Reboot

Batman, Ninja Turtles and even Power Rangers.  All of these have gotten the Hollywood reboot in the last few years.  After finally following through with finding my dad and reconnecting with him and his huge family after 30 years spent apart from each other, I think it's time my little story got one too.  I thought about taking down the old blog posts.  I cringe at my early writing attempts.  Hopefully this time, it will be a little bit better.  I think I'll leave the old posts though as a remnant of who I was before the discovery of my family.  I can't say that I've changed a whole lot as a person after meeting them, but I can admit that some feelings of abandonment have been somewhat resolved.  Hearing that I wasn't forgotten or given up on gave me some sense of solace to the early adolescent struggles.  This was my final bit of writing as I was looking for my dad.  Just going to post it and reorganize everything later. 

I've come a long way, I think. Far away from that time when there was a man handcuffed to the foot of my bunk bed. I've almost forgotten the smell of urine from when he opened the two liter bottle given to him to piss in so that our counselor wouldn't have to unlock our door in the middle of the night. His screams from when he is dragged into the hallway for a beating is almost muted in my mind. That smile of missing teeth and bloodied eyes doesn't haunt me as much anymore. It's been 16 years since my last day in foster care, almost exactly the amount of years that I bounced around amongst different families until I was out on my own.
I still feel guilty about that guy back at the foster home. After all, I was a part of his torture too. When he didn't sell enough flowers out in the streets, sometimes it was me who was ordered to beat him. And after wasting my youth watching over him to ensure he was earning a profit for our guardian, there were times I made no attempt to hold back.
For six years, I was captive at that final foster home. I was afraid to speak out because of the manipulation and fear. I was told a story about a boy who tried to run away and call the police. It was said that the policeman merely brought him back, bloodied t-shirt and all, and was handed over to his tormentors, but not before being admonished for being an ungrateful piece of shit that was rescued from homelessness and other things. Our guardian said she had pulled some strings that landed him in the California Youth Authority, a prison for minors. That plus the threat of using my attempted murder charge against me from when she ordered me to beat that guy with a two by four. She said I went overboard when I accidentally bashed in his head, leaving a large gash pouring blood over the floor. She told the hospital he got jumped, but now I realize she was covering her own ass rather than trying to save mine. Still, it kept me quiet for all these years.
And yet, I always tried to win her affection. We all did. That was life in our household. Being manipulated by her to fight amongst each other for her recognition and adulation. We were so starved of attention that we never realized she was dividing and conquering us by constantly turning us against each other. We were all very lonely and afraid. There were even boys who took turns massaging her feet every night while she watched tv. I never earned such honors. I was one of the rebellious ones, quietly brewing up plans to escape one day.
I had to steal my own legal emancipation. On my 18th birthday, I was not allowed to leave. She held all of my legal documents and I had no resources. Deciding that I had nothing to lose, I chose to brave the unknown and ran away with no money, no bank account and no papers. Luckily I already had a job at In N Out Burger, but I spent three months homeless, bathing myself in gas station bathrooms before I was able to find a place other than a car to sleep in.
I've come along way. Today I no longer feel alone. And though at times, I am overwhelmed by how un-alone I am, I make a conscious attempt to always appreciate those that surround me and give me companionship and unconditional love, despite the post-traumatic feelings of being unwanted or unneeded. Therapy has helped a little bit. Having an understanding and caring wife and son has helped a lot. So have the friends I've made along the way.
There remains many unanswered questions about my past since my mother is no longer available to comprehend anything I say to her. Her schizophrenic condition has made it impossible for me to find out any information about myself or my relatives. One question has come to the forefront recently when my son asked if I had a dad. It should only make sense to him that I should, since I have done everything in my power to be the father to him that I had dreamed for as a kid. And with that question in mind I start this new journey into the unknown: Finding my father. He has always been a blank question mark in my timeline. I don't have much information about him. Only his name and his birth month and year. Not even a full birthday. I was told many things about who he was and what he did, but that information has yet to be fact checked. The source is unreliable.
Here is what I know. He was out of my life by the time I was three. I don't remember his face or voice, but I remember a smell. Polo cologne, the green bottle with the gold knobbed cap. His name is Vo Thanh Van, and his birthday is May 1954. Maybe. This is my attempt to reach out to him and possible meet the man who may have answers for me. I have written a letter to him in hopes that he might find it one day and contact me. All I can do is put it out there and hope it gets to him somehow. If you're out there and you do get this letter, reach out to me at findingVeeVo@gmail.com. In the subject line, write down my mom's name so that I know it's really you and not a random internet troll. My name has since been legally changed but you know me as Vo Khac Chinh. And this is my letter to you.

