by Loan Le
Someone needs to finally say something in our defense. Even if it hurts.
* * *
Later that night, instead of sleeping, I’m up with the lamp on, my computer in front of me. Considering the blinking cursor for a few minutes, I place my fingers on the keyboard, and before I know it, words and sentences fly from my mind to the keys. With each word I type I’m hoping to erase the vile reviews that those shitheads left on our pages. I’m writing this for not just my family, but other restaurants—and I pause—and the Mais’ restaurant. As much as our restaurants have clashed, as much as their weird battle has gone on, we still live in the same place. And hasn’t Linh always encouraged me to write what I feel? What I’m passionate about?
I sit up straight, stretching my back and arms. A look at the clock shows that I’ve been typing for an hour. It’s the first long piece I’ve written that wasn’t an assignment. It’s me on the page, and looking at it, I almost feel lighter.
The first person I want to share it with is Linh, but at the memory of our last talk, seeing her at her breaking point, my energy stills for a moment. That’s not an option, so I go to the next person I can trust.
* * *
I almost hesitate to show Ali the next day. Who knows what she’s thinking about what happened between me and Linh, whether she’ll take Linh’s side and cold-shoulder me, too, because that’s where her loyalty should be. But when I text her for help on the article during lunch, she sends back a quick “yeah, sure,” telling me to find her now in the newsroom like usual.
I pack my things from the lunch table and Việt sends me a quick nod. He’s been my friend for so long that he knows when to shut up. I haven’t heard SVU recaps from him in what seems like ages and I’ve got to give his cross-country friends credit for following his lead, their conversation a little less boring than usual.
Then, because I can’t help it, I seek Linh out, wondering if she’ll be here or in her art room, cooped up as usual. But she’s here, eating lunch with some friends. I stare harder at her, willing her to turn around, to see me, but she doesn’t notice.
Swallowing hard, I leave.
* * *
“It’s not bad?”
“Not bad so far.”
“Really?”
“Hey, I said ‘so far.’ Your next sentence is probably going to be shitty.”
We’re quiet as she keeps reading as promised. I scroll through Twitter on the computer. She marks up some words and nods sometimes.
“So Linh told me what happened. Well, kind of. Not the whole story. But she did tell me what happened.”
My hand freezes on the mouse, but I keep quiet.
“She’s been really stressed. I mean, you know she probably didn’t mean any of it?”
Ali sits next to me, looking unusually somber. “See, the thing with Linh is that she was alone for a while. Not physically, but alone inside her head. I’m a journalist and she’s a painter and though they’re both creative things, she never really had someone on that level with her. But you, Bảo, you made her open up a little. Her art has changed. It’s transformed. It’s been freed.” Ali pauses. “I’ve never seen her that happy, and it’s because you walked into her life. I’m grateful for that.”
Words are stuck in my throat. This wasn’t what I expected when I came to Ali for help.
“I’m not just talking about Linh who’s changed. You’ve become the writer you’re meant to be.” She nods, like she’s confirming the fact to herself.
“Despite what’s happening, Linh’s just scared. Because it is scary. Her world—both of your worlds—have been upturned.” Ali shrugs. “Let it settle a little. And don’t doubt what she feels for you. Or what you feel for her.”
After a few beats, Ali stiffens her back, morphing into the journalist I know and am terrified of.
“You won’t ever repeat that to anyone,” she says, in her signature I will cut you voice. Right after, she smiles. A genuine smile that she’d share only with Linh. “This is great. I actually think it’s your best.”
“Really?” I say again, like a broken record.
“So good,” she says, pushing herself off the counter, “that I think you should try for something bigger than just our newspaper. Because it’s not really about the school. It’s about the community. Your community. Your home. And if you need help with that, I have the right contacts.”
Hearing the word “contacts” come from her mouth still sounds ominous, but out of everyone, she’s the best person to help me.
And she does.
WE ARE HOME
To the man posting anonymous flame reviews of several Little Saigon restaurants, to the same man who came into my parents’ restaurant insulting everything they stand for:
Didn’t you hear your children begging you to stop? Didn’t you notice how embarrassed your wife was? Didn’t you see the stunned look of everyone around you as you left in a fit of rage, without paying?
There’s a lot I can break down here. There are many assumptions I can make about you and where you come from.
But I won’t state them here because I don’t want to be like you.
Here’s a fact, though:
You clearly don’t know us.
So let me teach you something.
In Bolsa, everyone you’ve brushed shoulders with—the very people you dismissed—probably knows more suffering than you will fortunately ever know. They saw their beloved country destroyed by colonialism, then civil war. They left everything they knew for the unknown. They left for a chance at freedom, a chance for their family and their future.
One hand would never be sufficient to count their losses.
But this loss, I think, has made them the fiercest, strongest people I will ever know.
It saddens me that you don’t recognize this. It’s an unfortunate reminder that as much as my community represents the true American Dream—building a foundation out of uncertain hopes and dreams—people like you would rather be ignorant or spread hate than accept this reality.
