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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Living with Mom: Part One

It was Leitz Elementary from kindergarten to the middle of third grade.  Parkview Elementary for the rest of third grade.  Then Hayes for half of fourth grade.  By the time I landed at Terrell Elementary, I was quite adept at making new friends.  I was also good at letting them go.  As moving was becoming a common event, I learned to always be ready to pack up and ship out to my next location. 

The one year living with my mom provided me with some of the best memories of my childhood, though none of them involved her.  It was difficult to, since we were like boats passing at sea.  School was from 8AM to 230PM, and my mom worked (or at least was gone from the house) from 11AM until 2AM.  We never held a conversation any further than me telling her what I needed.  Signatures for field trips, replacing school supplies, and money for food.  The money part was a bit of a scheme I devised, since I was being fed by the school and my friends' parents most of the time.  I volunteered everyday serving breakfast at the cafeteria, which guaranteed a morning meal, along with extra peanut butter and jelly graham cracker sandwiches for an evening snack.  The free lunch program took care of my noontime meal.

Is five dollars enough for dinner son?
I don't know, mom.  A pizza and a soda is about five dollars.  Sometimes I'm still hungry.

She never objected to my allowance increase requests.  At one point, she was leaving me fifteen dollars a day.  It's absurd now that I think about how much money I was getting, but I guess that was her way of making up for the time we didn't spend together.  After school everyday, I would find my allowance/bribe left for me on the dresser, which I would spend on things I really needed, like cookies, video games, and trips to the arcade.  All of my time after school was spent at either Nick's or Vincent's house.  They were my closest and only friends, and they both lived across the street from a Mountain Mike's Pizza and a 7-11.  Countless hours and quarters were spent on the arcades there, though we were always sure to save enough money for a hot dog or garlic cheese bread, my personal favorite. 

On the weekends, we would collect our savings and head out to Golfland, a short two mile bike ride.  We weren't interested in the miniature golfing or water slides; it was all about the arcades, pizza and icees.  I still remember the large double wooden doors with its giant handles, the clacking sounds of air hockey right when you walked in, the smell of pizza, and for me, the feeling of complete freedom.  Unlike other kids, I was never told when I had to leave.  My money determined that.  When Nick and Vincent had things to do with their families, I had no reservations about going solo.  When the money ran out, I simply biked to the mall across the street and freeloaded.  There were video game demos at Montgomery Wards in the electronics section, and Pinocchio was often playing on the big screen televisions.  I would literally sit there and watch, as families walked by doing their shopping.  I often wonder now if anyone noticed a ten year old kid loitering by himself around the mall.   

By that age, I had learned how to keep good company with myself.  I was an expert loner, since my two close friends couldn't always hang out with me.  They had normal families after all, with their summer trips, church, and all those other things I didn't know enough about to be envious of.  As for my mother and I, we still did our weekly Sunday routine; Lunch at Tung Kee on Story Road, the one near the Children's Shelter by Sleepy  Hollow.  After lunch, we'd both go our separate ways.  There were times when I experienced a great sense of loneliness, which would prompt me to call her.  It was usually on a weekday, when my friends couldn't go out due to homework or other plans.  My calls were usually met with the same answer.
I wish I could, but I have to work. 
I could usually expect to find a slight bonus left on the dresser the next day.  That was our relationship by the end of the fourth grade.

Coming up:  I spend Christmas with a black family, and I start stealing from Toys R Us to amass a huge Lego collection 

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Abnormally Normal

As I was driving home this past weekend from Atlantic City, I thought about the story I would write.  What was the next major event after coming to America?  I knew such little details about it, as I was only four years old at the time.  My snapshot memory provided little clues, and I hadn’t even developed the emotional maturity at the time to really understand what I saw. 

My mother circa 1988

Here is the scene as I remember it.  My mother was on the hospital bed, crying.  There was no blood or any visible injury, only tubes coming out of her body and nose.  I remember feeling a little confused.  That was it.  Later on, my mother would explain to me that she was shot that night by my father.  She was sad and lonely because they were fighting on Christmas day. So instead of picking me up from the babysitter’s, she went dancing with her friends.  His jealousy enraged him to go out searching for her.  Fortunately, he was a bad shot and she was only hit in the leg.  She recovered and he went to prison. 