Dear Mr. Vo Thanh Van,
My name is Vo Khac Chinh and I am your son. I hope that this letter finds you in good health, if it does find you at all. As I am writing this now, with hardly any knowledge of who or where you are, I have little hope that this will ever reach you. I will float this idea into internet space to see if we might have some luck with finding you. I have considered though that perhaps you may not want to be found, and that is ok. As this is a very long shot, the failure of this idea will not lead to much disappointment.
How does one write a letter to his father whose face and voice he can't even recognize? All I know about you is your name and the month and year you were born. I remember some hand-drawn pictures you sent me as well as a few random events, but not enough to establish an identity of you. I suppose I can start by telling you a little about me.
After the event that separated us, my mother set up a living situation for me to live with another family. Whether it was because she didn't consider herself capable of raising a kid or her mental health affected her decision making I'll never quite know, but it certainly provided me with a sense of stability and familial socialization, even if they were not my family. I continued to live with many different families until I was nine years old when my mother decided it was time for me to live with her. That lasted for a year as she developed an addiction to alcohol and I landed in the foster care system. After bouncing around through eight years of the tumultous and abusive experience of foster care I became a homeless teenager. Within a few months of hard work and through the kindness of friends I was off the streets, working two jobs and attending college. Fast forward almost 15 years later I am now a father to a five year old and a husband to an intelligent and loving woman. It is through my wife that has nudged me to pursue this endeavor of reuniting with you. And it is my son that has inspired me to forgive and move on from the past that has allowed me to take on this task.
If you are reading this, I'd like you to know that should you decide to reunite with me, any feelings of shame or guilt can be dismissed from your mind. There is no need to revisit past actions that can't be changed and all has already been forgiven. I only wish to find answers to so many questions and I hope I can offer you some solace as well, as I know life has not always been easy for our family.
#findingVanVo

**Edit**
Found these posts tucked away in my email.  I must have edited them out at some point.

This will be my final day in my twenties.  What is it about rounding the next decade of your life that makes you want to evaluate your whole life's progress?  Ten years ago, I remember what I thought I wanted.  I wanted to be wealthy by working my way up through either the corporate ladder or owning my own business.  I was determined to be a success story, even if it meant working 80 hour weeks and sacrificing a little partying to get work done.  I had, after all, escaped from a childhood of abuse and domestic violence.  My dad shot my mom at a nightclub when I was four years old.  By ten, I was living between my mom's house, a children's shelter, and a foster home.  By the time freshman year in high school started, I had attended ten different schools.  For a kid who had a rap sheet of spray painting on the school walls, cutting school, and smoking cigarettes all while in the fifth grade, I knew I had to make something of my life.  Success was the only option, and I was willing to put in the work and jump at every opportunity to attain it. 

For ten years after high school, I worked, sacrificed, and put everything behind my priority to succeed.  I managed to buy my first BMW 5 series when I was 19.  I bought a Porsche at the age of 25.  I was always laced up in Versace and Armani suits to my sales meetings.  My vision saw money as the only measurement of success.  My significant others always took a backseat to my plans on being rich, and I've burned many friendships along the way doing so.  

Today things are much different.  I drive a 2003 Mazda Protege5, and the last time I splurged on clothes was at TJ Maxx, which was a purchase of two pairs of shorts for roughly $20.  What I do have is a beautiful home and a loving family.  As I'm writing this, my 20 month old son is playing in his fort, which I built out of a large Home Depot box. 

He has a beautiful mother, whom I deem to be one of the smartest women I know.  She graduated with a degree in Journalism,  written countless articles, worked at CNN, attended fashion shows and rubbed elbows with people on TV.  She is an awesome wife.  She always considers my happiness, and puts up with all of my rather strange antics. 

I live in a comfortable house in a safe neighborhood.  And while you won't see my pictures in the VIP room of any club, you'll find plenty of pictures of me and my wonderful family all over my house.  It's a pretty humble lifestyle, one that would hardly create a ripple in history's timeline, but to me, it's a great success story.  While I haven't created a rags-to-riches story like  JK Rowling, I at least didn't turn to a life of crime like some of my foster brothers.  More importantly, I didn't allow my circumstances to cripple my chance at happiness.

This is my first time making an attempt at writing out my thoughts and sharing them with a public audience.  For many of my friends, this blog will reveal quite a contrasting life to my easy going personality and my quickness to smile and make light of any situation.  It's not a subject I'm comfortable bringing up, though writing it seems to make it a bit easier.  This site will be an avenue to tell not just my story,  but the stories of the other kids I ran into in my nine year journey as a foster kid lost in a system that didn't work.  Like a  kid named John, who was two years my elder, and was my bunkmate.  His mother was a prostitute, and his father was one of her clients.  Like me, he never knew who his father was, but that was the least of his worries.  To the other foster kids, we knew him as the 16 year old son of a whore who couldn't ride a bike and was a serial bedwetter.  And we made sure to taunt him about it when we could.  The way we saw it, we were all from a shitty situation.  If you couldn't pull yourself together and be strong, you deserved to be mocked and bullied. 

How I wish I could talk to them today, each and every single one of my foster brothers and sisters.  What I regret the most is that we always treated each other as rivals, competing for attention from our legal guardians, fighting through a system that cared little for the success of our lives.  Instead of building a bond from our commonalities, we fought one another and schemed how to be higher on the totem pole, to assert our importance in a life that was designed for us to be insignificant.  Where are these guys today?  The last time I heard about one of them, he was in prison.  I think another joined the Marines.  It would be interesting if I could find them and tell their stories.  That is my goal for this blog in the future, to write about the stories and lives of those who may not garner that attention of, say, the Kardashian sisters, but they are nevertheless interesting.  First, I will start with my own. 

Birthdays are a joyous occasion.  For the young, it is a day that sleep cannot contain.  They jump out of bed, without the prodding that is usually required on a school day, excited about their friends, presents, cake, and games.  For those who work at a job, it comes with the hope of not jumping out of bed until they are prodded by the text messages and facebook notifications from their smart phone.  And then it's dinner with friends and family, and an ironic plethora of birthday liquor to help make it memorable.  For those who stay home with the kids, if it's a weekday, it's business as usual, followed, hopefully, by an evening out with the family and close friends.

