Long Ago....

Long before there was life, love, and food in my America, there was Ha Tinh, a city in the northern provinces of Central Viet Nam where my father is from.

A very famous song, which is an ode to Ha Tinh, says that no matter where you go, you will always remember and think about Ha Tinh. This is my father's favorite song. He sings it aloud in his northern dialect whenever he is happy or whenever he wants to show us that he is happy.This is the song that I know I would have playing over the loudspeakers at my father's funeral service someday (faraway I hope) as I stand alone and eulogize him. There it is, I have never said this to anyone before. The thought of it makes me so sad and already I feel at loss for more words; depleted of all thoughts.

My father, on record, was born on January 5th, in the year 1930. If this were true, he was born on a Sunday in Ky-Anh, a town in the central provinces connecting the north to the south of Viet Nam. About 200 miles south of Hanoi, Ky-Anh, a district of Nghe Tinh, one of the least attractive places in Viet Nam according to residents that have come and gone. Being born in the central provinces, he was among those called nguoi trung, meaning a central person, compare to let's say a northern person or a southern person. And believe me, there was a huge difference in the people and their provinces those days.

Born in a land where houses were made of mud and thatch, surrounded by barren landscapes and fields unable to grow rice or usable crops, my father's life was hard from the start. His family was poverty stricken. He had an older sister and two older brothers; a younger brother died early of disease and malnourishment- life was bleak. My father never received a single day's worth of formal education growing up; he never once stepped foot in a school. Basically raised by his mother, my father worked various odds and ends jobs to make a living.

"I was a handsome boy though" he has told us kids many times when reminiscing. He also tells me that my oldest son is the spitting image of himself when he was young. This makes me proud for my father is not a man of many words, or of many personal thoughts. Knowing this is very heart-warming to me and I try to convey the feelings to my son; there is so much to tell my children about their grandfather. And NO, mother, nothing bad, only the truth!

Here I am!

My mother knows I have been trying to write about our family; I have been doing it since 1995. Well, mostly about my father and everyone else that revolves around him. A few months ago when I called her up late one night to ask her a question pertaining to him, her voice became all serious, "You're not writing anything bad, are you?"

"No, I'm not. Just the truth!"

She went on to tell me that a few years ago she came across something that I wrote which didn't make my father sound so good. "Just write good stuff!" was all she said before giving the response that I needed, and then she hung up the phone.

It took me a few minutes to get over her funny statements; so typical of her- always standing by her man! I say this with cynicism but in actuality, my mom being the way she is, has taught me so much in regards to my own life (which of course makes it all the more complicated too) Growing up, us kids were never allowed to breathe a single bad word about our father. We were taught by our mother to love and respect him for the man that he is. He was our father, and that was enough to warrant our undying love and loyalty; we would not be where we were had it not been for his hard work, suffering and perseverance.

I have so many stories. Where shall I start? What should I omit and what stories get told? How will it end, and when will it end? When I am sad, certain memories rush back and forth across my mind. When happy, my youth comes bouncing through the years and I feel as though it were yesterday once more.

I am turning 40 this summer. Yep, this is my year. I say it is my lucky SEVENS. July, 17, 1967. And I am going right back to the beginning. I started this blog last summer as a means of disciplining myself to keep writing without the confinement of the BIG story. Think of a thought or a significant event, and go with it...see where it leads me and hopefully bring another chapter to life somewhere. But in between taking care of a household of five including a toddler, and living the life that I am trying to come to grasp with everyday, my thoughts get jammed somewhere between laundry and trying to get in enough sleep (five hours) to function properly. A big part of me knows that time is running out. The story needs to be out there. I want my father to know the story as I see it; I want my children to understand, for they are, in the end, my most important audience. As I sit here tonight, 90% better from the crazy flu-like ailments I dealt with this week, I am determine to get it all down. To tell the story from its beginning (as I know it)and try to come to some sort of ending in the next few months.

Why choose to do it in this genre? This is a huge challenge. At the end of each entry when I push that "publish" button..my story is out there for whoever chooses to see it. In my case mostly friends and family members, but it is still a huge task. Friends have asked me sometimes "how come you haven't written?" This puts much more pressure on me, therefore, I think it is only helpful for me at this stage to keep adding to my entries and to keep writing and sharing any and all stories from the start.

The stories will flow as I see them in their respective order.