I never saw or heard from him again, save the few hand-drawn pictures he sent from prison.  He was a good artist.  I wish my mother had kept them for me, since those are the few memories I have of him.  Those pictures and the smell of Polo cologne, the one in the green bottle with the gold round top.  I’m told he looks like me, but I wouldn’t know.   

That’s where my knowledge of the story ends, which pushed me to pursue it a bit more.  I started thinking of the questions to ask my mom, and suddenly I found myself realizing certain things about my life.  There was a lot I didn’t know, and I was hoping for my mom to have a moment of clarity to answer my questions. 

After my mom debriefed me about lottery numbers, I asked her for permission to talk about what happened.  It wasn’t something we ever really discussed.  She didn’t like talking about it, and I never had reason to ask.  I explained as best I could that I was writing a blog about overcoming hardships and finding happiness.  Although not quite understanding what I was doing, she agreed to answer my questions.

Here are my discoveries.  My father was a jealous and abusive man.  Ironically, he was also a womanizer.  Shortly after arriving to the US, my father found a job as a commercial artist, and my mother became a masseuse.  Their relationship deteriorated quickly and they fought often.   After he went to prison, my mother couldn’t take care of me alone, and we had no other family here, so she went through the classified section in Bao Thang Mo, a Vietnamese newspaper, to search for a family that would baby sit me.  Only, it wasn’t quite babysitting.  For $400 a month, I would live there full time, and my mother would pick me up once a week on Sundays.  At the age of four, I didn’t realize that this was a unique set up.  I thought it was normal.  It wasn’t until I was in the third grade, when my mother moved me to a different family that I realized it wasn’t quite the norm.  By then I had adjusted to it and was quite happy living with other families.  I was able to go to school and go out and play with kids my own age, and it resembled a real family enough that I actually enjoyed it.  The only hiccup was that we moved a lot, usually because of pricing disagreements.  Apparently, I was quite the malevolent child, often playing pranks on the adults who ran the house.  I don’t blame them for wanting to be paid more, but as a result, I attended four different schools by the fourth grade until my mom finally brought me home to live with her.

My first unrelated family

But why live with other families when plenty of single mothers take care of their kids from their own home, you might be wondering.  I surprisingly never wondered this until this last weekend, when I was thinking about what to write.  And to satisfy my readers, (which most likely is just you who's reading this) I had to find out the answers.

She explained to me that she was greedy for money.  As she unfolded the story of how she worked from 11 am until 2 am almost everyday, the revelation came to me.  My mother worked around the clock not because we were poor, but to support her lifestyle, one that included driving the latest model Honda Prelude and lavish shopping.  I remember going to the car dealership, and when she paid the down payment for her new car in cash, the salesman had a look of disbelief.  It wasn’t organized in a suitcase, with stacks of cash wrapped neatly in rubber bands.  She pulled the money from her purse, and they were mostly twenty dollar bills.  She, like many other immigrants, didn’t trust the bank.  There were things for me as well, like a Nintendo, Legos and birthday parties with lots of presents.  There was a piano she bought for me so I could learn how to play as well as a few lessons.  My mother was not a thrifty person, and to attain her lofty lifestyle she had to give me up to work all those hours. 

I turn six years old.  Two other foster kids behind me.

And there it was, my latest discovery.  The most surprising thing to me about all this was that I wasn’t all that surprised.  All the pieces were there, I just never bothered to put them together and say it.  Yes, my mother chose to pay unrelated people to take care of me, so that she could work really hard and make a lot of money to buy things we didn’t need.  But it all worked out for the best.  Those families had kids around my age and I credit them for giving me a normal childhood.  We learned how to play sports together.  We listened to Bel Biv Devoe and Boyz II Men and watched Jim Carrey and the whole Wayans family on In Living Color.  We hung out at the arcades, collected and traded cards of our favorite athletes and checked Beckett to see what they were worth.  At a neighbor’s house, I got pushed in a pool and learned to swim that same day.  I also got into my first fight (at Sunday school at church) with one of the kids I lived with.  I was a regular kid living in an irregular situation, but I still had a great time growing up. 

One of the foster kids from my first home.

In 1992, in the middle of fourth grade, my mother decided that I was old enough to come live with her.  She didn’t change her work hours.  She just figured I was old enough to take care of myself while she was away.  That's when I learned how to live on my own. 