After three decades of witnessing an event so universal to the world, it's still a rather foreign feeling for me to celebrate my own birthday.  To make my case, I received a phone call from my mother yesterday, the day of my birthday.  As I looked at the caller ID, I thought how strange but pleasantly surprising it was to hear from her.  She had after all, forgotten to call for a few consecutive years.  And I write that with no amount of spite or resentment, but as a matter of fact.  It's the relationship my mother and I have.

When I was 16, I ran into her at a popular shopping plaza in San Jose, CA known as Lion Plaza.  It was the type of place that first generation Vietnamese settled in to sell their wares and set up their practices.  There was a large grocery store that smelled of fish and rice grains, a restaurant where you can see roasted pigs and ducks hanging upside down, shops selling Eastern medicine and Buddhist statues, and a handful of young doctors and lawyers looking to establish their own practice within their community.  I saw my mom standing outside by a couple of large Chinese dog statues.  She was illegally selling flowers and candy from a plastic bag to passer-bys.  I hadn't seen her in a few years, and I remember walking up to her with some apprehension.

Buy some flowers?  Candy? she asked in Vietnamese.  I knew she wasn't well, but I never expected her to lose her memory.  At that time, my social worker had stated that she wasn’t allowed to visit me.  She was most recently diagnosed with Schizophrenia, after the doctors decided that Bipolar Disorder wasn’t the right fit.  As I said, our relationship is a rather peculiar one, but I’ll get more into that another day. 

Our conversation yesterday started in its usual abrupt manner.  As with most Vietnamese parents, my mom isn’t one for pleasantries when she wants something from her son.  

Did you buy a lottery ticket for me yet?

For the past few months, she has been adamant on having me buy lottery tickets with her set of numbers.  With her surefire system of praying to Buddha and to the spirit of her deceased mom, she has been churning out numbers to me every week.  I also receive calls five times a week to check if her numbers had won, even though I keep telling her that numbers are only drawn Tuesdays and Fridays. 

No, Mom, we haven't won yet.  It's only Wednesday.  

Ok, just keep remembering to buy me tickets. 

Hey, you know what day it is today?

No, I haven’t been keeping track.

It’s August 29^th.

(Long pause)

It’s my birthday today, Mom. 

Oh, then for sure you need to buy the tickets.  Today is your lucky day!

That’s my mother ladies and gentlemen.  And sure enough, on Thursday, another phone call from her to check on our status. 

The funny thing is, the numbers 08 and 29 show up often in her sets of numbers.  I don’t believe that she has forgotten or that she doesn’t care, she just doesn’t know how to express it.  And vice versa.  On September 28^th, I try to get in touch with her and say Happy Birthday, which is always followed by an awkward silence.  In a sense, I’m grateful that she has this lottery plot on her mind.  It reminds me of better days with her, when she was healthy.  This was before she started working until 2am at night clubs, before the drinking, and before the foster homes.   I was nine years old when my mother and I last celebrated my birthday together.  Since I was placed into the foster care system, my birthday was as lost as the other kids I grew up with.  When you’re living in a house with nine other foster kids, and the first rule the guardian points out is:  “I don’t care what you do as long as you don’t steal from this house or get brought home by a cop.” It’s sometimes hard to get your birthday noticed.  So as all children of the dust learn to do, we banded together, and celebrated collaboratively.  We’d select a day that was in between, and celebrate that day as our birthday.  If you were lucky, you had a birthday that wasn’t around anyone else’s, so we’d celebrate on the day of.  Of course, all it meant was that you were bought a slice of pizza and a bottle of coke, or $5 worth of tokens at the arcade, but hey, that was alright with us.  It wasn’t what we received or what type of special events were planned, it was the acknowledgement.  It was someone saying, Hey, today’s your birthday isn’t it?  Happy Fucking Birthday.  And that’s how I’ve enjoyed my simple birthdays for one whole decade. 

But things change when you have a significant other in your life.  All of a sudden, you are the spotlight of the day.  August 29^th is no longer just Michael Jackson’s birthday (may he rest in peace), it was Tony’s day!   And no longer is it the usual quick acknowledgement that I have grown accustomed to.  It is elaborate and lavish with planning and thoughtfulness and presents.  Like I said at the start of this post, the familiarity with it all still eludes me, but I am truly grateful for it.  In the past three days, my wife has:

 

-          taken me out to Korean BBQ

-          taken me out to my favorite Japanese Ramen place

-          bought me a gourmet cake of my choice

-          booked and planned a bed and breakfast getaway

-          booked me a massage

-          taken me out to a French restaurant, Café Gallery

-          given me things that as a gentleman I will not disclose.

Most importantly, she has taken the time and effort to make this 30^th birthday meaningful.  In 40 years, I may forget about the name of the French restaurant or the kind of cake we had, but I’ll never forget how my wife made me feel.  Kind of a "Holy Shit, I love that you did all this for me!"  Although it’s something I’m still getting used to, it doesn’t mean I appreciate it any less.  Thank you to my beautiful asawa and to all my friends for never forgetting to say, Happy Fucking Birthday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Look at this guy always smilin' and shit.  My platoon sergeant liked to point me out to the rest a lot.  Staff Sergeant Fett* was a seasoned soldier.  Anyone could tell that by looking at him.  His face was weathered by war.  When he smiled, it seemed as if he had just donned a samurai's face mask.  The grin from his mouth only seemed to accentuate the terror-inducing intensity from his eyes.  He was a guy you felt comfortable with leading you into battle.  He was what you called high speed, a term soldiers use to label people or equipment as bad ass or hardcore.  Hell, even in the civilian world, whenever he would go back to his vehicle, he would walk around it first, get down and inspect underneath it and check for leaking fluids, IEDs, and whatever else he thought could be compromising at a grocery store parking lot.

