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greybetaSay you’re walking into the house of a happily married couple. What’s one of the first things you should notice? If you’re me, you’d notice that their wedding photo is usually located in a prominent position. It’s an indication of who owns and lives in that house. Also, guests inevitably have to ask “How’d you guys meet?” if there’s a picture of a grinning bride and groom staring back at them.
However, in my parents’ house, there is no such photo. Of course, there are photos of my family and them being together. But you won’t find any photo of my dad in a tuxedo or my mom in a bridal gown, not even for a re-enactment ceremony. Why?
Because of April 30th, 1975.
That’s the day Saigon fell, and with it the democracy that was South Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh and the Viet Cong reunited Vietnam under the banner of Communism, the Communism that would bring “paradise” back to the land of dragons and fairies. Well, Vietnam today struggles to meet WTO standards and political unrest lurks. Some paradise my motherland has become.
But back to that fateful April 30th. My dad had just graduated from the Vietnamese National Military Academy less than two weeks earlier, a bright-eyed young lieutenant who believed in his country. He believed America would aid his country to fight the evil that was Communism.
To his surprise, the Americans left and the North Vietnamese army marched in to take control. Now, you see, it’s not as if the South Vietnamese couldn’t have won without American help. But American foreign policy at the time pushed for containment instead of direct confrontation with China and the Soviet Union. Incidentally, the policy worked as America was able to take advantage of the fissures between China and Soviet Union to split the two biggest Communist blocs in the world.
A small, piddly ally like South Vietnam was a small price to pay.
What did the unconditional surrender of South Vietnam entail? Well, first consider that the president of South Vietnam fled to the U.S., leaving others to take the fall for him. Among the many political prisoners was my dad, who by the mere fact that he was an officer meant that he had to endure two years of “re-education camp”, also known as a concentration camp (though of a lesser degree of the Holocaust).
Every day meant a day of hard labor for my dad. At night, a propaganda officer would teach the prisoners the errors of their way. Oh, you thought the Americans were going to help you? Where are your Americans now? Foolish brothers, learn the errors of your way and admit that Communism is above all.
Now see, my mom and dad really hadn’t formed a strong relationship yet but the love was there. Dad would write letters to Mom, but he had to go through several means to do it. He’d have to give the letter to his brother, who would give it to my mom’s aunt, who would deliver it to my mom, who promptly burned it after reading it.
When my Dad got out of the “re-education camp”, he found it difficult to find work. The Communists had made it so that officers of the former Southern Vietnamese army would find it very difficult to rise in the new society. Think of all the Northern punishment of the South in the Reconstruction period after the American Civil War and multiply that with a country that has never really known true democracy.
My mom, though a fellow native Vietnamese woman, was teaching English at the time (this is one of the reasons why I have pretty good command of the English language despite being the son of two immigrant parents). If her relationship with my dad was discovered by the Communist government, she would have been blacklisted into oblivion. They were married in their hearts, but an official marriage would be fatal for their future.
They realized that they had to flee their home, all that they knew, to some place where their children could grow up to have hope. They didn’t know exactly where, but they took a journey on a boat into the vast ocean. The journey itself is a story, but eventually they would end up in America.
Now, entering the country, my dad had a choice. He could go to Minneapolis where three of his brothers and sister and relocated to already (my grandmother, the three uncles, and several of my cousins still live in the Golden Gopher state), California where we had some relatives, or Ft. Smith, Arkansas where he knew one cousin-in-law. As you might know by now, he chose Ft. Smith, Arkansas.
Why? Well, the ostensible reason is that you put the most important things in the center of your country (my dad was blissfully unaware of the bicoastal bias of the U.S.). But, I think the main reason is that my dad was the type of person to build his own life on his own terms, and going out to Arkansas would help him accomplish just that.
My mom was six months pregnant with my sister at the time. Being refugees in a foreign land meant knowing very few people. The people you had a connection with, other Vietnamese refugees, were just as poor even if they had been in the U.S. a few years now (my parents arrived in 1980, compared to the waves that had been coming since 1975). Fortunately, the people at Eastside Baptist Church helped my family out.
I wasn’t around, but apparently the Hamm family greatly helped my parents out, teaching them the joys of American finances and life. The elderly Holmes couple served as our religious compasses, naming my sister Hannah and me Daniel. This is how I grew to like the waters of the Southern Baptist Church (and still like that water, in fact).
