Cambodian Yin - The origin of my wife's surname

 

The air pulses with nervous tension and the familiar smell of burning sandalwood incense. My knee bounces to a non-existent beat. “How much longer?” I ask.

 

 My mom's long brown hair falls around her face as she checks her phone, “I don’t know. Grandma should call once he finishes.”

 

My cousins busy themselves with the decorations, rearranging an excessive amount of balloons that read congrats or checking on the American flag cake waiting in the fridge.  

 

My Aunt Sunita moves to the seat next to me at the dining room table, her floral perfume wafting towards me as she places her hand on my bobbing knee. She offers a sweet smile across her light brown face. Her black hair is pulled back, showcasing her strong jawline and high cheekbones. Her almond brown eyes pierce into mine.

 

“Why are you so nervous,” she chuckles, “you’re not the one taking the test.”

 

I nod at her, I’m not the one that has to fear being torn from my family, but my burning anxiety is not cooled. My grandpa is my heart, raising me since I was a baby, taking him from me would feel like ripping out my heart.

 

“Besides,” my mom adds, “if he fails, he can retake it.”

 

 I nod again, “shouldn’t I be the one comforting you two?”

 

They share a glance at each other, “When you’ve hacked your way through jungles with machetes and escaped labor camps a citizenship test doesn’t rattle you.”

 

My knee stops, and I stare, stunned at my Aunt. She rarely speaks about her time in Cambodia. The oldest of my mom’s siblings, she remembers the most. I want to prod, ask more about her time there, but fear bites my tongue. I don’t want to open closed wounds, not healed but closed. I want to ask about the rumors. I’ve heard whispers that my grandparents lost two children during the genocide. I don’t even know their names.  Nameless and faceless, they permanently occupy a place in my mind. 

 

Instead, I ask, “if he passes, will he retake his last name, Dom?”

 

Sunita nods in response, “yes that’s the plan.”

 

I smile at the thought; he would reclaim his Cambodian surname returning the Yin that he had been forced to take while fleeing. I jump at the sound of a key wiggling in the front door.

 

The first through the door is Grandpa, an average-sized man with deep brown skin and short black hair. He is wearing his favorite outfit, Levi jeans, a button-up shirt, and a straw cowboy hat. He stops, surprised by the amount of family that is crammed in his living and dining room. He mutters a greeting in Khmer then departs to his bedroom. He hates social gatherings. No one is fazed by his reaction.

 

Grandma follows close behind him. She wears a formal purple sarong and a white lace blouse. Her dyed brown hair is cut short around her face. Once through the door, she immediately breaks into laughter and starts speaking quickly in Khmer. I catch some words, but she is speaking too fast for me to fully understand.

My Aunt offers the translation, “he passed,” she pauses for laughter, “but panicked, scared they were going to change their mind or that it was an error, told them he didn’t want to change his name and ran out before anyone could stop him.”

The laughter comes, it is dark and heavy, filled with the pain of knowing his fear and the reasons behind it, but it is still laughter. He passed, and Yin stays.