What you smilin' about Vo?  You get laid or something?

No Sarge, just a good day to be alive I guess. 

I don't think I ever met a soldier who smiles so goddamn much!  I bet you'd shoot a haji in the face with that smile. 

I was used to this kind of observation because it's true.  Not the shooting someone in the face part.  For the record, the only shooting I've done was for training.  I smile often because I always have a good reason to.

Of course, most people assume that it's because my life has been rainbows and fluff cake, which I don't care to correct or impart a sob story upon.  In reality, it's because I know there are always bad days, and that those bad days are just never that bad.  Even in my teens, the worst part of my life, I always had hope.  I  knew that somebody had it worse.  Many times, when we're depressed or upset about our life or something that's happened, we're overcome with the negative emotions of anger, sadness, hopelessness or the feeling that we've been specially selected by a clandestine group to be a victim of a bad life.  This is especially true when the people who surround you seem to have no problems, and you seem to have them all. 

In the end it's all a matter of perspective.  And hearing the stories of others helps to keep things in perspective.  Stories of people like Cpl Todd Love, a former Marine who lost both of his legs and his left arm to an IED.  For many, the pain of losing limbs could throw us into a world of Why and How could this happen.  For Love, he recently completed an event called the Spartan Race, a physical and mental challenge of obstacles over a span of 10.5 miles.  He and his team ran the race while wearing a protective gas mask, which reduces the ability to breathe by 30%.  He's also skydived, wrestled an alligator, and learned to play the piano.

Then there's Scott Neeson, whom I read about this week.  If there ever was a story that needs to be shared, it's this one.  In fact, I hope the link I provided gets more shares than my own whimsy blog.  He was a Hollywood movie mogul, the President of 20th Century Fox, earning a million dollar salary, attending Academy Awards, and taking beautiful women on dates in his Porsche and yacht.  During a backpacking trip in Cambodia, he witnessed the poverty stricken lifestyle of families working and sometimes living on a garbage landfill.  In a dump that was filled with waste, hypodermic needles, and even aborted fetuses, young children worked and tried to salvage anything they could find to resell and feed their families.  Mr. Neeson has long since left his comfortable position and has moved to Cambodia, where he is fully committed to helping the kids through education.  As with many places in the world  it is a much harsher reality for these kids than it is for any of us in America, where we worry more about the things we want rather than what we need. 

I'm not saying it's wrong to want things.  There isn't anything wrong with wanting to drive a nicer car or to have a better body, but if wanting those things causes unhappiness, perhaps it's time to reevaluate.  If the hooptie you drive is starting to wear on your pride, you can at least enjoy that you have a faster way to travel then by foot.  If you don't have the job that makes you happy, continue to strive for the one that does.  In the meantime, continue to collect those paychecks for which you ardously earn every week, because most anything beats working in a factory for $2 a day.  Not happy with your sex life, or lack thereof?  Consider the many wounded soldiers and marines who have lost that ability when they stepped on an pressure-plated IED.  For me, I like to always think that I have it good.  I'm well fed, clothed, housed, and free of debilitating disease.  My body works as it should, and my brain can still function.  And while I could use a constant reminder that being stuck in traffic isn't as bad as being the guy who caused the traffic (thank you New York City for my road rage), I am generally happy with where I am and who I'm surrounded by.  And when you're happy , it's hard not to smile.

Cpl Todd Love's story:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/08/29/todd-love-triple-amputee-marine-veteran-spartan-race_n_1840261.html

Scott Neeson's story:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g6yw3GRt4Rc

Runaway

It was a rare opportunity. Sure, the conditions weren't favorable, but the moment begged for seizing.  If it was to be done, I had to make that decision now.  With my heart pounding in my temples, I quickly went to work.  In my room, I laid all of my best clothes into a laundry basket and topped it off with my comforter and pillow.  Those would prove to be vital, as this escape was happening in December.  I hesitated only for a moment as I let my thoughts take over.  Krin would be upset.  She had asked me not to go a month earlier after my last escape attempt had been foiled by my roommate.  For weeks, I had been slowly smuggling the majority of my belongings into the trunk of my car, and was waiting for the right moment to vanish when my foster brother, whose disdain towards me was mutually reflected, exposed my plan.  He had been going through my things, and as usual, he snitched me out.  That day didn't end well for me. 

Krin was the closest friend I ever had.  I trusted and confided in her.  She was the only person I looked forward to seeing when I came home everyday.  It's hard to say whether there were romantic feelings involved, because I did have a crush on her early on.  When I first came to live at her mom's foster/group home, I was twelve.  Being only a year younger than me, we were the closest in age in the household, and we walked to school together everyday, until we no longer were allowed to.  For six years, we lived, struggled, and fought together.  We were close friends one year, and bitter enemies another.  We developed feelings and crushes on our classmates, and teased each other about them.  I remember punking one of her admirers everyday, as he tried to tag along with us on our walks to school.  For six years together, we suffered. 

