nhieu tuoi luc do?” (How old were you back then?) “Muoi tam,” she replied. (Eighteen.) She was younger than I was at that time. Around us, people on the bus bowed their heads, silently honoring her lost family. Chi Ha continued the story. After losing her family, she joined the army to protect those living near the border. She had no time to grieve, no time to process what had happened. As she put it: “I was young, and so much had already occurred. I just kept moving forward.” Six months into her service, her platoon was ambushed by Pol Pot forces. One of her female comrades was captured. When they found this friend, she was lying on the ground—naked and brutally violated. But that wasn’t the worst of it. “They planted a bomb in her private parts,” Chi Ha said, her voice trembling. She and her team quickly backed away, horrified. Moments later, the bomb exploded, destroying her friend’s body even further. No one else was hurt physically, but the emotional impact was unforgettable. They stared at each other in numb shock, a coldness filling the air that words could never describe. I could barely breathe after hearing this. I looked around the bus, and every passenger wore a haunted expression. For a while, no one spoke. Finally, a man named Hung stood up and introduced himself, offering his own wartime experience. Others soon followed, sharing stories that delved deeper and deeper into darkness. Fear and overwhelming sadness welled up inside me until I could no longer listen. I pressed my hands over my ears, seeking some refuge from the horror. Yet, Minh, my older sister, continued listening intently—she was much braver than I was. We eventually arrived in Phnom Penh, each of us weighed down by what we had just heard. In the early afternoon, while the group checked into a hotel, I wanted to find Chi Ha. I still had questions about her decision to return to a place filled with such horrific memories. Minh noticed me slipping away and tried to stop me: “Un, em dung hoi nua, se lam chi ay buon.” (Un, don’t ask more questions; it’ll only make her sad.) But when Minh got distracted, I approached Chi Ha anyway. She was sitting by the lobby window, gazing out at the busy streets of Phnom Penh. I sat next to her and asked quietly: “Chi Ha oi, tai sao chi lai quay lai Campuchia? Chi khong so nhung ky uc kia se tro ve hay sao?” (Why come back here? Aren’t you afraid those terrible memories will haunt you again?) She gave me a gentle smile. Despite the pain in her past, her face still held an almost radiant kindness—like a white daisy in full bloom. “Chien tranh do da ket thuc tu lau, nhung voi chi, duong nhu moi hom qua,” she said. “Dem nao chi cung mo thay canh ay. Cang lon tuoi, chi lai cang nho ro moi chuyen. Chi va nhung nguoi dong doi da tham gia vao cuoc chien do- due phai dau tranh voi ky uc. Nhieu dem tui chi khong ngu duoc, nho dong doi, nho gia dinh.” She paused, then added: “Chi tro de hy vong co the buong bo phan nao. Bang cach nhin dat nuoc cua ho, nhin nguoi dan cua ho, va cam thong cho ho. Ho con kho hon minh nhieu.” It means: “The war ended a long time ago, but to me, it still feels like yesterday,” she said. “Every night, I dream of those scenes. The older I get, the clearer everything becomes. I—and those who fought alongside me— have to struggle with these memories. Many nights, I can’t sleep, thinking about my comrades, thinking about my family.” She paused, then added: “I returned here hoping I could let go, even just a little. By seeing their country, seeing their people, and feeling compassion for them, I realize they suffered even more than we did.” I swallowed hard. “Chi co chac la lam vay se hieu qua khong?” “Chi khong biet,” she admitted, “nhung chi se thu bat cu cach nao de giam bot nhung ky uc kinh khung ay.” Just then, she mentioned that some in the group planned a visit to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum that evening: “Em co muon di khong?” (Do you want to come along?) Before I could answer, Minh stepped up behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder: “Em ay se khong di dau,” she said firmly. “Nhung em thi se di.” After dinner, I lay on my hotel bed, unable to sleep. Images of the day’s conversations spun in my head: Chi Ha’s story, the bomb trap, the families lost to violence, and the old veterans who bowed in silence. I remembered the words of those who returned home with their bodies intact and how many of them carried pain that words couldn’t express. It was a pilgrimage of sorts, where survivors confronted their past. As I thought about Chi Ha’s resolve to “face her nightmares,” I wondered if that was the only way to truly move on. Could revisiting the place of trauma help one heal? Minh returned late from the museum. She sank onto the bed with a long, heavy sigh and didn’t say a word. She hardly slept for months afterward. Those