I remember growing up, feeling something was missing from our house. It finally dawned upon me at a friend’s wedding that my parents, while they had gotten married, didn’t have one of those bride/groom pictures. So I asked why recently, having woken up from a long slumber.
They told me that such things don’t really matter. Besides, they wanted to wait until I got married before taking such a picture. They want to know that their decision to leave their motherland for America was correct. I then understood what they were implying. I didn’t have to ask for clarification.
I am the happiness of my family.
It’s not that my sister isn’t important. She is, very much so. But Asian culture values sons, the “golden” sons which shine happiness to their family. When I was selfish and just slept in my house for nearly a year, my parents were disappointed, perhaps even mortified. But their experiences taught them that they had been through worse and they were willing to be patient to see me break out of my reverie on my own.
They left all that they knew for me. They wanted me to be a perfect fusion of Vietnamese and American culture. Now, Vietnamese culture dictates that one’s son should be dedicated to being a doctor, pharmacist, or engineer. American culture dictates that one should follow one’s heart and do what I want to do. I was confused, as I seemed to have contradictory impulses splitting me apart.
Click.
Everything lined up for a click of insight, one of those rare moments in your life where everything that confused you before suddenly made sense. I needed to be dedicated to what my heart said and what I wanted to do. I can apply my mathematically inclined mind to the rigors of teaching history.
I accept being a failure in the eyes of traditional Asian culture and the burden of being my family’s happiness. No, there’s no way to get around it. And perhaps, in American culture, I fail to make full use of my talents by teaching history. However, as a fusion, I’m perfectly suited to make use of both. I’ll be a technologically-proficient history teacher!
It makes me realize that the good Lord does exist. Now, now, I’m still agnostic about the whole “Jesus is the only way” thing, but I will do my best in my investigation of Christ’s teachings and Christ himself. I look forward to whoever and whatever gives me the right answer in that regard.
For the first time in a long time, I can say that I honestly enjoy life again.
So, I’m curious, what’s missing from your parents’ house?
However, in my parents’ house, there is no such photo. Of course, there are photos of my family and them being together. But you won’t find any photo of my dad in a tuxedo or my mom in a bridal gown, not even for a re-enactment ceremony. Why?
Because of April 30th, 1975.
That’s the day Saigon fell, and with it the democracy that was South Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh and the Viet Cong reunited Vietnam under the banner of Communism, the Communism that would bring “paradise” back to the land of dragons and fairies. Well, Vietnam today struggles to meet WTO standards and political unrest lurks. Some paradise my motherland has become.
But back to that fateful April 30th. My dad had just graduated from the Vietnamese National Military Academy less than two weeks earlier, a bright-eyed young lieutenant who believed in his country. He believed America would aid his country to fight the evil that was Communism.
To his surprise, the Americans left and the North Vietnamese army marched in to take control. Now, you see, it’s not as if the South Vietnamese couldn’t have won without American help. But American foreign policy at the time pushed for containment instead of direct confrontation with China and the Soviet Union. Incidentally, the policy worked as America was able to take advantage of the fissures between China and Soviet Union to split the two biggest Communist blocs in the world.
A small, piddly ally like South Vietnam was a small price to pay.
What did the unconditional surrender of South Vietnam entail? Well, first consider that the president of South Vietnam fled to the U.S., leaving others to take the fall for him. Among the many political prisoners was my dad, who by the mere fact that he was an officer meant that he had to endure two years of “re-education camp”, also known as a concentration camp (though of a lesser degree of the Holocaust).
Every day meant a day of hard labor for my dad. At night, a propaganda officer would teach the prisoners the errors of their way. Oh, you thought the Americans were going to help you? Where are your Americans now? Foolish brothers, learn the errors of your way and admit that Communism is above all.
Now see, my mom and dad really hadn’t formed a strong relationship yet but the love was there. Dad would write letters to Mom, but he had to go through several means to do it. He’d have to give the letter to his brother, who would give it to my mom’s aunt, who would deliver it to my mom, who promptly burned it after reading it.