The Happiest Day!

My oldest son turned nine yesterday. He was supposed to have been born on St. Patrick's day in 1998 (which would have been great given my Catholic background) but my refusal of epidural and the pressure of trying to wait for natural birth pushed his arrival back an hour and 43 minutes after midnight on March 18. Twenty- three hours of labor pains and mind-numbing contractions eventually led to a caesarean section anyway; I was just happy our first-born was healthy and kicking when he came into the world.

When the nurse handed my son to me, that world of mine stood still. Barely ten minutes out of the womb, my son was alert and his eyes took in the room - staring to the left and right..up and across. I cried and cried and promised to myself then and there, that I am his mother and he is my child and I shall do nothing else but nurture and love him for the rest of my life. Day by day I began to see myself the way my son must surely have seen me...I am neither troubled nor scared, fat nor skinny, unattractive nor demure; I am just beautiful and I am the one he needs. I am his mother, his source, his guide. And the more I saw myself through my baby's eyes, the better a person I became; totally cured of all my insecurities.

They say your children are your greatest achievement in life. Yes, they are. BUT also for me, proving that I am a good mother will be the best achievement of all. Happy birthday to the little baby who made me healthy nine years and a day ago...

Footsteps

Somewhere between Washington, Pennsylvania and New York, New York, a wall was built between my father and me. That wall, with age and time, and dust and wind, stood erect and firm for over 31 years. What happened to that girl who went flying into her father's arms at Fort Chaffee, Arkansas?

Washington was dreary, but I didn't care; I didn't even know it. We were all together again and despite the fear and uncertainties of living in this new country, our little extended family felt reassured that all will be well. Little by little our English improved each day. Day by day, the pieces of the puzzle started to fit.

The house that was rented for us was a temporary solution. The family who owned it was living abroad somewhere in the Netherlands and so the place was left furnished, along with bicycles, toys and closets full of clothing. Merrily we enjoyed ourselves; immersed in the frivolity of the moments. We would live in this house for about three months before moving to another house at the end of the summer of 1975. Before winter arrived that year, we would leave Pennsylvania for good.

I had just turned eight in this house. On the faithful day that marked the rest of my life, the summer sun shone brightly overhead as we three kids and one of our nannies fiddled with the tennis racquets in the backyard. My mother had gone off with a social worker that morning and was due home sometime later in the evening.

I left my brother and sister to seek shade and refuge indoors; a big box of Lego provided the entertainment that I needed. Upstairs and in the little alcove between the bedrooms, I found the perfect place to build. It was then that my father emerged from his room and announced to me that he was going to take a bath. It was hot and a bath would do him good he said and closed the bathroom door behind him.

My father is a bath man. To this very day, as busy as he is, he still soaks in a bath everyday. "It is the only time that I can have for myself, "he says. Back in Vietnam, a beautiful bathroom was built for my father right behind his office. Sparkling white tiles imported from Italy adorned its wall; a special commode and bidet were ordered from Japan, and of course, a very large tub. Bathing is a ritual for my father.

Some moments passed and I don't know why but I felt the urge to look under the slit of the door after my father. I could barely see his feet as he walked back and forth, running the bath water and perhaps placing his clothing on the hook. Across the floor I can clearly see the other door that connects the bathroom to one of the nannies' bedroom. I looked on. Then I froze like a popsicle. The other door just opened and I saw her feet making their way into the bathroom. I knew they were her feet because she was upstairs when I came in. My first thought was one of great alarm - my father forgot to lock that door! I lay as still as death and expected shrieks and screams when she walked in and saw my father. But there was no sound except that of the running bath water and the room filled with steam. There were no more feet. I lifted myself up, collected my Lego, and ran off to my room.

I felt strange and isolated. I felt weak and useless. I felt naughty and bad. Later I realized that the emotions I felt were ones of betrayal. I didn't know what to do. When my mother came home that night, I pulled her aside and told her I wanted to tell her a secret. Would she be able to keep it? I was all flustered and stuttered the words. The next thing I knew, my mother leaped up and out of the room and what entailed could be considered the first act in the drama that stars my family for years to come.

From that day on, I just never saw my father in the same light again. I couldn't even look him in the eye. He would ask a question and I would answer him; my gaze focused on my own two feet. And it would continue this way for many, many years. And although my mother always managed to forgive her husband, I myself, could not get pass what I witnessed that day in Washington. That was the day that my childhood was gone; overnight, that part of me was over with and I knew it.

