Thao hides a stack of lined paper behind her open MacBook and scribbles notes with the ballpoint pen held firmly in her small, strong fingers. She has always preferred writing by hand, but it seems so archaic, especially in public. The author looks disconcertedly at her uninspired drizzles. She’d expected that in light of her recent misfortunes, some useful material would at least present itself to her, but Thao’s mind and feelings are dry. In place of what should be tumultuous rage, sorrow or fear lies only an acute agitation. Of all the desired elements in Thao’s life, both fulfilled and unfulfilled, he was supposed to be a sure thing. The sex was never very good, but what about all those years? Endless hours of talk, listless exchanges about the news and social issues and workplace politics, verbal acknowledgements of their compatibility, their shared interests, their agreed upon views and their congruous daily routines–all of it, a waste. Perhaps Anthony was never fit to be her lover, but he was a deeply suitable life companion.

“She didn’t care.” Anthony had remarked tenderly. “She wanted me. It didn’t matter to her what I do, or how much I make. She didn’t even know.”

“Of course not.” Thao retorted, “She’s a mid-thirties sales associate. A moron. She’s probably sick of being cheated on by bodybuilders and thought she’d try a nice, stable guy for once.” Thao almost laughed. “I bet she didn’t even know you were married.”

“She didn’t,” Anthony responded.

So, that’s what he wants. Their love was a comforting one, built on top a solid foundation of commitment and reason. Deep down, Thao had known it was missing something, but for her, lasting companionship is a fair trade for capricious passions. The mistake was in believing she was the only one who had compromised. Well, it looks now that Anthony hasn’t after all. Thao moves her pen point onto the next bullet: how to raise a human being. This one causes her raw and acknowledged pain. What is wrong with An? Her daughter has so many friends, gets good grades, takes great care of her health and appearance, but there’s something deeply lacking.

Thao didn’t need to pry. An’s bedroom door was wide open when she guided Kyle’s hand up her skirt. And when the teen caught sight of her mother’s look, she only giggled, unashamed, and firmly shut the door, leaving Thao halted in the hallway with a laundry basket in her hands. That was Sophie’s boyfriend. Sophie, An’s cousin, and her best friend. Sophie, who had just spent the night; Sophie, who’s in nearly every photo on An’s Instagram and whom An had taught to put her hair in a messy top bun. Thao later confronted her daughter. She’s haunted by the image of An’s clear and shimmery complexion neatly contoured with bronzer, her dark, clumpless lashes that hid the glint of mockery in her eyes, and her sticky plump lips, which emitted that pretty and assuring laugh. “We were planning Sophie’s birthday,” An restated for the third time. Thao blanched. She quivered with rage and disbelief. Her daughter drew down the corners of her mouth so that she resembled an emoticon or one of those expressions charts at the doctor’s office, “Aw, Mom. You look stressed.” She tucked a piece of Thao’s hair behind her ear. “Is it Dad?” Blow one: her daughter’s betrayal to her friend. Blow two: the absence of trust in her mother. Blow three: the ease with which she carries her fully cognizant cruelty. The writer recalls Pierre Bezukhov’s horrific realization about his wife: “I did not understand her, did not understand that everlasting composure and complacency, the lack of any sort of predilections or desires, and the whole solution to the enigma lay in that terrible word depravity”; except Thao feels tenfold the heartache and responsibility for her child.

She spots a figure approaching in her peripheral. Another Gen Z, like An. He’s a lanky, dark-toned young man with a mild slouch and a brave but unobtrusive expression. Rami, one arm wrapped around a notebook, extends the other to shake Thao’s hand.

“Hi, hi. So nice to meet you,” he says in the friendly, gracious tone that’s appropriate to idealistic young people in addressing their predecessors.

Thao imitates warmth without caring whether it passes. “Hi, take a seat.”

Rami sits, withdraws an iPhone from his baggy pocket and sets it on the table. Thao’s eyes dart to the equipment.

“I have your permission to record, right?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, let’s get started then,” Rami states with casual authority. He opens his notebook and locates the right page. “This is Rami Said, and I’m here with writer and former US Poet Laureate, Thao Peterson–well, she was Thao Tran then. Thao, I’d like to thank you for granting me the time for this interview.”

Thao smiles thinly. “Sure. You wrote a very nice LinkedIn message, and I couldn’t refuse someone from my hometown,” she says with artificial cheeriness.

