“Hello? Martin, how are you?”
“Reverend Fox, I’m really sorry to bother you this late at night. I’m wondering if you might be able to help us.”
“Please come in. Come in.”
“Reverend Fox, this is my friend My Phuong. She’s from Vietnam.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“Hello sir,” she replied.
“Please have a seat.”
My Phuong and I sat down in a love seat. I brushed right up against her arm in a wonderfully intimate way.
“Sorry to bother you this late, but I’m wondering if you can help us.”
“What is it Martin,” the Reverend said as he sat down in a rocker but leaned forward toward us.
“My Phuong is a refugee from Vietnam. She has recently been granted asylum because of someone who had kept her in bondage unlawfully. Now she needs a place to stay for a few days until she can figure out what she is going to do. I remembered the apartment over your garage. You don’t think . . .”
“Oh Martin, she is more than welcome to stay there. It’s not completely clean, but . . .”
“No,” My Phuong said abruptly. “That’s not the reason why they gave me asylum.”
“Oh,” said Reverend Fox. “What is your story?”
I looked at her strangely trying to determine what she meant.
“I was raised a Protestant, like you,” she said looking at the Reverend. “My father was a pastor in the south of Vietnam. In the highlands. You see, I’m not actually Vietnamese. I am part of the Mnong ethnic group of Vietnam. My mother was half Vietnamese and they gave me a Vietnamese name hoping that I would be able to fit into society better when I was older.”
“No, wait,” I said interrupting her. “But you are from Thai Win. Thai Win is where you stole my wallet.”
Reverend Fox looked quickly at me in apparent curiosity.
“No. I’m not from Thai Nguyen. I’m from Tay Nguyen – the central highlands, Dak Lak province, just outside of Buon Me Thuot.”
I sat back in the couch astounded by the revelation. She was from Tay Nguyen. I thought of my dad.
“My father pastored a small church not too far from the provincial capital. It was not an official church. The local authorities would not allow us to build a real church, so we met in a longhouse of one of our member’s family.”
“I have heard that the church in Vietnam has been persecuted in many terrible ways,” said the Reverend.
She nodded, and then continued her story.
“My father had worked hard for many years. He saw many converts, and the church grew to about sixty individuals. One week, about four years ago, we were planning a Saturday morning church picnic on one of the beautiful mountain tops. Everything was coordinated, and we were encouraged to invite some of our non-Christian friends. We arrived at the location around ten in the morning, and started singing and worshiping. Around eleven, we started a fire that we planned to cook our lunch over. It was a beautiful day. At around 11:15, we heard several cars pulling up, and we were surprised to see the police. Seven different police cars and three lorries. All of the congregation panicked and started to say things like we should all run away. But my father, he just stood there and told everyone that we were doing nothing wrong and that we should stay calm.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why were the police coming to a picnic?”
“In Vietnam, you have to have official permission from the government if you want to have a church meeting or any assembly of a large group.”
“Why?”
“They think that we will try to subvert the government or something like that. So the police came and confronted my father. He stood in front of them and said that they were doing nothing wrong. The police accused him of breaking the law and said that he would have to come with them. He agreed and started going towards the lorry.”
My Phuong stopped talking, and I could see the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
“Then one of the officers started yelling at him. He grabbed one of the burning branches from the fire and poked it into my father’s face. My father screamed in pain and several men from our congregation came towards him to aid him. That’s when the police came at the crowd in full force. They started beating men, women and children. One man was thrown into the fire and severely burned. Others scattered through the woods.”
The Reverend had pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his eyes. I used my sleeve. I couldn’t comprehend the amount of suffering My Phuong had experienced in her life.
“They arrested both of my parents. I ran down through the trees to escape. I hid out in the forest for several hours and then finally made the three hour trek by foot back to my home. When I got there, everything was ransacked. Everything was smashed and destroyed. I sat in the corner that night and wept for about twelve hours until the next morning.”
“You poor child,” said Reverend Fox.
“I went to my Uncle’s house in the morning, and he was gone too. The police had come to take him away that night. My Aunt was there, so we waited for three days to get any word about my parents. I couldn’t take it any longer, so I went to Buon Me Thuot. I knew this was not very smart, but I didn’t want to live without my parents. I marched right into the People’s Council building, and demanded that they tell the police to release my parents. Some guards tried to remove me, but I yelled and made a scene. Finally, one of the officials came out of his office and motioned for them to let me through. He told me he would make a call and find out about them. I sat down and waited, and finally he came out and said without remorse ‘They’re dead.’ I staggered out of there in shock. I wandered all the way back to my Aunt’s longhouse, a four hour walk, without remembering anything other than what he told me. I wanted to die, and even tried to kill myself once. But more than anything else, I was angry at God. Reverend, how could God have let this happen to me? How could God allow something like this to happen to my parents?”
