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.