stories have stayed with me ever since. They were dark and overwhelming, yet they opened my eyes to a reality I’d never known. War leaves scars not just on bodies but on hearts and minds—scars that can last a lifetime. Seeing how people like Chi Ha and my sister Minh chose to face those memories made me realize that “letting go” isn’t simple. Sometimes, you have to stand right in front of the past—in the very places where it happened—to begin releasing it. Whether it truly works or not, the act of trying is, in itself, a form of courage. And that, perhaps, is how people carry on. Chiếc đũa và cây tăm “The Chopstick and the Toothpick” In 2005, I got a call from Tinh Mahamony, a longtime family friend. He told me to pick him and his friends up at Tan Son Nhat Airport at 6 p.m. Vietnam time. I had no idea who his friends were, what they were doing here, or even that they were coming. Turns out, he had planned this trip with my sister Minh, but, being Tinh, he had given her the wrong arrival date. Panicked, I grabbed my sister, and we jumped on my motorbike, racing to the airport just ten minutes away from our house. When we got there, Minh darted off to find them, leaving me waiting by the bike, scanning the crowd. That’s when I first saw them. A tall, skinny high-school-looking boy stood awkwardly with a cowboy-hat-wearing man next to him. The second man looked like he had just stepped out of an American Western movie. Beside them was a beautiful girl with striking blonde hair, and of course, Tinh, short, dark-skinned, and stocky—100 percent unmistakably Vietnamese. They came back to our house in the Go Vap District to drop off their bags and meet my family. My sister took a taxi with them while I rode my motorbike back home, feeling puzzled and curious about these new guests. I had just graduated from university with an English degree, but within minutes of listening to them talk, I realized something horrifying—I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Their accents were nothing like my Vietnamese teacher’s English. I forgot their names two minutes after they introduced themselves, so in my head, I labeled them High School Boy, Cowboy, and Blonde Girl—easier to remember. Tinh and my sister invited me to hang out with them, but I didn’t see the point. I didn’t know what they were doing, and I couldn’t speak English well enough to join their conversations. Not interested. A few days later, Minh came back laughing about something that had happened. “You should come with us; they’re really fun! Besides, you can practice your English.” She told me about the High School Boy crying after eating a banh mi because he couldn’t handle chili! I knew I had to see this myself. (Vietnamese chili—10 times spicier than American chili.) Then, she mentioned they needed help with paperwork for the government. Since I had just graduated, this could be a great opportunity for me to gain some practical work experience before finding a permanent job. I agreed immediately. But I had a plan. I decided I would teach High School Boy all the bad words and trick him into saying them. Cowboy looked too serious to mess with, and Blonde Girl was too sweet. But High School Boy was my target. It took me a week to remember their names—Lucas, Kate, and Jason. But by then, Lucas and I had already made a funny discovery: we both thought the other was still in high school. One afternoon, Lucas casually asked, “So, when do you graduate?” I laughed. “I already did!” His eyes widened. “Wait…you’re not in high school?!” I smirked. “Nope. But I thought you were!” We stared at each other in shock before bursting into laughter. From then on, Lucas became “High School Boy” and I was “Little Kid.” Before starting our work, we spent a few days traveling together. Everywhere we went, people stared and whispered. At a market, an old woman laughed and called out, “Chiếc đũa và cây tăm!” I turned to Lucas, “She called us the Chopstick and the Toothpick!” Lucas burst out laughing, “Because I’m tall and you’re tiny!” From that moment, the nickname stuck. What started as a misunderstanding quickly blossomed into friendship. Over the next four days, we traveled together along dusty roads, explored the Mekong River, wandered through the cool hills of Dalat, and eventually returning to Binh Thuan Province. As we journeyed, laughing and learning about each other, I sensed this trip would change me—I just didn’t yet know how deeply. Once the real work began, my job was to scout locations for schools and identify families in need of scholarships for their children. The organization aimed to build one or two schools each year, focusing on villages where young children, ages three to five, needed preschool facilities so their parents could work on local farms. Additionally, we provided 30 scholarships annually for promising students from