Although she wasn't a product of parental abandonment like the rest of us, she had her own battle against her mom.  If we were the servants to a tyrannical dictator, she was the princess trapped in fear and self loathing. Her mother, Rose treated us as if we were the plague of society.  To her we were criminals who had to be dealt with (and some of us were criminals) by the warden whose hard leadership and tough love could bring us salvation.  Towards her daughter, she was the strict Mother Superior, whose verbal lashings and contempt were meant to stave her on the path of her own demented view of righteousness.  If Krin stayed out an hour later than she was supposed to, say 9pm on a Saturday night, she would be called a whore, a slut who was going out and offering herself as the town bicycle.  If she developed a crush on a boy at her high school, Rose would scream about what a useless piece of shit Krin was and how she has such a bad daughter who would rather waste her time and energy chasing boys instead of helping around the house.  And our walks to school together had to stop.  There was no way that a girl of a higher upbringing like her should be getting close to a boy like me, parentless, low-class and apparently destined to amount to nothing.  If this sounds horrible, hearing it in Vietnamese makes it somehow worse.  Every time I witnessed these verbal lashings, I appreciated my almost-orphan status a little more.  Physical lashings heal much faster, and I would rather have no parents at all than to have one like Rose. 

I knew that if I left first, Krin may never forgive me.  I would be abandoning her to her mother.  Though as much as I cared for her, I knew I couldn't stay any longer.  Legally, I was already emancipated three months prior, and could leave without having to worry about cops bringing me back.  Logistically, it was difficult to leave because of the double-sided locks on all the doors.  Even my bedroom, which I shared with two others, needed a key to unlock.  Once we were locked in, we had to knock and wake up a counselor, who slept in the hallway with a set of keys, to let us out.  One of the guys kept a two liter bottle with him every night, because he needed to piss often, and it wasn't always a sure thing getting our guard to wake up and let us out.  On the day of December 1st, a Friday, at around 8pm, the counselor forgot to lock the front door.  I also happened to have my car keys and $200 in my possession, which, like all things we owned, including any money we made, were normally turned in upon our inspections.  (Anytime one of us foster kids left or returned to the home, we were told to strip down to our boxers and searched for contraband, and removed of our possessions like car keys and cash.)  I pushed my thoughts of Krin out of my head, grabbed my full laundry basket, and stealthily crept out of the front door. 

Once the door was closed, I smelled the air differently.  There was a sense of freedom and inspiration, and certainly a tone of urgency, as the mission wan't quite complete yet.  I ran as fast as I could to my car, threw what was left of my belongings in, and peeled away.  It wasn't out of the question for Rose to use physical force to bring me back.  Not that she would do it herself.  She had her lackeys to do the dirty work for her.   It wasn't until I was on the freeway that I stopped staring in my rearview mirror.  I was going 90 in a 65, and I didn't even realize it.  The song No More by Ruff Endz was playing on the radio, and though the lyrics actually describe a girl cheating and how this man wasn't going to give her "no more" of the finer things, to me, I just heard, no more.  In my head, it must have sounded more like this:


No more beatings, no more fear.
No more of your evil here.
No more running to school to avoid the pain,
No more daydreaming to keep me sane.
No more of your lies to hold me down,
I may be alone, but at least I start on my own solid ground. 

And no more roof over my head either.  With only my car, some clothes, a good blanket, and $200, I was homeless and sleeping out of my car.  And I was happy. 

The 1989 Acura Legend that would be home to me for three months.

Dear Sister From Another Father

Dear Sister,

You and I don’t know each other, but we have met before.  I don’t remember you since I was only a baby, but I assume you must be smart and good-looking since I’ve inherited those genes from our mom too.  The last time we saw each other I believe you dropped me.  Don’t worry, no grudges here.  Besides, I eventually stopped trying to bite my own ear and I only attempt to lick my eyebrows occasionally.  No, I’m fine and am quite normal I assure you.    

First, I’d like to apologize for what happened, as I’m sure you didn’t mean for me to slip out.  The truth is, I didn’t even know you existed until I was ten.  For a few years, I considered any female Vo to be my potential sister.  This caused a lot of angst when I developed a crush on a Jody Vo in middle school.  I had not yet learned that you are ten years older than me.   Our mom never gave me a whole lot of information.  At first all I knew was your name.  Then, when social media became popular, I asked about your birthday so I could try and find you.  Then I was told that you were taken away from her and placed into foster care when you were ten, which is the exact age I went in too.   It seems she has some type of bad luck with that.  She didn’t hit me though.  She never struck me in any way.  For that, I have you to thank, since she did constantly lament to me about how you were taken away because of it.  So, thank you.  My story of how I landed in foster care involved our mom getting arrested one night for drunk driving.  After her abusive relationship with my dad (who you probably know better than me) she wound up getting a job at one of those Vietnamese night clubs.  You know, the one that old Vietnamese guys frequent to drink and flirt with the waitresses.  That’s how she became an alcoholic.  That’s a whole other story though.

What I’d really like is to get to know you a little better.  Besides our mom, you’re the only blood relative I know of.  Well, except for my son, of course.  (Oh, surprise!  You’re an aunt!)  Were you able to land a good home?  What is your story?  I bet it’s a good one.  Where are you now?  What do you do for work?  Perhaps we can even exchange a little information about our parents.  I believe you knew my father, and I can tell you about our mother.  Let me start first.

