by Thuy Rocco
Culture Clash
My family was not welcomed in our neighborhood. We were dirty, poor, and had no “American common sense.” My mom would pickle fish that she caught fishing from a nearby dam. These questionable jars would sit out in the backyard to make the popular (only in Vietnam) fermented fish. People who hated us would knock on our door and ask whether we had eaten their dogs or cats. Most of the time, they were making fun of us.
My family had one bathroom and shared half of a 600-square-foot duplex with two other families. Naturally, all of the children would use the bathroom outside. Yes, even #2. That did not go down well with our neighbors either.
I constantly got bullied for speaking Vietnamese. Adults and children would make “Chinese eyes” gestures and shout, “Ching, ching, chong.”
The kids in the playground always used Bruce Lee sounds to mock me and beat me up since I was supposed to know kung fu. One day, I took my hoodie that had a giant zipper and flung it like a whip, hitting the bullies in their faces. They were too embarrassed to tell the teacher that they got beaten up by a tiny Asian girl.
My mom did not know the difference between boy and girl clothes, so my brothers and I constantly wore the “wrong” gender clothing. One day, I went to school with football pajamas. I didn’t know there were clothes for sleeping and why football was just for boys. I was picked on the whole day, and when I came home, I cried to my mom and she threw those pajamas away.
Belle Meade
One of the kindest souls took my mom in as a housekeeper. I will call her Ms. Sing. She was very affluent and lived in the best part of town. When she hired my mom, she adopted my family. Every Christmas, she would give my mom a cash bonus to buy our Christmas gifts, but my mom would use that cash bonus for groceries, clothes, or emergencies. Ms. Sing found out that we never got gifts, so one Christmas she decided to take us all to Target. My brothers and I were allowed to pick out one item we wanted—anything we wanted. I picked out a Walkman and my brothers picked out Lego. We had never had anything like that in our childhood.
The following Christmases, she bought us gifts since we probably broke her budget that time at Target. I got my first drawing pad one Christmas. My happiest and most hopeful times were because of Ms. Sing. She would invite us to their parties to hang out with their kids and stay at their mansion when they were on vacation. When Ms. Sing moved to Colorado, she begged my mom to come with her, that she would have a place for her and she wouldn’t have to work. My mom would just keep her company.
I got my first paid gig with Ms. Sing. She gave me twenty bucks when I was eight years old, for helping my mom clean up after her parties. My fond memories of childhood are because of such kindnesses. Thank you.
Paper Piano
Inspired by all the music videos and Vietnamese concerts, I fell in love with the piano. At that time, my parents could barely afford to buy us shoes, so I did not dare ask them for such a thing. When I was eight, I got the giant drawing pad from Ms. Sing as a Christmas gift. I drew a paper piano. I drew the black and white keys, using a small picture from an old 1984 Encyclopedia Britannica (a hand-me-down from Ms. Sing’s household). I used charcoal and pencil to draw the black and white keys. I memorized that section of the keyboard and pretended to play the songs that were in my head. My fingers would tap on the paper and reflect a chord. I wrote a song about Jesus rescuing a baby bird.
One day, we got old toys from Ms. Sing’s children. There was a one-foot-long pink keyboard that became my treasure. I played Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and all the little melodies that I could pick up by ear. My love for music saved me from some dark times in my childhood.
Chapter 4
Surviving the American Dream
My mom wanted to come to America so she could find the best job and education for me—not for herself but for me. She used to show me her hands, which were full of calluses, cuts, and scars, and say, “Thuy, you will have student hands. Your hands will be soft and you will use your brain to work.” As a young child, I always worked hard at school because my mom would tell me every day how the world is unfair and if I was not a great student, I would never succeed in this world.
As a child, I did not know what poverty meant; I was living inside a poverty bubble, not knowing that the outside world would judge me. Living in a duplex with several other families and being in the midst of the poor, I thought my life was normal. I did not realize I was poor until I went to elementary school. What made me conscious of my own self and my surroundings were the voices of teachers and students laughing, teasing, and mocking my clothes, my race, and my whole human self.
MY MOTHER’S HANDS
Broken, blisters; tough.
Wrinkles, bruised skin.
She tells me
I have student hands:
Soft, gentle—not for labor.
Child Interpreter
I was an interpreter and translator for my family. I learned to read and write English quickly. By the age of eight, I was interpreting insurance documents, immigration letters, school reports, and medical visits. I wrote letters on behalf of my parents. When I didn’t know a legal or medical term, I looked it up in the Encyclopedia Britannica. If I couldn’t find the right Vietnamese word, I would look it up in an old dictionary that my mom brought over from the refugee camp. I remember going to one of my younger sibling’s parent-teacher conferences because he was in trouble. I interpreted and translated so well that my mom would ask me to help relatives and friends.