“Lincoln Heights. You still come around ever?”

“It’s been a while,” Thao admits.

An expression of judgment passes over Rami’s face but quickly fades. “So I’m a loyal fan of your work. You obviously have an impressive biography.” He lists, “You were raised by a single mother in a neighborhood ridden with gang violence, but you managed to stay drug-free and attended UC Berkeley. You then went on to publish impactful works about various civil rights issues including statements on Rodney King, Anita Hill, and Romer vs. Evans. You hold the record for being the youngest U.S. Poet Laureate in history–you were 36–and the first Asian American to be appointed the position.”

Thao nods, smiling, though she she still turns pink when faced with flattery, never having shaken the accustomed Asian humility.

“One of your first poems to gain public recognition was Memorial, a letter to your deceased brother, who died at fourteen in a gang-related crime. You were eight at the time of his death, but the poem wasn’t written until twelve years later. Could you talk about the delayed process? Is it that you needed time to grasp what happened? Did you remember or understand things differently with time?” Rami’s emotional attachment to the question reveals his novice nature.

Thao tilts her head. “I’d actually attempted writing down my feelings many, many times,” she says reasonably. “But yeah, nothing was ever clear to me. I was deeply devastated at eight, but I couldn’t understand the permanence of his absence–how long it would feel; how long it still feels. And, I was angry.” She raises her eyebrows. “It was the only way I knew how to cling to any power. I rejoiced every time I heard another gang member was killed. I wanted them all dead, and I prayed for it every night.” Thao pauses. She redirects her focus and states. “My brother had killed two people before getting shot himself.” Her look holds somber but august acceptance. “He had killed two brothers, sons or fathers, and then someone else’s brother or son or father killed him. And Anh was fourteen. He didn’t understand the permanence of taking or losing a life either… That’s what organized violence does. With its own rules and rationale, it leads to senseless death by convincing us that there are such things as ‘enemies,’ so that we forget people are people, and we forget how to be human.”

The young man nods, eager to add, “I mean that’s how Trump was elected, right? Manipulation of the masses, playing on people’s fears to ignite, if not outright hatred, then at least a disregard for human life and a willingness to overlook cruelty.”

Thao can’t resist a smile. “I think it’s great that young people are so passionate about the election results. It’s inspiring to see all those protests and hashtags,” she observes a bit slyly.

Rami draws back, frowning. “Really. The look and tone of your support aren’t very convincing.”

“I mean, there’s no doubt that Donald Trump is a dunce,” she responds. “He’s a terrible choice for president. But this country has been through much harder times, before you were born, filled with hatred that’s more threatening than it is idiotic. There’s no way he’ll be able to revoke constitutional rights and amendments. The man is the embodiment of a bad joke.”

“You’re serious right now?” Rami asks, incredulous. “Do you know what it’s like living in this country as an Arab and Black mixed, bisexual male?”

Thao realizes she hadn’t thought that far. Why hadn’t she?

“I didn’t need to attend any anti-Trump rallies. I protest every day by the color of my skin, the pronunciation of my name, and the way I choose to rest my hand on my partner’s shoulder in public. You don’t think I feel threatened every time I enter an airport, drive past a cop car or walk by a church? None of this is a joke–unless you don’t take my life seriously.”

Thao is silent. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” she concedes genuinely.

The high schooler shakes his head, still pissed–but more than that, disappointed. He looks at his notes for the next question. “You’ve done a lot to speak for social justice, including women’s rights, minority rights and gay rights,” he says halfheartedly. “In 1994, you published the book Anita Hill: A True Woman, in response to David Brock’s The Real Anita Hill, which you called ‘an attack on the character of women everywhere.’ That same year, you wrote a series of articles interviewing different minorities about their workplace experiences, which was cited to have helped The Equal Opportunity Act get passed in 1995. In 2003, while holding the position of Poet Laureate, you authored a highly controversial poem dedicated to same-sex love in the midst of Lawrence v. Texas.” Rami looks up. “Do you believe the social climate has changed at all since then? There’s Trayvon Martin, there’s Brock Turner, there’s the transgender bathroom case. Where were your statements on those?”

Thao answers, “Well, the Brock Turner ruling was horrible. Three months for three counts of sexual assault is hardly–”

Rami cuts in, “I wasn’t asking your opinion. The question was, ‘Where were your statements?’” He looks her in the eye. “What did you do about any of this? Not even a tweet.”

