prejudice: rioters who burn our shops and administrators who stereotype our students and embittered veterans who call us slopes.”
“You’re right,” Viet said after considering his answer several seconds. “I couldn’t get into law school even with straight A’s. Not in California. And it’s the most progressive state in the union.”
“That won’t happen to our daughters.”
“It won’t,” Viet said. “My parents worked themselves to early deaths trying to make a new life for us. They thought they could escape oppression and poverty by coming to a new land.”
“Mine thought they could live the good life in the Midwest,” the woman added, “but all they got was bored. And unemployed.”
“We’re going to do it right for our children. With these people.”
Now Linh said as she pointed toward canvas-covered stacks of crates sitting beside the LCVP. “Are those ours too?”
“And everything,” Viet said, “stored in the two cargo holds, along with everything on the boat. Except for the captain and the crew.”
The woman said nothing as she sat beside her husband, holding his hand. Low-moving clouds obscured the moon and a strong headwind occasionally sprayed a mist of salt-water across the deck as the couple enjoyed the peace. Both husband and wife looked to the sea and their own thoughts as they held hands without talking.
Only after several minutes did the woman break the silence. “What do you expect?” she asked.
“Good people,” her husband answered, “who want to do the right thing. Who live moral lives and care for the world around them.”
“Do you know what I want?”
Viet shook his head.
“I want a life,” Linh said, “where race is never mentioned.”
“We all have eyes.”
“And,” Linh said with a nod, “we all have hearts and minds too. I want to live with people who’d rather read a book than its cover.”
“You have your wish. These people are such a mix of nationalities and races and religions that it’d be impossible to fix a stereotype. If diversity is enough to make a good society, we’ll have the world we’ve always wanted.”
“I’m glad we came,” Linh said, “to a truly new world.”
A few minutes later, the couple retired. As their two daughters finally slept, Linh slipped into a nightgown and lay beside one of them as Viet removed his shirt and took a place on a narrow cot across the room.
A barrel-chested man with thinning, gray hair sat on stacked crates in a decorated hold, sipping a bottle of imported lager. A black-haired woman with high cheekbones and narrow eyes sat beside him as rap music played across the room and dozens of people added to the din with loud talk and raucous laughter. The man focused his attention on the narrow-hipped woman.
“It’s really paradoxical,” the man said, “when it’s considered.”
The narrow-hipped woman laughed. “It is.”
“We have a Russian crew commanded by an American captain being paid in Eurodollars to deliver a hundred benefactors of Anglo-European industrial capitalism to a socialist tropical paradise.”
“One hundred and two,” the woman said.
“Lenin must be rolling over in his tomb.”
“I thought it was Beethoven who rolled in his grave. I’d pay uninflated rubles to see Lenin turn in that glass coffin.”
“Very witty.”
Both laughed as the man drank from his dark bottle of lager and the woman sipped white wine.
“Incidentally,” the man said, “I’m Charles Marks. That’s my wife across the room. In the red dress.”
The woman extended her hand. A small diamond glittered from her left hand.
“I’m Deidra Smith.”
“Children?”
“Someday, I hope,” the woman answered. “How about you?”
“One daughter,” Charles replied. “She’s a high-school senior. Probably sitting in her cabin right now contemplating Plato’s eternal forms or Kant’s transcendent categories. She’s not much for parties.”
“I’ve haven’t talked to you for
“You’re right,” Viet said after considering his answer several seconds. “I couldn’t get into law school even with straight A’s. Not in California. And it’s the most progressive state in the union.”
“That won’t happen to our daughters.”
“It won’t,” Viet said. “My parents worked themselves to early deaths trying to make a new life for us. They thought they could escape oppression and poverty by coming to a new land.”
“Mine thought they could live the good life in the Midwest,” the woman added, “but all they got was bored. And unemployed.”
“We’re going to do it right for our children. With these people.”
Now Linh said as she pointed toward canvas-covered stacks of crates sitting beside the LCVP. “Are those ours too?”
“And everything,” Viet said, “stored in the two cargo holds, along with everything on the boat. Except for the captain and the crew.”
The woman said nothing as she sat beside her husband, holding his hand. Low-moving clouds obscured the moon and a strong headwind occasionally sprayed a mist of salt-water across the deck as the couple enjoyed the peace. Both husband and wife looked to the sea and their own thoughts as they held hands without talking.
Only after several minutes did the woman break the silence. “What do you expect?” she asked.
“Good people,” her husband answered, “who want to do the right thing. Who live moral lives and care for the world around them.”
“Do you know what I want?”
Viet shook his head.
“I want a life,” Linh said, “where race is never mentioned.”
“We all have eyes.”
“And,” Linh said with a nod, “we all have hearts and minds too. I want to live with people who’d rather read a book than its cover.”
“You have your wish. These people are such a mix of nationalities and races and religions that it’d be impossible to fix a stereotype. If diversity is enough to make a good society, we’ll have the world we’ve always wanted.”
“I’m glad we came,” Linh said, “to a truly new world.”
A few minutes later, the couple retired. As their two daughters finally slept, Linh slipped into a nightgown and lay beside one of them as Viet removed his shirt and took a place on a narrow cot across the room.
A barrel-chested man with thinning, gray hair sat on stacked crates in a decorated hold, sipping a bottle of imported lager. A black-haired woman with high cheekbones and narrow eyes sat beside him as rap music played across the room and dozens of people added to the din with loud talk and raucous laughter. The man focused his attention on the narrow-hipped woman.
“It’s really paradoxical,” the man said, “when it’s considered.”
The narrow-hipped woman laughed. “It is.”
“We have a Russian crew commanded by an American captain being paid in Eurodollars to deliver a hundred benefactors of Anglo-European industrial capitalism to a socialist tropical paradise.”
“One hundred and two,” the woman said.
“Lenin must be rolling over in his tomb.”
“I thought it was Beethoven who rolled in his grave. I’d pay uninflated rubles to see Lenin turn in that glass coffin.”
“Very witty.”
Both laughed as the man drank from his dark bottle of lager and the woman sipped white wine.
“Incidentally,” the man said, “I’m Charles Marks. That’s my wife across the room. In the red dress.”
The woman extended her hand. A small diamond glittered from her left hand.
“I’m Deidra Smith.”
“Children?”
“Someday, I hope,” the woman answered. “How about you?”
“One daughter,” Charles replied. “She’s a high-school senior. Probably sitting in her cabin right now contemplating Plato’s eternal forms or Kant’s transcendent categories. She’s not much for parties.”
“I’ve haven’t talked to you for
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