vince, the Burmese

My best friend Emmy Geraghty wrote a poem for me. After reading the poem, I feel like everything in the poem just happened again.

Behind Woods Hall, Myo and I sit at a picnic table.
He’s never smoked a cigarette, and he’s never had sex.
“People don’t have sex in Burma. They just don’t.”
I pull a squished box of long Camels out of my jean pocket
and explain how that isn’t possible.

“People have to have sex in Burma, Myo.
If they are having babies, then they’re having sex.”
I put a cigarette in my mouth and hand the box to him.
He touches the silver lining with his fingertips
and gently pulls a cigarette out. He holds it up to his eye
like a telescope, staring with one eye at the filter.

“People have sex but not until marriage.
People keep their virginities.”
He slides it in his mouth and lets the paper stick to his lips.
He glares at me as if he’s the Asian James Dean.
“Don’t call me Myo, my name is VINCE.”

I laugh. He pushes his long black hair in front of his eyes, to look mysterious.
He pulls his phone out of skinny jeans and snaps a blurry picture of himself.
“Why? Vince is not your name.” I say his full name in a stereotypical accent.
MYO MYINT AUNG. I light my cigarette and exhale.
“Vince is young and fresh. People don’t know how to say Myo.
I want to put this on Facebook to show my friends in Burma.
In Burma we do not even have internet in our houses.
It’s very expensive.” I hold up the lighter and he leans toward the flame.

He blinks repeatedly, not sure what to do. I take a deep breath
and he does the same; coughing and laughing.
“You look like a badass, Vince. Say something bad-ass.”
He hands me his phone and points to a little red button
to record a video of him. I count down from three.

“Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”
I slap my knee and almost fall out of my chair.
“No, no no! Smoking is bad for you.”
He puts out the cigarette. I slap his hand; a waste.
”Delete that, delete that! I don’t want my friends to see.”

Written by Emmy Geraghty.