Thao isn’t sure how to respond.

The interviewer continues, heated. “As a supposed figure of influence who’s fought most her life for equal opportunities, you’ve chosen silence for the past decade and a half. Things are as bad as ever–what rock are you living under?”

Thao absorbs the affront. She exhales and folds her hands. “Look, I’m sorry about the youth and Trump comment I made earlier. You’re clearly still upset.”

“This isn’t about taking personal offense,” Rami responds impassively. “Though maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the last piece you published was a Vanity Fair article on sex in your mid-50s. You’ve gone from freedom fighter to placard for domestic life.”

The writer laughs. “I have a family now. What do you want me to say?”

“You don’t have anything to say–that’s all there is. I came with a headline in mind; I just needed the confirmation: ‘Woman of color from low-income housing fights for equality so that she can grow up to be White.’ I guess being a good person wasn’t enough for you. You wanted your picket fence, too.”

That cuts. Thao sits back and crosses her arms and legs. “You’ll come to understand, Rami, that the older you get, the smaller your world becomes,” she says, coolly but wounded. “Your actions are more closely observed, and you have people who rely on you. It’s not possible to just choose a cause and run with it anymore, regardless of how noble it may seem. It’s not so black and white.”

“I don’t need for you to teach me about grey areas or disappointment, believe me.” He says. Rami stops recording and closes his notebook. “Anyway, I have what I need. Thanks.”

The young man leaves, making his way to the nearest bus stop. Thao, left at the table, tosses back her hair and straightens her spine. She takes a sip of coffee and looks down at her futile notes with intense focus, trying not to feel her embarrassment or shame.

***

Three weeks later, Thao is in bed with her laptop, oddly comfortable. For the first time in almost a month, the master bedroom feels the right size, in spite of Anthony’s absence. On her screen is Lincoln High’s Lincoln Log news. She reads the conclusion of Rami’s feature, “White Flag.”

But Thao Peterson née Tran offers a lesson beyond race, societal ailments or the times. She’s a cautionary tale of aging, of being human: people give up. Sometimes we grow fearful. Sometimes, we’re just tired. It’s not hard to find comfort in even deplorable circumstances; discarded cardboard can be a mattress if we use it as so. But shouldn’t we do better? As Tran herself once believed, “The world is not round. It is angular, and it is lopsided, marred by dark trenches and deep faults. Still, this Earth is ours. So let’s fight. Keep fighting to be whole.” Making mankind whole is an almost impossible feat. We may never win. But let’s not be defeated.

Thao smiles. Rami’s a good writer. It’s too bad he missed the opportunity to ask more questions. She looks up and notices her fifteen-year-old daughter taking selfies in the hallway.

“Hey.” Thao calls to her.

An, her hand covering half her face, snaps a photo.

“An.”

“Yeah?” She adjusts the angle and takes another.

“Come in here.”

An snaps a series of nearly identical pictures before entering Thao’s room. “What?” she asks. But her daughter’s rude tone is eclipsed by her clean wisps of hair and her soft, pink pajamas. Thao wants to hug her. She pats a spot on her bed. An sits on the King Size mattress, keeping two feet’s distance between herself and her mother. Thao wants so badly to break through to her. She wants to know how school is, how her friends are, how An feels about love, and what her worries and her dreams are.

An stares impatiently. She throws out her arms. “Yes?”

Thao takes her daughter’s hand. “Did you do these yourself?” She says, looking at her nails.

An nods, happy to have someone recognize her work. “Cute, right? I was trying to get a good pic for my Snap story.”

“Not Instagram?”

“Nah. I’m still waiting for my last post to get at least a hundred likes.”

“I like that they aren’t very shiney. It’s unique.”

“It’s matte.”

“How’d you do the design?” Thao asks, still holding her daughter’s pretty fingers. “Looks intricate.”

“Oh no, it was super easy. I just watched a YouTube DIY.”

“It’s online?” Thao pulls up her laptop. “So if I search ‘nail art…’” She types.

An scoots next to her and looks at the screen. “Search ‘quilted nails DIY.’ …Scroll down.” She points, “That one.”

Thao clicks play. She feels An’s smooth, warm shoulder against her arm, smells her daughter’s sweet-scented lotion, and she resists the urge to kiss her forehead. Thao wishes the video were longer than six minutes, but she’ll take this happily.