Mr. Mustache
My first paying job at the age of seven was at a flea market. Every weekend, I would sell sodas for 50 cents. I would go around and ask for permission from vendors to set up a cooler by their stall. If the vendor let us, we would help them out by selling their goods, helping them set up their stall, fold clothes, and pack up their things. Sometimes I would receive $5 for helping out and sometimes $20 if the vendor had a good day. I spent a couple of years selling sodas for one vendor who sold clothes in the front and porn out of the back of his truck. Sometimes classmates would recognize me, and I would get so embarrassed. They would laugh and pick on me: “She’s so poor, she sells sodas on the street.”
I had an opportunity to make $10 to $20 helping another vendor sell athletic clothing. I will call him Mr. Mustache. At first, he seemed like a nice, quiet man. I sold sodas at his stall, and in exchange, I helped him unload all his boxes of clothes, place them on tables, and fold them when they are messy. I would normally sit next to the cooler, selling sodas. After a few months, he asked me if I could sit near him. He had a wife who visited him at the flea market, so I didn’t think anything of it. Maybe he wanted to talk to me. When I sat next to him, he told me a story about when he rode the bus with his wife, his wife would sit on his lap. Each time the bus went over a bump, he would clap his hands and thrust his pelvis. He clapped loudly and laughed while telling me this. I really didn’t understand the sexual connotation and pretended to laugh.
It was Christmas season and everyone wanted to buy their favorite NBA and NFL hoodies, shirts, pants, and caps. At that point, I was selling sodas for my mom and clothing for Mr. Mustache. On a good day, Mr. Mustache would pay me $25. On that Saturday, it was Christmas Eve and Mr. Mustache asked me to sit on his lap. “If you sit on my lap, I can be Santa. You can tell me what you want for Christmas,” he said. I looked around and all the other vendors were busy selling their stuff. I felt a sinking sensation and really wanted to run. It reminded me of the predator who was living in my home, who had been sexually abusing me since I was a little girl. He still lived with us because we needed the rental income.
I told Mr. Mustache that I didn’t need anything. Then he pulled out a $50 bill. I had never seen that much money before. I knew that money could buy many things for my family.
I didn’t trust him, so I asked, “If I sit on your lap, I get fifty dollars?” He nodded his head yes. “Can I have the fifty dollars first?” I said.
He gave me the bill immediatel
y. I hesitantly climbed onto one of his legs. “See, not so bad. You know, you are a really pretty lady,” he said. I looked over at the other stall and the carpet vendor waved at me, as I uncomfortably tried to wiggle myself out. It felt wrong, but I couldn’t resist the money. I sat there for a couple of minutes and then I told him it was time for me to leave. He asked for a hug and I gave him a quick awkward one.
When I came home that night, I showed my mom the $50. She said that Mr. Mustache was so nice to give that to me and that he must have had some good sales that day. I told him that he made me sit on his lap and that I felt uncomfortable. She told me he was a nice and generous man. My mom was oblivious to all this, or maybe she chose to ignore my complaints, so I made my mind up to just be distant and curt to Mr. Mustache. Whenever he told me I was pretty, I told him how ugly his mustache was. Anytime he tried to get close to me, I would try to move to another table, talk to the customer, or take a walk to see my mom.
A few months later, he told me he had divorced his wife. I didn’t ask him for any details. He then proceeded to tell me about the Laotian lady he was dating. He said they were coming by. The lady came with a young daughter, maybe seven years old. She immediately ran to him and sat on his lap. He looked at me and said, “She loves to sit on my lap, and she loves to play all sorts of games.” My childish mind could not connect what he was saying. I also naively thought he had fallen in love with the mother.
But it wasn’t the end. Christmas came again and Mr. Mustache asked my mom if he could take me shopping for a nice coat. She was elated. But somehow she didn’t trust him, so when he came to pick me up, she told him he had to take my brothers as well, all three of them. He reluctantly accepted. As we all crowded into his Trans Am, he started telling me how he owned several clothing factories in other countries.
I really hated him for having asked to take me shopping, so I responded, “You are a liar.” I didn’t think he owned anything. He took us to a coat factory and I happened to pick the most expensive coat. It was a blue suede leather jacket with fur. The price tag: $225. He almost choked when he bought it. Then he took all of us home because my brothers were getting really restless. I told my parents what he told me about owning factories; they laughed and said I was right. That he was a liar. I told them that he wasn’t good and that there something wrong with him. My parents brushed it aside.
About a month later, Mr. Mustache asked to bring his new fiancée to the house. My mom thought it was nice of him. When they came, he started kissing her and dancing with her in our living room! My parents were shocked at all the awkward moments unfolding before us. My mom finally got the hint. She made some excuses for them to leave. After they left, my mom said to me, “I don’t like the way he looks at you.” From then on, she told me not to go to the flea market with him anymore. I had to find a different vendor.
About a year later, my mom got a call from the Laotian lady who married Mr. Mustache. She said that she found out he was sexually abusing her daughter and asked my mom if it had happened to me. My mom told her that she never let me go home with him, so no. She hung up. I heard from the other vendors’ gossip that Mr. Mustache went to prison.
I found a new vendor where I could sell my sodas. He sold shoes and he always had his family with him. He was once an alcoholic but had been sober for many years. He was a nice man; he never said anything inappropriate or perverted to me. He never touched me.