But your racism has no power here. Your words mean nothing in Little Saigon. So whatever you hoped to accomplish—in person and online—you have failed.
A person close to me—one of the most passionate, talented people I’m proud to know—once told me that I needed to write about what I really care about. It goes without saying that it’s this community. It’s my home. It’s my family. So it’s not cool what you’re doing.
I would like to think that you will learn from this and become a better person.
But again, I can’t make assumptions.
Thank you,
Bảo Nguyễn
Proud son of Vietnamese immigrants
* * *
I don’t think it hits me what exactly I did by writing the op-ed, until the first customer this morning walks in with her husband. She looks vaguely familiar; maybe she doesn’t come here with her husband but with other friends.
“Your son is Bảo, yes?” she asks in Vietnamese.
Mẹ and I stand at the front desk, going over reservations for lunch. Hearing my name, she squints at me, as if to ask, What did you do? Her attention turns to the woman, who slides a folded newspaper her way, a perfectly manicured finger pointing at something.
My name.
My byline.
Turns out it’s in the Người Việt morning edition with a translated version.
“When I read what happened, about that awful review, and then this beautiful response, I had to come over first thing. You must be so proud of your son.”
My heart leaps at the praise. A stranger, complimenting me? “Thank you.” Mẹ pauses, still hesitant.
“It was really touching. Those reviews were vile. I’ve been here so many times and I’ve never had a bad meal. So whatever happens, you have my full support.”
After getting the woman settled into a booth, my mom takes the newspaper with her to the back, bringing along her grocery-store glasses. I wait tables all the while,
my focus split between the back and the customers—many of whom have actually come by because of my article, to my shock.
An hour later, Mẹ emerges from wherever she was, her glasses hanging by her shirt collar. She brings the newspaper back with her, but she doesn’t look for me. She takes her spot by the front desk, straight-backed, busying herself with the cash register. And I thought that this was it. The article was written. It’s out there.
Then she stops. I approach her, not sure how she’ll react, what she’ll say about what I wrote. Before I can get a word out, she speaks.
“You wrote this?”
“Dạ.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Are you lying?”
Okay, really? Have some faith in me.
“That’s my name, isn’t it,” I answer, measured.
Mẹ nods. “I didn’t know that you would feel this way. Especially about the gossip.”
“I only hate the gossip when it’s bad. When it really hurts someone else.”
“You mean the Mai family.” Her voice isn’t angry. It’s curious.
I shake my head. “I meant what I wrote. This wasn’t just about the Mais. It’s really about all of us. I didn’t like that we were just going to let some guy on the Internet win.”
“The article was good. Very good.” Reaching out, she cups my cheek. “Giỏi, con.”
A few minutes later, after getting back to work, I look back and see Mẹ holding up the newspaper against the wall, like she’s checking to see how it’ll look.
* * *
The next day, there is a framed picture of my article hanging on our wall of fame: articles about the restaurant when it first opened, the great reviews that have come in. My mom probably pulled in a favor with friends to get it made so quickly.
According to Ali, the article has gone viral, shared by local news sites. She had that gleam in her eyes when she explained: “They love underdog stories, you know. People fighting back against assholes like this guy.” And because of the reach, we’re getting more and more customers, even from outside Bolsa.
There’s a small collective of people in our community taking it upon themselves to look out for future racist incidents—online and in real time. Walking into work one day, I see my mom’s friends crowded around someone’s laptop, systematically scrolling through old reviews to report them. The General, ironically, might have established herself as the leader.
I can’t be sure that this will help stop the gossip wars, but it’s still a welcome change. And it was one article that started it. Mine.
At school only the kids whose parents run businesses in the area paid attention to the news—and I didn’t realize that it was actually a lot of people. Some classmates came by to high-five me or say “Nice article” and things like that. Lunchtime surprised me too: Apparently Việt looped in some of his cross-country friends into the whole deal, and they were nice about it, joking around about me being famous now. Even Steve was so curious that he forgot about his banana.
I tried to look for Linh. Not that I would know what to say, but I wanted to know if she read what I wrote. If she knew that I, in my own way, was reaching out.
There are flyers now showcasing the upcoming Art Fair, so Linh’s picture is verywhere that’s eye level. I want to tell her how happy I am for her, really. Even though she doesn’t seem to want to talk to me anymore.
Ali’s become my pseudo-publicist, in a way. When a local station wanted to interview me on camera for a brief segment, she demanded that they send her the questions for approval. I’m 100 percent sure that she added some questions that would involve me mentioning the school newspaper and my role in it.
And that’s what’s happening now as I’m in front of the restaurant, fiddling with the collar of my dress shirt that my mom forced me to wear. “Đẹp trai,” she said this morning when inspecting me, ultimately approving the look. My dad let me borrow his belt for my pants.
The female news anchor prepping me reminds me not to move so much because the microphone is sensitive and will pick up extraneous noise.
“You have to zoom out,” I hear Ali telling Tim, the cameraman. A professional. “Just like—yeah, there it is. Perfect.”
