This is perhaps one of the few poems that I've written that is completely about one sole incident. GIVING MY NEIGHBOR A RIDE TO HER JOB I emerge out of 103 at the same time she comes out of 106. The hallways are full of blondes whitewashing the walls. Neither of us has seen this many white people in the building before. Has the gentrification already hit this side of Dale, in the middle of the night, did someone plant a bomb that exploded with blonde people while we slept? One of them tells me that it's the U of M's women's rowing team, here to do some volunteer work. My neighbor asks me for a ride to work, usually her husband comes home around the time she has to leave so she can use the car, but today he is stranded with a grumpy alternator. She is Somali. I am Vietnamese. How long have you been here? Between us this is not offensive. 5 years. You? 26 years. She speaks English like my mother. Her son will speak English like me. She likes it here in Minnesota. I don't have the heart to tell her that her son probably won't. We do not discuss the word refugee. Somalia, Viet Nam, both far away, both missed, in the clumsiest English. In the theatres, Black Hawk Down and We Were Soldiers. One day she will have to tell her son that he doesn't have to be like Joshua Harnett to be a hero. If I ever have a daughter I will have to tell her that she will not have to love Mel Gibson to be beautiful. Words fill my car. Somehow, together here, they are not broken. 2002

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