Bunkong Tuon | After Seeing the Photo of the Drowning Deaths of Migrant Oscar Alberto Martinez Ramirez and his nearly 2-year-old daughter, Valeria | Poets Resist

Bunkong Tuon is a Cambodian-American writer, critic, professor, and, most importantly, father. He is the author of Gruel (NYQ Books, 2015), And So I Was Blessed (NYQ Books, 2017), and Dead Tongue (with Joanna C. Valente, forthcoming from Yes Poetry), as well as a contributor to Cultural Weekly. Nominated for the Pushcart numerous times, his poetry recently won the 2019 Nasiona Nonfiction Poetry Prize. He has completed a book of poems about raising his daughter in contemporary America. He is an associate professor of English and Asian Studies at Union College in Schenectady, NY.

Bunkong Tuon on Twitter

Also by Bunkong Tuon: Gruel And So I Was Blessed Confession of a Tiger Dad

Previously in Glass: A Journal of Poetry: A Pattern Too Familiar

Poets Resist
Edited by Kanika Lawton
June 30, 2019

Bunkong Tuon

After Seeing the Photo of the Drowning Deaths of Migrant Oscar Alberto Martinez Ramirez and his nearly 2-year-old daughter, Valeria

The summer morning was eclipsed. The coffee was bitter and weak. The toast tasted like sandpaper. The eggs were watery and salty. I felt my cholesterol skyrocketing again and blood pressure shooting through the roof. I put on my glasses to see my daughter’s face, memorize the smile on the curve of her lips, her head tilted to the side, her moon face like mine. I marked the voice my wife wishes she could bottle up and save for old age. I brought my daughter a cheese sandwich with milk, bent down to plant a kiss on top of her head. At work, I couldn’t concentrate on my lecture, had difficulty answering student questions, and skipped a campus-wide faculty meeting. There was a long line at the gas station. Some lady in yoga pants rear-ended me. I got ticketed for going 35 in a 25-MPH zone. My wife called to ask what was wrong with me. At home, I jumped out of the car, skipped the steps, burst through the door, ran across the living room. I got down on my knees, wrapped my arms around my daughter, and whispered those three little words I rarely use, words that never felt so right and true.

I'm submitting a poem in response to the news of the drowning deaths of a migrant father and his nearly two-year-old daughter. After reading this news story and seeing the viral photo of the drowned father and his daughter, I couldn't concentrate on anything else but this father and his little girl. I remember coming home that day and holding my daughter tightly, telling her how much I love her.