“Kid, I know.”
After the countdown, I can’t even hear myself talking. I just see the host nodding intently, and her mouth forming words, then she addresses my parents directly. They keep shifting behind me, uncomfortable, fidgeting in the spotlight.
“You must be so proud of your son,” the reporter finally says.
I almost chime in, wanting to tell her, “Well, that might be a stretch.” But my mother answers first. She looks directly at me and nods silently, seriously. It makes me stand straighter.
“Of course I am proud. All of this makes me wonder how he turned out like this.”
“It was all because of me,” Dad says from the other side. His joking side has come out, though the reporter looks confused, not sure if he’s serious, so she just laughs nervously.
Finally, she signs off and the record light dims. I guess I did do okay—or maybe my eyes are screaming I SUCK! and she just feels bad for me—because the interviewer shakes my hand, telling me, “Good job,” before telling her coworkers to pack up.
* * *
Later, when all the cameras have gone and customers have dwindled enough that everyone can catch their breath, I spy my dad Windex-ing my framed article, even though I’m sure it’s already spotless. He steps back to inspect his work.
Ba notices me a beat later. “Gì?”
“Nothing.” I fight back a smile.
“Okay,” Ba says. “Get back to work. Stop being so lazy.”
I happen to look up, out to the Mais’ restaurant. It looks as busy as it was when I first crossed the street, first had the courage to speak to Linh. It’s busy, too, perhaps because of the article, but that’s not what caught my eye.
I saw a movement from behind the window.
A flash of long dark brown hair.
I miss her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR LINH
I miss him. There are so many things I want to tell Bảo after reading his letter. I’m so proud of him.
I wish I could be like you.
You’re speaking the truth, without worrying about consequences.
But I’m ashamed of how I ran away—not just from our last conversation, but before. It was him always having to pull afloat, reminding me that I can’t hide from problems. Because it’ll build up and bury me until I can’t breathe.
The house is made less tense with Dì Vàng’s arrival. The past few nights have been light and fun, full of laughter. It was almost as if the argument in the kitchen never happened. But take her presence away and we’re back to square one between my parents and me. Terse. Cold. Punishing. Dì Vàng has been visiting friends in Washington—perhaps even Bác Xuân—and she comes home late, or not at all, staying at her friends’ places. She’ll have to leave again and miss my exhibition at the Art Fair in a couple of days.
But the one night Dì Vàng does stay, she comes to me to talk. She’s just showered and is dressed in pale green pajamas. My drawers are packed with similar clothing, gifts from her across the years. Her long hair rests on her left shoulder in a beautiful clean braid and she’s peering closely at the artwork above my desk. Her eyes linger on Bảo’s sculpture of whatever from our first date and she tilts her head in puzzlement before moving on. It was shipped here a couple of days ago.
“You are just as talented as your mom always tells me.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, suddenly nervous. I’m still adjusting to seeing her in person—unpixelated and in real time.
“I’m not lying. Your mom’s so proud of you. Your dad is, too, but you know how it is; he says it from the background.” She throws a grin over her shoulder as she pulls back the bedcovers and slips in, looking right at home. Far from sleeping, my aunt props her head up. “Is everything okay no
w? Since we last spoke.”
I pause. “There’s been no change.”
She stretches her hand toward me and I reach for her, the space between us only an illusion. “I’m sorry.”
“Has Mẹ said anything to you?” I ask hopefully. She shakes her head.
I stare at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the low hum of the air conditioner turning on, the hush of sprinklers in our lawn. A car passes by, headlights shining into the room before disappearing. I want to ask about Bảo’s uncle, but she’s not offering to tell me herself. Does she want to ignore it too?
“I will tell you everything, Linh,” she says.
I look at her in surprise. She must have read my mind.
“I will, I promise. But I have to sort things out, too. My sister doesn’t even know that I know, so just give me some time. It’ll all come out.”
Bác Xuân had said the same thing.
“Mẹ always talked about you like you’re some sort of tragedy. Like your art was a punishment.”
“I was in a bad way after all that happened. But what my sister doesn’t understand…” Dì Vàng pauses. “Or maybe, one day, what you can help her understand, is that for people like us, sadness is part of our inspiration. Others might bottle up their sadness and pour it out on certain occasions, but we let it pour from us and into our medium. It’s the same for most emotions, and we do it so that we can make room for more.”
I nod, remembering how my art was the only thing to calm me when things with my parents and Bảo were collapsing.
She then adds softly, “We all lost something precious during that time.”
* * *
I think Ba has grown tired of the tension between me and my mom, despite Dì Vàng being there to cut through it all. Now she’s off visiting a friend in San Francisco, scheduled to come back later this week. Ba’s kind of annoyance takes only a day or two, much like when he sprained his back. But whether it’s the food, or the silence, or being in-between, I won’t ever figure out why Ba shows up outside my bedroom as I type out the captions to my Art Fair display. Just a few more days to go. Ba doesn’t come in, like my mom; instead he hovers, like he’s waiting for my permission to enter.