Slowly I was forced to accept living with others in our lives; my father is just that kind of a man. Of course I didn't know this back then, but my father has always been a cheater. The amazing thing is that my mother still loves him. He is her first love and her last love- very old school, I would say when I'm telling their story. But their story is my story and I am desperately trying to figure out how it will all play out since this is now like 32 years later, and many, many women (not to even mention illegitimate children at this point)What may be culturally acceptable in Viet Nam or wherever else, is most definitely not morally acceptable by any means. Like I said, there are so many questions that I may never find the answers to - like why my father is the way he is? All I know is that he IS my father and I love and revere him deeply. He is far from perfect, but he is still my father, the only one I have in this life, and that will never change.

Slowly parts of that wall have come down. It started the months before I delivered my first child nine years ago; my father made tremendous effort to show my husband and I that he wanted to be a part of our lives. Still, there is much left to be said. And though things can be left unspoken, I am trying everyday to come to terms with my feelings and somehow make leap and bound efforts to let my father know that I love him despite his faults and his betrayals to my mother and us. There are not enough hours in the day, I must do my best to make up for lost time.

Lost and Found

"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation"
Kahlil Gibran


I lost my mother once in Times Square. It was our first week in New York City and we were underground waiting for the number 1 train. Thank goodness we were accompanied by a long time resident and friend who was with us to help scout a new business for my parents. As we stood among the throngs of people on the platform, a train arrived on the track. My mother, who was standing close to the door, was pushed inside as people made their entrance and exit. I recall the look of fear and dismay on her face as the door closed and she was pulled away. I looked up at our friend and the tears welled up in my eyes; how were we ever going to find her?

Soon another train made its way to the track and Mr. Nhan assured me that if we took this train and got off at the next stop, my mother would be there waiting for us. I didn't know anything else do to except grab hold of his hand and followed him onto the train. Sure enough, when we arrived at the next stop, we were reunited with my mother. I was so relieved that she had the good instinct to just jump off at the next station hoping we would have a better chance to find her that way.

It is such a gift that my parents are still vibrant busy people. My father just turned 77 in January and my mother will be a legal senior come December (she is actually proud of this fact since she still looks great and no one will believe how old she is when she tells them)However, as dynamic as they are, the wear and tear of aging is creeping up on them. I see this and I am scared to death.

My father's colds, which used to go away with a curse or some hot soup, linger a little longer these days - wearing him out and taking a lot of his strength as he fights to regain his health. He still goes to the pool to swim laps each day, but his gait is a little limper and he requires some assistance getting out and into his car. I know this and I am worried.

At least his grumpiness and shrewdness is still there; he is on top of his game and is at his desk working every morning. His vocal chords are still strong enough to send a chilling message to a slacking staffer; his eyes still keen and watchful. AND he is still making daily visits to his mistress. I know all this and somehow, as imperfect as it may be, I feel a little relieved that he is still that man; that he still has that something in him. That being hopefully, aging and sickness will be kept at bay!

My mother too. She prays that she doesn't have Alzheimer; twice this week she has left a pot of food to burn on the stove. Black smoke billowing out from under my parent's door and into the hallway; my mother in a taxicab happily rolling down Seventh avenue on her way to Jack's 99cents store to retrieve a shopping bag that she said the cashier failed to hand her the day before. "I can't believe they have it," she called to tell me from her cell phone, not realizing that at the same time, my father was going crazy at home letting all the smoke out their kitchen window. What am I going to do with them? More sadly, what am I going to do without them?

There is nothing perfect about this imperfect world that we live in. Yet, we can still live a beautiful life if we learn to accept things and people for what they are. The older I become, the clearer I am able to see. The roads that I have traveled to get here today could not have been treaded had my life or the people in it been any different; I am so appreciative of my experiences. There are still many questions that I may never have the answers to, yet I am learning to deal with them everyday.

So much has been lost in my youth when I think back on what could have been. However, what I have found is a certain solitude and a strong confidence of a sure and secure future for myself and my family. The love between my siblings and me; between my parents and us children; between me and my own family ~ serve as the foundation to withstand all hardship. In the end, the love you feel and the love you share is all you've got; and that, will never ever die!