By DieuNgoc Nguyen
(a poem I had written for my intro to creative writing, an assignment due tonight ;))
When she fell, it was because the Walmart floor was too shiny, like concrete oil under sun, no grip for flip-flopped feet.
When she fell, her wrist landed first. The floor met bone with force to frustrate her joints for weeks. Angered her for more. Angered me for more.
Series of questions fell into place as a resounding yelped-grunt echoed in the bikes section: How is she going to massage customers for the next few weeks? Or paint shellac nails, deftly cut ingrowns? What will be of the nail salon?
Her hands hold livelihood. Magical and requested. Praised for strength and detail. A family she raised.
When she fell, her ankle caught under the bike that toppled over her, forcing onto her a limp.
No, not the gardening, not the walking too.
After she fell, my little sister ran to her, pulling the bike off her petite body.
After she fell, Mom limped slowly out of Walmart, holding onto Yen – not thinking to report. Take this home and not make a big deal of things.
“A Black male customer saw me limping and guided me to a store manager.”
Otherwise, she would have left things where they fell.
To recount her fall, the managers requested she write in English the “incident”.
“We need your recount in writing to file a proper complaint. Walmart’s insurance company will review and call you shortly.”
I imagine my little sister translating, stressed and praying for quick resolution, taking the crisp white sheet and penning in English what happened: how and when she fell. If only they both knew… they shouldn’t have done that. Every word legally used against you the moment you shared your story.
If only they both knew the “after” as all parties involved tended, appreciated, apologized, and saw her out.
So if all was well, after she fell, why did she find herself calling me?
“Ngoc, you’re studying to be a lawyer aren’t you? When I fell in Walmart, who’s fault is this?”
Why did I feel like —
“Ngoc?”
“Absolutely not your fault. No matter what they’ll tell you or try to get you to say, say nothing until you find a lawyer. Tomorrow, you must see a doctor and get a statement there too. And please don’t doubt yourself.”
After she fell, she believed Walmart would make well on their promise: the nice Walmart people will call her back.
There was no call to receive.
The only way to receive with the 374.72 billion dollar corporation was at court.
But when a credible Vietnamese lawyer was found, an MRI sent for, and a positive take on the case almost had, the law firm turned down the case.
Multiple calls were made, but no firm with Vietnamese-speaking lawyers, with strong backing, would take.
Perhaps her injury wasn’t severe enough to win big bucks.
Perhaps Yen’s written statement had too many words that could be used against us.
With every no, every ounce of fight she had, as she tended to injuries,
disappeared.
Not one call given. Not one glance, not one dollar
from Walmart
for the weeks she hurt through
for the days she couldn’t make to work
for the emotional duress of handling family, job, health, and injury.
When people act like you’ve disappeared,
You disappear too.
The moment she fell in Walmart, all their lawyers had already won.
Mom had already disappeared.
Case closed.
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