I don’t know if our mom was eccentric before or after the shooting, but in my memory, she’s always been a bit strange.  I only lived with her for a short time, between the age of nine and ten.  For all the years prior, she would pay people who ran foster homes or babysitters to arrange a full time living arrangement for me while she worked and lived somewhat vicariously through shopping and partying.  She was a spendthrift who bought new Honda Preludes every three years and wore designer labels.  She also had strange beliefs, such as the ability to cure anything with water.  According to her, water kept all diseases at bay, and had the power to cure cancer.  She was obsessive and compulsive about it.  At restaurants, she’d always order multiple glasses of water, and often times, the waiters would get so annoyed with delivering her multiple requests that they would give us an entire pitcher the moment we sat down.  At home, I was forced to drink water constantly, so much that in the fifth grade, I had a daily bathroom routine.  I was given the cool moniker of “Potty Patrol” because of my clockwork antics.  Everyday at 10am I had to excuse myself, and the other kids would chime, “Uh oh, Potty Patrol!” 

She also dabbled in fortune telling, which people actually paid her to do.  Her claims of being able to communicate with Buddha and other deities apparently held water with a lot of her clients.  Of course, none of them knew that she jumped ship and switched to Catholicism for a year before coming back to Buddha again.   

I know that I’m not painting a picture of the ideal mom, but please don’t judge her too harshly.  She has been through a lot.  First, she lost you.  Then my dad shot her.  A few years later, she lost me too.  After I was gone, her mental health deteriorated.  I don’t know if it was the alcoholism, depression, or a genetic thing, but she was eventually diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, and then Schizophrenia a few years later.  During my high school years, I ran into her at a Vietnamese shopping center.  She was selling knick-knacks out of a plastic bag and begging for money.  She didn’t even recognize me when I approached her. 

Today, she doesn’t fare much better.  Still stubborn to the end (I think I get that from her) she refuses to take medication for an illness she doesn’t think she has and that everything will be fine as long as she prays and drinks water.  She still wants to be a fortune teller, since her beliefs in her powers has not faded.  Only a week ago, we had a pointed conversation about my coming to visit her.  I’ve been trying to have her meet her grandson, but she was admitted into a hospital again after not taking her meds for a week.  Unfortunately, it’s a common occurrence. 

My hope for her is that she will realize she needs help and that she will get better.  Most of our conversations last less than five minutes, but every once in a while she has moments of great clarity.   She speaks of you often in an apologetic and regretful tone, and she hopes that I can find you one day.  I’ve tried Myspace and Facebook, but with no luck.  I’m hoping that one of my friends reading this might know someone you know and we can find each other.  It’s not too late for you to give me unsolicited sisterly advice or for me to annoy you as a younger brother.  Even if we don’t find each other, I hope that you are doing well, and that you’ve turned your circumstances into a good story to tell. 

Thank you Mr. Bea

After a couple of weeks, I was back out on the street.  Biking to Golfland, stealing toys, and eating hot dogs and cookies for dinner.  I learned a few more tricks before going back into the shelter.  I met this kid Mai.  He was also a regular at the arcades, so naturally we became friends.  He was an older kid,.  Then again to a ten year old, fourteen is old.  With his age came wisdom and knowledge, the crafty type.  He taught me how to fish.  With the right length of fishing line and strong, thin tape, (or a drill if you can get your hands on one) you can drop your quarter or token into the coin slot, and slide it down until it hits a thin metal tab.  That tab indicates that you've paid and that you get the credit to play.  Pull it back up before it goes past a certain point, or your bait is lost.  Drop it back down again and you've now successfully fished.  Off of $.25, you could play a game with two players and beat it, something that could take $5.00 for a noob.  (If any kids are reading this, well, doesn't really matter since Xbox and PS3 provide the best gaming experience now, but still, I do not condone or endorse this type of thing.  Anymore.  And yeah, I'm a huge video game nerd.)

In addition to my young life of petty crime, I also started cutting school and, from a dare, I spray painted the school walls.  To top it off, I strolled around with a keychain of a topless blonde that I bought at a shady convenience store.  One day, I was caught cutting school and the female officer in charge of transporting me back asked me about it.
Does your mom allow you to have this?
Yes, I say as I think of the hilarity of my mom having authority over me.  I make up something about her being cool with it, and Mrs. Officer mutters something about bad parenting.  Of course, nobody was able to get a hold of my mom, so I never got into any trouble.   I was en route to becoming a bad kid, until a teacher finally stepped in.

My fifth grade teacher, Mr. Bea must have noticed something was amiss.  The snitches get stitches rule was apparently not in effect since everyone knew I spray painted the school.    After I was brought back by the keychain-hating cop, he intervened.  He asked me about my home life, which I immediately deflected.  He told me he knew about my artwork on the walls, the unexcused absences, and the cigarette smoking.  The latter was a surprise to me, since I didn't smoke, but rumours start and spread pretty quickly.  I bet it originated from the same brat who ratted on me.  I tried to tell the truth and deny it, but with my reputation it was impossible to shake the new label.  However, I did welcome his help.  We were doing a class project about making fun commercials, and I was having trouble creating mine.  I remember the other kids' elaborate projects, from make believe hotels to savvy infomercials for phony inventions.  I was dwarfed by their creativity, but luckily Mr. Bea was my assistant actor.  My grand idea was pulled from a Juicy Fruit commercial.  Add in some of my odd prepubescent humor and the product became Juicy Poop.  If you know the jingle, you'll see the similarities.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJ92qqzutcE   

Take a sniff.  (Actors sniff fingers) Pull it ouuuuut.  (Actors retrieve Juicy Poop from rear) The taste is gonna move ya.  It's gonna move ya when you pop it in your mooooouuuth.  Juicy Poop.  It's gonna move ya.  The juice is soft.  It gets right to ya.