impoverished families who couldn’t afford school fees. Without such assistance, many of these students would have been forced to stop studying and enter the workforce prematurely. Our first school was built in 2005 in Ma Lam, and we were searching for two more locations in Thien Nghiep, Binh Thuan Province. Lucas and I spent hours on the motorbike, riding through villages, meeting families, and making sure the government had chosen places that actually needed schools. In 1969, a young man named Ron Brown was drafted into the Vietnam War at the age of 20. His lottery number was called, and just like that, his fate was decided—he would go to war. They sent him to Da Nang, where he was stationed at Orange Air Base. The experience changed him in ways he never expected. The violence, the fear, the destruction—it was too much. When he finally returned home, he vowed never to set foot in Vietnam again. And yet, a part of him never left. The memories haunted him for decades. Years later, while attending a conference hosted by Lucas’s company in Chicago, Ron met Tinh-a, a Vietnamese American musician who gave a talk about the Village Foundation School, a project building schools and providing scholarships to rural Vietnamese children. Moved by the mission, Ron made a heartfelt donation to help fund a new school. He wanted to leave behind something good—something that brought healing instead of pain. But Ron didn’t just send money. He sent something far more personal: his dog tag from the war. It was a small piece of metal, weathered and worn, a reminder of who he had once been. He asked Lucas to bury it at the school site once construction was complete. The school was built in 2006, in a rural village in Binh Thuan Province. When the construction was done, our team returned to hand over the keys to the local teachers and the government officials. Our job was officially complete. But before we left, Lucas did something I’ll never forget. He bent down near the entrance of the school and dug a small hole beneath the first step. Slowly, he took the dog tag from around his neck and placed it gently on the ground. Then, without saying a word, he covered it with sand. I stared at him. “What are you doing?” He smiled, but his eyes looked far away. “Leaving something behind,” he said softly. At that moment, I realized he was burying more than just a small piece of metal. It was the legacy of a soldier, a piece of his mentor’s history, quietly becoming part of the foundation for a new beginning. Later, Ron received photos of the finished school: the painted walls, the children laughing, the teachers smiling as they opened classrooms doors. He never stepped foot in Vietnam again, but in that moment, seeing what had been built, he found a small kind of peace. A few years later, Lucas received another message, this time from Ron’s family. Ron had passed away after a battle with cancer, which was caused by exposure to Agent Orange at the very base where he had once served. The war had taken him, not with bullets, but with the silent poison that lingered long after the last shot was fired. When Lucas told me Ron’s story, I sat in silence for a long time. I had always seen war from my own side—the suffering of my people, the loss, the pain. But for the first time, I understood that the pain of war had reached far beyond my country’s borders. Ron had suffered, too. And yet, he chose to turn his pain into purpose. He planted something in the soil of a country he once feared and helped bring education, laughter, and hope to the next generation. His final act was not one of destruction, but of healing. That is the legacy of a soldier. Over the next few years, we built five more schools and expanded our scholarship program, helping even more students from poor families continue their education. During that time, something else quietly blossomed between us. The Chopstick and the Toothpick—as everyone jokingly called us—slowly began to fall in love. Even though Lucas returned to the U.S. after each visit, he came back to Vietnam every three months, staying for one to two weeks each time. With every visit, our connection grew stronger. We explored dusty villages by motorbike, laughed over roadside meals, and shared quiet moments watching the sun set over rice fields and the ocean. What started as a funny nickname became something much deeper: partnership, trust, and love. In December 2007, on Christmas Eve, we were married in a small but deeply meaningful ceremony in Vietnam. Lucas’s family and longtime friends flew in from the U.S. to be part of it, and they joined hands with my own family in a celebration where West met East, American warmth blending with the beauty of a traditional Vietnamese wedding. We wore ao dai and suits and shared laughter over tea and rice wine. It wasn’t just a wedding; it was a promise, rooted