I wrote this book when I was also
doing research in Siem Reap.
And every time I go to the home of my ancestors
I always feel like my relationship
to the place changes.
And I know that I have changed as well.
The first time I went there as an adult was in 2010
and I was there for the Water Festival.
And I didn't go out at night when
the fireworks were happening.
I just ordered room service, but then the next morning I
found out that there was a human stampede that
happened on the bridge to Diamond Island.
So this is a poem about that experience.
''Americans Dancing in the Heart of Darkness''.
''It's the Water Festival.
The city is a crowd.
My skin full of sun, like so many country people
who have come to Phnom Penh.
The Americans hate me and I hate them,
but they're the only students with me
and maybe I'm American too.
When I returned to my windowless room at the Golden Gate Hotel,
I order fresh young coconut, a club sandwich and French fries.
A woman with a bruised face and a silver tray walks up seven
floors, knocks on my door.
The exchange students order room service too.
And the same woman walks the flights
of stairs nine more times.
Fireworks crackle and I think, I'll
be back to the same festival with my family.
In the morning, 30 missed calls.
There has been a human stampede on the bridge to Kopech.
347 reported dead, 755 injured.
Shoes litter the river.
The exchange program advises us to stay away
from Diamond Island.
The prime minister's remarks, this
is the worst thing to happen since the Khmer Rouge.
The Americans agree.
I grow quiet in my windowless room.
I step outside for air.
The city, a crowd, disappearing.
The crowd evacuated to the provinces.
Cambodia, a perpetual stampede.
School canceled at the University.
A funerary ceremony instead.
Do the Americans understand the program director
when she tells us her neighbor's son has died?
Most likely not.
Later that evening, they still don't understand
but I go with them anyway to the Heart of Darkness.
The nightclub empty, but open.
We dance with Khmer boys, strobe lights
pull us on the floor this way, that.
Our feet grope the shiny black tiles
reflecting the bar where old expats sit
with Khmer women making money.
Yeah, yeah, it isn't expensive to get here or get back.
We took a tuk-tuk and we danced.
They laugh.
Meanwhile, my mother calls me.
My father calls me.
My auntie calls me from Prey Veng.
My uncle down the street from the hotel.
My uncle in Kandal.
My cousin's uncle in Siem Reap.''