>Cut to scene where I give thumbs up with my Juicy Poop, like a Mentos.<    
That was the jingle I sang with Mr. Bea to my classmates for my presentation.  It wasn't the best in the class, but I remember thinking I did okay and that I was grateful for the help.

That wasn't the only time he helped me.  The entire fifth grade class was going to a science camp called Walden West.  Apparently we were a "Stanford Accelerated School" which comes with certain perks. All of the kids would spend an entire week up in the cabins in some woods and learn about tarantulas and banana slugs.  We were told they even had a song about the latter.
But it wasn't free.  I was made aware of this trip sometime in January, so there were fundraisers you could participate in to raise money for yourself.  Now that I look at it, it seems like a way to make money off of young aspiring faces.  Anyhow, I was given a box of 30 generic Hershey-looking chocolates.  I sold about four and ate the rest.  When the time came to pay up, I was already in the process of moving to a foster family, so they never brought it up.  I did have bigger things to worry about though.  Somehow the whole school knew that I was at the shelter again, awaiting to be put into my first foster home.  Mr. Bea and a few of the faculty members must have paid for my trip, because I was notified that I would be going.  Despite the situation at the time, I felt elated.  It was a like a going away gift.  It would be the last time I would enjoy the freedom I was accustomed to.

It's been twenty years since, and I still am grateful for having such a great teacher.  You know how security questions sometimes ask who your favorite teacher is?  I always put Mr. Bea.  I recently reached out to him on LinkedIn and thanked him for making an impact on my life.  I believe that good teachers deserve all the praise that their paychecks don't sing.  So take some time and thank a teacher in your life.  I'm sure they'll appreciate it.

PS - As usual, names have been changed or omitted to protect their privacy.
 

The Children's Shelter by Sleepy Hollow

I was ten years old the first time I checked in to the Children's Shelter by Sleepy Hollow.  (My math was wrong in my earlier posts.  I didn't turn eleven until the start of sixth grade.)  A police officer greeted me on a Saturday morning as I was on my way out to enjoy my weekly savings.  He explained that someone had called to report I was home alone, which I vehemently denied.  When he asked to speak to my parents, I could furnish no answer that would help me to escape.  I was detained and taken to the shelter immediately. 

The Children's Shelter of Santa Clara County on Roberts Road.  Little did I know that I would become a frequent guest of these facilities.  Five more times to be exact.  It wasn't a terrible place though.  There were doctors who gave health analyses before assimilating me with the rest of the kids.  Afterwards, I was taken to a large room with two rows of metal beds methodically placed between tall gray lockers.  Each bed was neatly made, with the sheets and covers tightly tucked in.  I was assigned one of the beds and its corresponding locker, where I found a set of toiletries, towels and pajamas laid out for me. 

Life in the shelter was very routine.  Wake up and make your bed.  There were specific instructions given on how beds were to be made.  One of the kids, Rudy, another frequent guest, helped me out, since I was a newbie.  The trick he said, was to use a clipboard to shove the sheets and covers tightly under the mattress, giving the top of the bed a taut and tucked appearance.  Once all the beds were made, we lined up to walk in formation to morning chow.  After chow, we were released to shower and brush our teeth, which I thought was strange, since I was used to brushing before eating.  There was a school on the premises, though the only resemblance to a normal school it had was that there was recess at 10am.  Aside from the rumours and gossip of who ran away and who was secretly sleeping with each other, (the guests' ages ranged between four and sixteen) the kids played normally during recess and lunch.  My favorite time of the day, of course, was free time, the two hours given to us before lights out.  There was a game room, which consisted of a pool table, a foosball table, and a tv with a Sega console, not the Genesis, but the original master system.  Here, I became a pro at foosball, learning how to accurately pass and shoot without putting the whole rookie spin on the poles. 

On the weekends, we were afforded the opportunity to go roller skating.  That, I was horrible at.  During one of the trips, I remember being sad, not because I was afraid or missing my mom, but because I was upset that my time and freedom were being taken from me.  What was so wrong about being home alone?  I was grown for my age, wasn't I?  I knew how to feed myself, take myself to school, and still earn good grades without anyone checking up on me.  Some of the kids were stuck in the shelter for months, unable to go back to their families, and passed over by potential foster parents for younger, more well-behaved kids.  These group of kids, like Rudy and me, were the regulars that kept coming back.  We were the unwanted ones who couldn't behave or last in any particular home.  In the van ride back to the shelter I started to wonder if I would ever have my freedom again.  I didn't want to be there anymore, nor did I want to be in foster care.  I wanted to go home back to the life where I was my own boss.  I came and went as I pleased.  On some nights, I bought a pack of Oreo's or a Sara Lee's pound cake, and that would be my dinner.  I played video games as late as I wanted to, since my mom didn't come home until 2am.   Here I was prisoner to their schedules and as I thought about the unknown that awaited, I silently allowed the tears to come out.  One of the counselors asked my why eyes were puffy, to which I responded that the falls from skating caused the hurt. 

