Here, in this little space in Faezine, I get to share a little personal bit about me, free to explore and reflect. And on this rainy day in Los Angeles, I ponder my past.

Let me share with you a story that begins with...

Once upon a time, a small nation was plunged into civil war, leaving its people poor, dying, desperate. To escape, hundreds and thousands of people fled the country, risking death for the promise of safety in the golden country, any country but Vietnam.

My family was among them. Twice we failed.

I was four years old when we tried again and what memories I have of that night are family folklore, retold by my grandmother over and over again through the years.

In the dark of the night, we hid along the seaside of a small village. Out in the water is a tiny fishing boat that my mother used the last of her gold to build just for this occasion. Around us is the fear of being caught. We waited all night for the boat to come.

My mother was already imprisoned for her last attempt.

(Editor's note: We invite you to read the first installment of Donny's amazing personal story in the Spring 09 issue of Faezine)

How long were we out at sea?  With every re-telling, the days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months.  

My grandmother had a very special way of telling stories.  She was always focused on the characters, the people involved, and their relationships to each other.  She wasn't very interested in the actual plot of the story.  Most of the time, while listening to her, I became lost in the tangle of relationships, who married whom and who begot whom, felt frustrated, and walked away before she got to the point of the story.  It wasn't until years later that I finally understood; the people were the point of the stories.  

We were at sea for just a week, maybe two...or three...

My mother's money might have helped build the boat, but that didn't give us any extra privilege.

My grandmother, infant sister, and I were relegated to one of the overcrowded holds below deck.  I was crammed against my grandmother in that dark, makeshift box, our knees knocking against our neighbors'.    That boat wasn't well made.  It floated and you could only hope that it stayed afloat.    

I had a dream during the voyage.  My mother took me to a lovely salon and treated me to a comforting shampoo, my head massaged gently by expert hands.  I woke up with my head in inches of water, my hair floating around me.  Did all boats have a layer of water inside them?  It sloshed about, back and forth, back and forth.

The food ran out pretty quickly.  Because of the baby, my grandmother brought a small stash of canned condensed milk with her.  Soon, we were down to one can of milk.  It took her awhile to punch holes in the can, but she succeeded and gave the can to the baby.  However, my sister was too young, only four months I believe, and not strong enough to suck the thick milk out.  She got frustrated and threw the can across the hold.

Immediately, the adults in the room scrambled for the can and drank all the milk.  My baby sister cried from hunger while my grandmother screamed at the so-called adults to give the baby back her milk.  When the can returned to us, there wasn't more than a mouthful left.

Among the milk-stealing crowd were two of my younger uncles, distant relatives really, but my grandmother always spoke about them bitterly and never made up with that side of the family.

Everyone must have been very hungry.  I don't remember eating on that boat, except once.

There was never any daylight or fresh air where we were, and no way to move about, but I managed to make my way above-deck.  Our boat must have been hiding among ... I don't know... swampy, inlet, islandy area...at the time.  Keep in mind I was four years old.  My memory was strong and clear, but it's the memory of a four year old who lacked understanding or knowledge.  

I remember looking around and seeing an abundance of tiny mounds of land with overgrowth of mangroves and shrubs, and snaking throughout was clear water.  Rich, everything was rich.  The greenery was lush and thick with life.  It felt like early morning and spring.  We traveled so close; I could reach out and grab a fistful of leaves.

Somehow, I had gotten my hands on an almond.  At least, in my memory, it's an almond.  It's certainly a nut, and I especially remember it being an almond, a really big one, and almond shaped, so big it took my two hands to hold it properly. A mythic almond.

Someone, possibly another distant relative, had pity on me and gave it to me.  Do you know how much food, how much energy, is in an almond?  How much food is an almond when you're starving?

I bit into the almond and, yech, was it bitter!  I took that almond and threw it as far as I could, into the mangrove thicket.  It was another twenty years before I could eat almonds again.

(To be continued)

By Donny Ha Corsentino

Common Dreams

"I am Donny Ha Corsentino, wife of Joseph Corsentino of Time of the Faeries. You may have heard from me, if not of me. I'm the chatty one of us, the pencil pusher behind Time of the Faeries, the stylist, the marketer, the promoter, the everything else girl.

Here, in this little space in Faezine, I get to share a little personal bit about me, free to explore and reflect..."

Donny has been a member of Enchanted Folk since December 2007

members.enchantedfolk.com/timeofthefaeries