All In by Jerry Yang

the villagers he expected to return someday.
    Others followed his lead. By the end of the day, the vault was full. My father even placed his army M-16 there. He knew carrying such a weapon would immediately identify him as a former soldier in Vang Pao’s army, a guaranteed death sentence.
    As afternoon turned into evening, families began gathering in the main part of the village. No one had to announce it was time to leave. The sinking sun did that.
    The older man and his son who had criticized my father so harshly in the meeting the night before didn’t join us. Neither did their families. They stayed behind, just as they’d promised.
    Once it was clear that everyone who planned to leave with us was ready, my father simply said, “Let’s go,” and we headed out. I carried on my back a large bag of rice, as heavy as I could manage. Since I only owned one pair of pants and one shirt, I didn’t have to worry about luggage. I didn’t have any shoes, either, but hardly anyone did.
    The trail out of the village wound between my friends’ houses. As we passed the empty homes, I thought about the good times we’d had there, but soon fear swept away those good thoughts. I wondered if any of us would make it through this alive.
    We also walked past an empty house that the men of our village had built for the schoolteacher, Bee Vang. He’d come from far away and taught the children of our village to read and write, but when the war had drawn too near, he and his wife had gone back to their home village.
    He’d said they would return when things got better. They never had.
    On the very edge of the village sat one last building: my father’s church. He’d served as the pastor for nearly a decade, ever since he’d completed his training with the American missionaries in Vientiane.
    My father paused at the front of the church. “We are all leaving, and we will not come back,” he said to the building. “It’s okay. It is time to go.”
    Even though we are Christians, we are still Hmong, and Hmong tradition says that when you leave a place, part of your spirit stays behind. That’s why my father said what he did. He was telling our spirits that we were leaving and calling them to come with us.
    In that moment the finality of our departure hit me. I wanted to throw up.
    Just past the church building, the trail into the jungle went up a hill. About halfway up, I turned and looked back at our village. I could still see smoke curling up from the houses into the sky as if the people who lived there were cooking their evening meals. Animals milled in pastures, and I expected to see children running by, laughing and kicking a pig bladder.
    From up on the hill, everything looked completely normal, as if life had not changed one bit and never world. I have never forgotten that sight.
    Looking back toward our village, I saw my father’s favorite hunting dog, Lie, running up the trail after us. I loved that dog. He wasn’t just a dog; he was part of our family. Every time my father went hunting, Lie was at his side. He’d chase the deer or whatever my father was after that day. No other dog in our village compared to him. In a sense, Lie put food on our table by leading the hunters to the prey. All of us, including my father, loved that dog.
    When I saw him, I said, “No, Lie, you can’t come with us.”
    My father heard me and turned around. “Go home, Lie,” he shouted. “Go home.”
    Lie stopped, tail wagging.
    â€œGo, I said!”
    Lie turned around and walked maybe 100 yards toward home. Once my father’s back was turned, though, he reversed direction.
    â€œNo,” my father yelled with a hateful tone that said he meant business.
    He wasn’t being cruel. We didn’t know if we had enough food for the people in our group, much less a dog. Besides, we couldn’t take the risk; Lie’s barking might give us