She broke down and cried. I lifted my arm up as if I was going to comfort her, but I was too afraid to touch her. She wiped her eyes with the Reverend’s handkerchief.
“I don’t know, My Phuong. I don’t know,” replied Reverend Fox.
“Reverend, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” she stood up and put her hand on her forehead. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
“Because you need to. It’s okay. We’re your friends,” replied Reverend Fox calmly.
She sat back down. I kept looking down at the floor. I had absolutely nothing to say.
“I turned away from my faith, and I ran away north, to Hanoi. I wanted nothing to do with God or the Vietnamese government. I hated them both. So I got involved in many different terrible things, just trying to forget who I was and where I came from. After a few months, I ended up in Thai Nguyen where I stole Martin’s wallet.”
“I did hear about the stolen wallet story. But this is quite an unexpected ending to it.”
“This is why I was given asylum in America. Religious persecution. I have been given a new life in America because of a religion I don’t even believe in anymore.”
Reverend Fox seemed to ponder the gravity of her situation perhaps wanting to choose his words carefully.
“My Phuong, I can’t even begin to imagine that I understand what you have gone through in your life because I can’t. I can’t even tell you why you suffered the way you have. All I can tell you is that you are loved. And you have friends here who want to help you. I would be honored to give you the apartment over the garage to stay in. It’s not much, but you can stay there as long as you need in order to figure out your next step.”
“No, I don’t want to be a burden. I’ll be all right.”
“My Phuong, please stay,” I said to her. They were my first words in several minutes.
She looked up at me, and then over at Reverend Fox.
“Okay. Thank you.”
&nbs
p; The Reverend got together some blankets and toiletries and then we all three walked up the steps to the garage apartment. He tidied up a few things and gave her some instructions concerning the apartment’s peculiarities. Then he told her that he would be in the house if she needed anything. We all three walked down the steps and stood in the front lawn near the driveway where my dad made his terrible scene many years ago. As the Reverend said goodnight and turned toward his house, My Phuong ran over to him and hugged him. She then turned back around and came and stood beside me.
“Thank you Martin. I don’t know how to thank you. Your pastor is a really sweet man.”
“He’s not even my pastor. I don’t go to church.”
“How do you know him?”
“It’s a long story that I’ll have to tell you sometime.”
“I hope so. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Sure, maybe tomorrow. Goodnight,” I said and turned to walk home.
“Martin,” she said. “Thank you.”
“For what? I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes, you did?”
“I had no idea what happened to your family. I’m so . . .”
“Shhh,” she said and walked over to me, looking up at my large frame.
“Martin?”
“Yes?”
“Can you lean over a little?”
I leaned over toward her, and she goose necked up and kissed me on the cheek.
“Goodnight.”
She turned, walked up to Reverend Fox’s old apartment and closed the door behind her. The irony of everything flooded my emotions. In some ways, I was travelling the same footsteps as dad, but I only hoped to do it better.
I staggered home, barely ‘touching the ground’ which was quite a feat at my weight. I was seriously in love.
Mom in the Morning
First thing in the morning, I went out to the front porch to retrieve the Vietnam book that I left on the swing. It wasn’t there. I went back into the house, and Mom was just then descending from her upstairs bedroom.
“Mom, where is that book that I left on the porch last night?”
“I threw it in the trash.”
“What?”
“We don’t need any books about Vietnam in this house. That subject is painful enough,” she said as she walked by me into the kitchen.
“Mom, you had no right. That was my book. You just don’t throw things out without asking me.”
“Martin, that was your father’s book. I hadn’t seen that in years. We just don’t need it around here.”
“Where did you throw it?”
“Martin, just leave it be.”
“Mom,” I said sternly.
“It’s in the bin on the back porch.”
I rushed out and opened the lid of the metal trash can and found it lying on top. I picked it up and immediately turned to page 89 to secure my flower. It wasn’t there. I flipped through the nearby pages but found nothing. Then I flipped through the whole book, eventually grabbing it by the spine and shaking it violently upside down waiting for the fan-shaped flower to flutter out. Nothing. I opened the screen door to the kitchen and leaned inside.
“Mom, did you see a red flower in the book?”
“Yes, it fell out when I picked the book up. I threw it in the burn trash.”
I came back inside and immediately went to the inside trash can which had papers and consumables which we burnt out back.
“I burnt it last night Martin. It’s gone.”
I stood flatfooted. My heart descended into that familiar place full of despair and hatred. The place where I often hid to pretend I didn’t belong to this family. My souvenir was gone. The gift from Tan, the symbol of my Vietnamese woman, the Phuong flower was gone. I ran outside to the back corner of our yard where we had a metal burn barrel. Burning trash in Lyndora had long been illegal, but my parents never did get out of the habit. I picked up a stick and rummaged through the ashes, but there was no sign of red, no sign of the flower – nothing but a pile of ashes. I rubbed my arms against my head motioning for something to strike out at. Anger. It boiled inside. I couldn’t stay in this house any longer. I had been trapped here for thirty-nine years. But this was it. I threw the stick into the trees and marched into the house.
