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.