A couple weeks had passed before I was released back to my mother.  She had apparently jumped through all of their hoops to claim me back.  When I arrived back home, nothing changed.  The next day, we went back to our normal routine, and I was happy again.  I had to be careful though.  Somebody knew that I was being left home alone, and I suspected my neighbors.  Nick and Vincent's parents weren't the meddling type.  I made it a habit to leave through the back gate of the house, and I always checked to see if anyone was watching me leave.  There were a few close calls, and I remember nights when officers would come by the house to check up on me, and I would hide under the bed until they stopped knocking on the door.  I had to stay out of the shelter if I was to enjoy my freedoms.  It wouldn't last long.  In another few months, I would be back at the shelter. 


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To Vincent and Nick

I had two best friends in the fifth grade.  Nick was a light-complected, spiky blonde haired and light eyed Mexican kid.  He lived half a mile down the street from me, and I became a regular guest at his household.  His family always provided me with warm company and a good meal.  He had two younger sisters, a caring mom and a tough loving dad.  Both were hardworking and both loved their family.  I would come over about three times a week and pretty much loiter and sleep over at their apartment.  It was a small place, but homey.   Nick and I did the normal 10-year-old activities around the complex; play football, perform WWF moves on each other, run around and throw chunks of sand at other kids and say Tag! You're it!  Every now and then, we'd get mad at each other, cuss and say mean things, maybe get into a fist fight, but we always stayed friends. 

My other friend was Vincent, whom I met while playing pogo.  I was about to get into a fight with a boy regarding a pogo ball when Vincent showed up to defend his younger brother.  Somehow we became friends after that.  Funny how boys operate.  My mom wasn't very fond of him though.  It wasn't because he was a bad kid.  It was the fact that he was black.  She had her purse stolen by a black man once, and since then she stereotyped all black people as purse snatchers.  To her dismay, I brought him to the house almost everday to pick up my allowance before heading out to his place.  I slept over there often as well.  I remember at times there were four of us crammed in a bunk bed, laying head to toe, but I was happy because he had a good family.  His mother was kind, and his step father seemed to have his head on straight.  They ate together at the dinner table, had sleepovers with their cousins, and played in the house like normal kids.  Both Nick and Vincent's families gave me the sense of safety, comfort and guidance that came from having siblings and parents around, even if they were borrowed. 

On the weekends, we'd all take a trip to Golfland to enjoy the money I'd saved all week.  I was pretty good at saving.  On the weekdays, knowing that I could find ways to get fed for free, I didn't bother spending any money.  By the time Saturday came around, I knew I would have $50, sometimes $75 if I saved well, to spend.  Sometimes we spent it all on Saturday, getting $20 worth of tokens, buying junk food, and splurging the rest at the music store in the mall.  Sometimes I'd skip all that and buy video games for the Super Nintendo, which I also bought.  That one took a couple months worth of saving.

Sometimes, saving money just wasn't enough to get what I wanted.  I was a huge fan of Legos at the time, but it wasn't something I could easily afford.  Without consultation or training, I learned to be a thief.  I started small, with things that could fit in my pocket; candy bars and trading cards.  Then I moved up and started using my 10-year-old innocent school boy look, with my backpack as my accomplice.  Through Toys R Us, I quickly amassed a large collection of expensive Lego sets, remote control cars, and handheld video games, which I shared with my friends.  Morals played no part in it, and it made me happy that I could offer my friends something in return for all they had given me.  They certainly didn't question where it came from, and when their parents asked, I just said my mom bought it as a thank you for letting me hang out all the time. 

Stealing from Toys R Us, Kaybee Toys, and grocery stores became habitual.  Either my age or my innocent look kept anyone from suspecting anything, because I got away with a lot more than I should have.  It's not to say I never got caught.  I did once, by a Lucky's employee.  But he just reprimanded me and asked, "Is this what they're teaching kids these days at school?"  He let me go, but he probably shouldn't have.  This would have been the opportune moment to correct my bad behavior and set me on the right path.  Nobody did, and instead, I learned how to be more tactical in my methods.  My mother never asked where I got my toys from, and I didn't feel I owed her an explanation.

 

After just six months of living with my mom, I grew to be very self-reliant.  I understood that I couldn't depend on her for certain things, especially anything involving her time.  Our relationship became strained, and I soon only saw her as a source of funding.  Sometimes she would cancel our Sundays for a date, and sometimes I would ditch out on her.  I slept over at my friends' houses more, and I was often gone for two or three days at a time, switching between Nick's and Vincent's.  Of course, Mom didn't object.  When Christmas arrived that year, Vincent's family offered to take me on a family trip to Santa Rosa, a city two hours north.  I faked my mom's consent. For an entire week, I spent Christmas vacation surrounded by family.  I amusingly became the target of some friendly ribbing by the elders.  So what part of the family are you from? they would tease.  I enjoyed it, and not once did I feel out of place or unwanted.  For presents, I received a bright yellow walkman, the Boyz II Men's Cooleyhighharmony tape, and a Cross Colours sweater.  I was fortunate to have them in my life. 

It’s too bad we all lost touch.  I've tried to find them, but with all the privacy settings on Facebook, there's been no luck.  Perhaps if this story could be forwarded, I could reunite with them and finally show my gratitude for the great childhood they've given me.  That's Nick and Vincent, who attended Terrell Elementary, San Jose in 1992.  Should you come across them or someone who knows them, please forward them my contact information.  Thanks.

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