in two cultures, to build something bigger than ourselves. A few months later, I moved to the United States—not just to start a new life with Lucas, but to carry forward the mission we had come to share: to keep building hope, one school at a time. In 2008, I moved from Vietnam to Bend, Oregon. After settling in for a couple of months, I decided to host a dinner and invite my neighbors over to introduce myself to the community. That night, I met Noah and Lisa, a couple around Ron Brown’s age. Throughout the meal, Noah asked me many questions about Vietnam. Near the end, he stood up and bowed to me, a polite gesture that took me by surprise, considering I was much younger. “I am very sorry for what we did to your country,” he said, voice sincere. “I was studying at a naval school when the war in Vietnam started. They wanted me to go, but I refused. I thought the war was wrong—it didn’t benefit my country or its people. So I ran away and hid in the forests between Canada and the U.S. for two years. Of course, my reputation suffered. Eventually, I changed my career and became a lawyer. But still, I’m sorry for what we did.” I was stunned. First, he was a successful lawyer; second, he hadn’t actually gone to war; and third, he was apologizing even though he never personally fought in Vietnam. It happened so fast that I didn’t know how to respond at first. Yet in that moment, I saw another side to this complicated history—people who refused to fight because they believed the war was unjust, people who bore social consequences for that choice, and people who still feel regret about what happened. Between Ron Brown’s story of healing and Noah’s admission of guilt for a war he never fought, my perspective on Vietnam’s past continued to broaden. War scars everyone in different ways—those who fight, those who choose not to, and those born into its aftermath. Each person’s story weaves into a larger tapestry of suffering, regret, compassion, and ultimately, hope. For me, building schools in Vietnam and hearing heartfelt apologies in Oregon are two sides of the same goal: to move forward—not by forgetting the past, but by transforming it into lessons for a more peaceful future. Yet, woven through the sorrows and horrors were acts of extraordinary compassion: a Vietnamese mother risking her life to save a wounded American soldier, a simple ring that became a bridge between enemies-turned-family, and the heartfelt apology from someone who once refused to fight in an unjust war. Each story reminded me that we are not bound to repeat the tragedies of the past. We can choose empathy over anger, forgiveness over resentment. I hold onto these stories because they show that, even when fear and suffering feel overwhelming, love can still triumph. For every bomb that was dropped, there was also someone who offered a meal to a stranger. For every lost son, there was a mother like Me Co who saw beyond politics and chose to rescue a life instead of turning it away. We need more peace in this world. We can’t erase the tragedies that shaped our families or the scars left behind, but we can break the cycle. We can look at those once called “enemies” and recognize our shared humanity. We can remember that a single act of kindness, like hiding a wounded stranger or building a school, can begin to mend what war has torn apart. So I invite you to carry these lessons forward with me. Let us plant the seeds of understanding wherever we can, choosing empathy instead of hatred. That is how we honor the past—not by letting bitterness define us, but by turning pain into the courage to love more boldly. Peace is not just an ideal—it’s a decision made one act of compassion at a time. And if enough of us choose it, perhaps we can give future generations something truly priceless: a world where the echoes of war are replaced by the sound of hearts that refuse to harden. Author Bio When Chan isn’t cooking or writing, she’s sharing stories from her colorful childhood in Phan Thiet, a coastal town in Vietnam. Born in 1980, she grew up observing neighbors returning from the Cambodian war, quietly witnessing the echoes of conflict. At age seven, she found her favorite hiding spot—a mango tree—where she escaped chores and watched the world unfold below. While working on rural school-building projects for an American NGO in her early thirties, she met a lanky American philanthropist. They married, raising two daughters between Portland, Oregon, and Vietnam. Though stories always lived inside her, dyslexia made writing intimidating—even in Vietnamese. With determination, she now writes to express what’s often left unspoken. Off the page, you might spot her at Portland’s Asian markets or smuggling fish sauce into an Italian restaurant. Chan brings heart, humor, and deep insight to everything she touches—especially the lives around her.