When my Dad got out of the “re-education camp”, he found it difficult to find work. The Communists had made it so that officers of the former Southern Vietnamese army would find it very difficult to rise in the new society. Think of all the Northern punishment of the South in the Reconstruction period after the American Civil War and multiply that with a country that has never really known true democracy.
My mom, though a fellow native Vietnamese woman, was teaching English at the time (this is one of the reasons why I have pretty good command of the English language despite being the son of two immigrant parents). If her relationship with my dad was discovered by the Communist government, she would have been blacklisted into oblivion. They were married in their hearts, but an official marriage would be fatal for their future.
They realized that they had to flee their home, all that they knew, to some place where their children could grow up to have hope. They didn’t know exactly where, but they took a journey on a boat into the vast ocean. The journey itself is a story, but eventually they would end up in America.
Now, entering the country, my dad had a choice. He could go to Minneapolis where three of his brothers and sister and relocated to already (my grandmother, the three uncles, and several of my cousins still live in the Golden Gopher state), California where we had some relatives, or Ft. Smith, Arkansas where he knew one cousin-in-law. As you might know by now, he chose Ft. Smith, Arkansas.
Why? Well, the ostensible reason is that you put the most important things in the center of your country (my dad was blissfully unaware of the bicoastal bias of the U.S.). But, I think the main reason is that my dad was the type of person to build his own life on his own terms, and going out to Arkansas would help him accomplish just that.
My mom was six months pregnant with my sister at the time. Being refugees in a foreign land meant knowing very few people. The people you had a connection with, other Vietnamese refugees, were just as poor even if they had been in the U.S. a few years now (my parents arrived in 1980, compared to the waves that had been coming since 1975). Fortunately, the people at Eastside Baptist Church helped my family out.
I wasn’t around, but apparently the Hamm family greatly helped my parents out, teaching them the joys of American finances and life. The elderly Holmes couple served as our religious compasses, naming my sister Hannah and me Daniel. This is how I grew to like the waters of the Southern Baptist Church (and still like that water, in fact).
I remember growing up, feeling something was missing from our house. It finally dawned upon me at a friend’s wedding that my parents, while they had gotten married, didn’t have one of those bride/groom pictures. So I asked why recently, having woken up from a long slumber.
They told me that such things don’t really matter. Besides, they wanted to wait until I got married before taking such a picture. They want to know that their decision to leave their motherland for America was correct. I then understood what they were implying. I didn’t have to ask for clarification.
I am the happiness of my family.
It’s not that my sister isn’t important. She is, very much so. But Asian culture values sons, the “golden” sons which shine happiness to their family. When I was selfish and just slept in my house for nearly a year, my parents were disappointed, perhaps even mortified. But their experiences taught them that they had been through worse and they were willing to be patient to see me break out of my reverie on my own.
They left all that they knew for me. They wanted me to be a perfect fusion of Vietnamese and American culture. Now, Vietnamese culture dictates that one’s son should be dedicated to being a doctor, pharmacist, or engineer. American culture dictates that one should follow one’s heart and do what I want to do. I was confused, as I seemed to have contradictory impulses splitting me apart.
Click.
Everything lined up for a click of insight, one of those rare moments in your life where everything that confused you before suddenly made sense. I needed to be dedicated to what my heart said and what I wanted to do. I can apply my mathematically inclined mind to the rigors of teaching history.
I accept being a failure in the eyes of traditional Asian culture and the burden of being my family’s happiness. No, there’s no way to get around it. And perhaps, in American culture, I fail to make full use of my talents by teaching history. However, as a fusion, I’m perfectly suited to make use of both. I’ll be a technologically-proficient history teacher!
It makes me realize that the good Lord does exist. Now, now, I’m still agnostic about the whole “Jesus is the only way” thing, but I will do my best in my investigation of Christ’s teachings and Christ himself. I look forward to whoever and whatever gives me the right answer in that regard.
For the first time in a long time, I can say that I honestly enjoy life again.
So, I’m curious, what’s missing from your parents’ house?
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Date: 2007-04-30 06:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-30 07:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-30 08:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-30 08:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-30 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-01 04:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-01 04:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-01 12:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-01 02:17 pm (UTC)If that sounds arrogant, that's because I am arrogant. ^_^
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Date: 2007-05-02 10:42 am (UTC)Thanks for always sharing these little revelations. :D
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Date: 2007-05-02 10:51 am (UTC)