Bullying
In first grade, I was so poor that I couldn’t afford crayons or scissors. I looked around at the other kids’ school supplies, their nice pencil boxes, their trapper keepers, their backpacks, lunch boxes, stickers, and their giant boxes of 100 crayons. None of those kids shared anything with me. It was my first grade teacher who bought me crayons, pencils, and paper. Sadly, the very kids who had everything would steal them from me. I would tell the teacher, but I had no proof since all the supplies looked similar.
At lunch time, a bully would take my milk and food, especially if we had those square pizzas. I learned to just surrender those items at lunch because he was three times my size. He would tease me, calling me ugly and short. Every day he came up with a new insult, a new way to make my life miserable. He would trip me in the hallways and punch me when I talked back.
One day at the school’s library a speaker came in to talk about bullying. Everything she was describing, I was experiencing. When she asked the kids if we had any questions, I raised my hand and said that I had one particular bully who teased and hurt me every day. I pointed at him, the lunch thief. He got red and all embarrassed. The teacher asked what he would change. He stood up and said he would be nice and wouldn’t bully me anymore.
But the next day, he did what he always did.
That was just one of the bullies. I had many: the redheaded boy who stole my stuff, the unibrow kid who tripped me on the bus, all the kids that called me every name under the sun, and even teachers. I had teachers who turned a blind eye to what was happening. I had teachers who ignored me or even made racist comments. I told my mom, but she didn’t know enough English to help me. I was on my own. One day, I got brave enough to fight back with words. When kids called me “chink,” I returned the favor and said that I was smarter and nicer than they were, and I was. I told them their parents should wash their mouth with poop for all the bad things they said. For the kids who tried to beat me up, I kept a hoodie with a big zipper to swing at them at the playground. I learned to kick low, right in their knees, without anyone noticing. I was so small and scrawny—“a tiny weak little girl”—to my teachers that they never believed I was hitting back.
The Predators
My family of six was so poor that my mom rented out one of the rooms in our 600-square-foot duplex. One of the men that she rented to was a retired man who received Social Security checks. He gave my mom those checks in exchange for a cheap room.
He was the one who taught me words like “penis” and “pussy.” He would make me touch his penis and he would touch my vagina and tell me the names. When my mom came home, I would say the words and tell her what happened. She would look angry but said nothing to me or him. One night he came into my bedroom and started touching my legs. I screamed. My mom ran to the door and asked if he had done anything. I said he touched me, but she asked if I was hurt and I said no. The next day, she got a little hook for me to lock the door with. I told her about the molestation, the naked pictures that he had in his room, and that he masturbated when certain women came on TV. My mom said to ignore it as long as he wasn’t doing anything harmful.
I learned later that Vietnamese culture shuns any kind of talk regarding sexual harassment, abuse, or rape. Even if I was a victim, it was shameful to talk about it. Everything was brushed under the carpet, like nothing had happened.
I lived with that man until my teenage years. As I grew older, I learned to ignore him and avoid him, but nothing was done to protect me. I felt too embarrassed to tell anyone besides my parents. When that man was dying in a nursing home, my mom said I should go visit him and be nice to him. I looked at her with disbelief and said that the man was a horrible pervert and I hoped he would die soon.
Fast forward to when I was in my twenties, I had a big falling out with my mom. I told her it was her fault that I didn’t date anyone and that she failed as a parent and a mom to protect me, that she was too greedy, collecting money and letting a predator stay in the house with her beloved children. I told her I was her last surviving child from her previous marriage and asked how could she do that. She cried and didn’t say anything. I didn’t talk to her for a year after that.
Rags to riches to rags
My mom was a housekeeper. She sold yard sale items at the flea market. She babysat. She sold homegrown herbs and vegetables. She rented out every spare space in our small duplex. She did everything she could to get money, to get us ahead.
My mom was very poor growing up in Vietnam. From the time she could walk, she carried buckets of water to sell for
a couple of cents. She climbed towering fruit trees to pick fruit to sell in the market. She made a boat out of the bamboo that grew on my grandmother’s house, and she used that raft to carry fruit to sell in the floating market. She only had enough room to fit the fruit, so she was the raft’s engine, pulling it with her swimming strength. She told me one time she encountered a whirlpool and almost didn’t make it. She also would free-dive into the ocean and collect seafood like oysters, crab, shrimp, and lobsters to sell.
When my mom met my dad, her life changed. My dad was very wealthy; his family owned a company that traded with the American military. All of a sudden, my mom had maids, hairdressers, cooks, gardeners, and all kinds of workers in their mansion. After the fall of Saigon and the end of the Vietnam War, my family lost everything. The government seized our properties and our money. We lost our homes and our country.
I am not sure how my mom survived everything that she lost, but she said she still had me. I was the only reason. I believe that she was always surviving, like a victim of war and a victim of death. Everything she did in America was to get money, to be rich again, but more because money was material and easy to see and gain. She could never bring back her husband, her children, or her past life. She filled that tragic abyss with the pursuit of money, of the life that she lost.