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The Vietnamese Boat People

My voyage to the States is a common story for many Vietnamese people.  It's a tale that has been told and retold, and romanticized in plays and movies, such as Heaven and Earth.  If you've ever met a Viet person, you might know that appreciation and education are harped upon as a familiar theme amongst family values.  In fact, I believe that most families immigrating from war-torn countries place these values at the top.  Whenever a child or teenager acted out of line, or was becoming "too Americanized" as our parents used to say, they would promptly remind us of the hardships they had to endure to give us the life of freedom.  And deservedly so.  It was a tough way of life, one that was and is still a good reminder of why it is a privilege to be here in the US.  After the war, from 1975 until the mid 1980's tales of heartbreak and suffering were so common, it's difficult not to become numb to its tragedy. 

First, there was the fall of Saigon in 1975.  Families who were thought to be supporters of South Vietnam, or anti-communist, were jailed or executed.  Businessmen, scholars, and Catholics all shared this same fate as the communist government quickly established their rule. Those who fled faced a different kind of hardship.  Families who were fortunate enough to be wealthy quickly became unfortunate, and were forced to abandon their homes and flee with what little they could carry.  With enough luck, they were able to secure a passport or visa, allowing them to be the first ones out.

A much different fate awaited the have-nots  They took part in a lottery over the next decade, using all of their resources to smuggle as much of their family as possible to freedom.  Many times, families could only afford to send one person, and they would send one of the kids.  This chosen one would be pulled aside by their parents and be told about his or her lottery winnings.  There was an opportunity to get them out of the country and start a new and better life, but that they may not see their parents or siblings again for a long time, possibly forever.  Telling their siblings goodbye was forbidden, for fear of the plot being accidentally uncovered.  They would start their journey as a part of a group called the Boat People. 

Depending on whose story you listen to, the hardships range from awful to gut-wrenchingly horrendous.  Avoiding suffering was a constant task.  For three hot and humid days on the Mekong Delta, the passengers would hide and sit still, with little or no room to stand or lay down.  Food and water were scarce, as was oxygen in some cases.  In one story I heard, there was a hiding area built beneath the surface of a 35 feet boat, and sixty-eight passengers took turns one by one coming up for fresh air.  Many fainted constantly from focusing on a task that we do unconsciously.  In such tight quarters, one can only imagine the putrid smell of sweat, urine, and feces that accumulated. 

Managing to escape through the delta was just one check mark on the to-do list.  More dangers loomed on every vessel traveling towards freedom. Once in the South China Sea, the boats were rocked by Mother Nature's violent storms, and it became an ongoing battle for the passengers, bailing out water and throwing what little they owned overboard to save themselves from drowning.  Sometimes passengers were lost, sometimes whole boats were swallowed up.  In the silver lining at least there was the consolation of rain to replenish the dwindling supply of drinking water.  The Thai pirates who wandered the sea were less giving.   They often surrounded the weary travellers, looted each person at knife point, forced the men overboard to leave the women and children unprotected, and raped their victims, sometimes for hours as the children watched helplessly.  For the extremely ill-fated, their boats were attacked multiple times, and looted down to the point where they were laughed at by their attackers for their destitution. 

With millions of boat people wandering the sea, refugee camps were set up on islands in Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines to receive the homeless hoarde.  There they joined the others and waited, living in squalor and slight lawlessness, yet hopeful of the chance that they would be sponsored by someone in a non-communist country.  Of all the people who made it safely, I was the ultimate lottery winner.  I had the most comfortable accomodations, as I was still tucked away in my mother's womb during the boat ride to Indonesia's Pulau Gulang.  I remember her stories of going without food for three days, worrying and hoping that I would make it.  Perhaps that explains my love of food.  She never told me if she was a victim of rape, and I never knew enough about it at the time to ask.  What I do know is that I was a stubborn eight pound baby who had to be delivered via C-section.  I was the first in my family to be born outside of Vietnam, right into refugee status.  I had no birth certificate or citizenship, but of all the people who shared the fate of the Boat People, I was given the best chances for success and happiness.  After a twelve month stay on the island, we were sponsored to America, where we lived in Tulsa, Oklahoma for a short time before moving to California.  I like to imagine us as a small happy family for those first few years, before rage and jealousy took over my dad and caused him to break us apart.