“Mom. I’ve had it. I can’t live here anymore.”
“Martin, what has gotten into you?”
“You throw my book in the trash, you burn my flower,” I realized how petty it all sounded.
“Martin, stop talking like a child. It was just a flower.”
“That’s just it, Mom. It wasn’t just a flower. It meant something to me. And stop treating me like a child. I thought that after Dad had died that we would be able to get along and live like a normal family. But it’s no different. You are still treating me like I am a teenager. You are treating me like I have no wants or desires of my own. You just expect me to work at K-Mart and bowl on Tuesdays. There’s more to me than that. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see that?”
My mom looked startled. She put down her cereal spoon, stood up and walked towards me.
“Martin, of course I want you to be happy.”
“Then stay out of my life.”
“Martin, you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, yes I do.”
I backed away from her.
“I’m going to find my own place.”
“Martin, don’t be silly. You can’t afford your own place. It makes no sense when you can live here for free.”
“You’re wrong Mom. Living here is not free. Not at all.”
“Martin, no. I forbid you to leave this house. I need you here.”
“Mom, why can’t you understand that I am a thirty-nine year old adult?”
“Does this have something to do with that Vietnamese girl who was here last night?”
“No, it has nothing to do with her.”
“Who was she?”
“Oh no. She is off limits, Mom.”
“Off limits, huh? Is there something going on there, Martin? You couldn’t possibly dream of getting to know a girl like that.”
“Like what?”
“You can’t get involved with those floozy Asian girls. That’s what got in your dad’s head and messed him all up.”
“Mom, we are not having this conversation,” I said as I started to walk away.
“Martin, I just want what is best for you. You aren’t going to see her again, are you?”
I turned around and said emphatically, “Yes, yes I am. I’m going to see her today. I hope to see her tomorrow. I hope I see her every day for the rest of my life.”
“Martin,” my Mother said flaring her eyes at me. “I don’t ever want to see her here again. Do you hear me?”
“As long as I live here, I can bring home whomever I like,” I said in an irritated and disrespectful manner. I turned my back on her, went to the phone, and dialed work. “Mr. Hutchings. Yes, this is Martin. I’m not going to be able to make work today. Yes, that’s right. I’m coming down with something. Yes, sir. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
My mom immediately came into the living room.
“Martin, you can’t skip work.”
“Yes, I can. I have more important things to do. I have to go see My Phuong,” I said and stormed up the steps to my room to get ready to leave.
“Martin, Martin!” she yelled after me, but I did my best to ignore her, and I slammed the door just to let her know that I would not listen to her.
Day Two
In the three years since I had visited Vietnam, I had actually accomplished a lot. I bought a computer and got connected to the Internet. I tried to get in touch with Jason and Tan in Vietnam, but unfortunately I had lost all of their contact information. But I spent a lot of time on the web reading about Southeast Asia – especially Vietnam. I had first become curious at looking at images of Vietnamese girls – looking for that beautiful face that I saw so m
any times when I was there. But over time, I found myself learning about the culture, people and places of the region. One of the things that fascinated me was the Khmer Rouge of Cambodia. They declared a ‘Year Zero’ when they took control of Cambodia in 1975 announcing that history was nothing and that their entire society was starting over from the beginning. In many ways, that is how I felt about my life. I was now on ‘Day Two’. It was day two of My Phuong being a part of my life. Everything that happened to me in the past didn’t matter anymore. I had a clean slate, and I intended to use it. In some ways, I agonized greatly that first morning, hoping more than anything that she would still be in Reverend Fox’s apartment. I hoped beyond hope that she would not once again disappear like a vapor in a crowd.
At 10:15, I stood at the top of the steps over the Reverend Fox’s garage and knocked delicately at My Phuong’s door. There was no sound. I knocked again, and my heart leapt when I finally heard rustling from within and then footsteps. My Phuong opened the door. She had not left me.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Martin.”
“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“No, not at all. I had just showered and dressed, and I was thinking about what to do today. Come in.”
“Did you sleep okay?”
“Yes, I slept very well, thank you.”
She wore a pair of jeans and a tight-fitting white turtle-neck blouse with long sleeves. I looked at her in adoration.
“How about you, Martin? Did you sleep well?” she asked.
“Ah,” I hemmed and hawed around. “Well, okay I guess.”
“Martin, do you have to work today?”
“No, I took the day off.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I just wanted to be available to help you. I just came to help you.”
She smiled.
“You’ve been a big help already.”
“I want to be a bigger help. I want to,” I then realized how foolish I must have sounded. I needed to back down some. “So, what is it that you need to do?”
Beauty Rising Page 14
