A Vietnamese neighbor owned a TV and a VCR, and all the Asians at Allied Gardens used to squeeze into his tiny apartment to watch the same kung fu movies over and over again—everyone’s favorite was The Way of the Dragon, where Bruce Lee beat up Chuck Norris in the Roman Colosseum. We couldn’t afford our own VCR, so we used to peek through the neighbor’s window to try to watch his—another ironic reversal of our lives in Vietnam.
All the kids had nicknames, and it wasn’t always clear how they originated. Some were obvious enough; Bruce was called Crab because he ran so slowly, and another boy was called Rabbit because he ran so fast. But a boy who lived upstairs was called Fat Dog, and none of us ever knew why. Fat Dog had a hot temper and used to pick fights, which wasn’t hard to understand, considering the nickname he had to live with.
There was a boy in another building who was missing a leg, but none of us ever had the courage to ask him how he lost it. Since he was from Laos, it wasn’t hard to figure out. During the Vietnam War, more bombs were dropped on Laos than on Germany and Japan combined during World War II, and children at play often discovered the unexploded ordnance. Mercifully, that boy was never given a nickname.
With buildings divided by ethnic group, conflict was unavoidable. It would start with some kid throwing dust; then dust turned into rocks, and before long it escalated into an all-out fistfight. Once a little Vietnamese boy was beaten up on the playground, and when his older brother heard about it, he ran back to his apartment and grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen. He was just heading out the door when an adult Vietnamese neighbor spotted the knife and yelled to him, “Where are you going with that? Put it back right now!” The boy obeyed even though the neighbor was a stranger to him; Asian culture is authority-based, and the boy recognized the man’s authority over him simply because of his age. It was a good thing he did because there was no telling what would have happened if he had returned to the playground with that knife.
An ethnically diverse apartment complex was a great place to begin learning about different people and cultures. There was a mailman who used to come by each day, dressed in his regulation blue shorts and shirt, carrying a leather shoulder bag full of letters. He was a nice man, and we always looked forward to his coming, and all the kids used to swarm around him and tug at his clothing until he finally laughed and handed out bubble gum to everyone. But one day when we tugged at him, he turned and shouted, “Stop it! Go away!” I didn’t understand. I thought he liked it when we tugged at him. Why did he get angry this time, and more important, why didn’t he give us any gum? I knew I was missing something, but I didn’t know what it was.
What I was missing was the fact that it was a different mailman, but I couldn’t tell because to me all Caucasians looked the same. That was an educational moment for me. The truth is, all Caucasians do look the same to Asians, and all Asians look the same to Caucasians—at least at first. It takes time to develop the sensitivity to subtle facial differences that allows us to distinguish one person from another within our own ethnic group; and when we take our first good look at a different ethnic group, we’re starting all over. Prejudice begins with ignorance, and whenever one culture first meets another, there is ignorance. At Allied Gardens, the Caucasians didn’t like the Vietnamese because their food smelled funny, and the Vietnamese didn’t like the Laotians because they were dirty. I’m not sure who the Laotians didn’t like, but I knew one mailman who didn’t like me.
My parents allowed us to roam free—not that they had much choice. My father was always at work, and my mother was responsible for eight children, and the youngest two required her full attention. The rest of us just came home from school, dropped off our books, and ran out to play. There was a playground with a swing set and a merry-go-round for the younger kids, and we played kickball endlessly. We played hopscotch on the sidewalks and roller-skated on the streets, using cheap metal skates my mother bought at a flea market. They were the kind that clamped onto your shoes with a key, and if you jumped the curb the wrong way, they could rip the soles right off your shoes. My feet were too small for skates, so I used a pair of plastic Playskool buses; I discovered that if I took out all the passengers, I could just fit my feet into them, and I skated after my brothers and sisters just as fast as my two little buses would go.
We played until midnight if there was no school the next day, and in the summers we played all day because there was nothing else to do. There were no camps, no programs, no babysitters—just dozens of kids and room to run, which was all we needed to have fun.
My family lived at Allied Gardens for two years. We were surrounded by children very much like us, even when they came from different countries. Most of us were new to America, so no one could laugh at anyone else’s manners or customs. No one felt stupid because all of us were ignorant, and no one owned anything to envy because no one had any money. Allied Gardens was our own little Vietnamese hamlet, and we were safe and comfortable inside our familiar minority bubble.
But when we stepped out of that bubble, things were different.
Thirty-One
STARTING SCHOOL
THE FIRST DAY IN A NEW SCHOOL IS HARD FOR ANY child, but try to imagine what it’s like for a refugee who doesn’t speak a word of English. The teacher tells everyone to take out a piece of paper, but you have no idea what she’s saying, and the only reason you take out a piece of paper is because that’s what everyone around you is doing. You nod a lot, not because you understand but because you don’t want everyone else to think you’re stupid. You smile at everyone, not because you’re happy but because you’re terrified by the thought of making someone angry. You sit by yourself in the cafeteria and wish someone would approach you, but you don’t dare approach someone else.
On the first Monday following our arrival in Fort Smith, Jenny, Bruce, Yen, Nikki, and Thai all began their American educations at Belle Point Elementary School, starting classes almost two months into the school year, which put them behind in every subject. Jenny was in sixth grade, Bruce in fifth, Yen in fourth, Nikki in first, and Thai in kindergarten. Almost everything they had been taught in Vietnam was useless; in America no one cared if they were able to recite songs of praise to Uncle Ho.
I was too young even for kindergarten, but at Allied Gardens there was a program called Head Start that was funded by the Department of Health and Human Services to help children from low-income families get ready for kindergarten. My parents loved Head Start because the program was free. I loved it because all we did was play and eat doughnuts, and if we wanted another doughnut, all we had to do was ask for more. More was the second English word I ever learned, which gave me a two-word vocabulary: Coke and more. If I ever wanted more Coke, I was ready.
I only spoke Vietnamese and Cháo zhōu, so when they had story time, I listened without understanding; and when they sang nursery rhymes, I lip-synched so no one would know I didn’t understand the words. There were a couple of other Vietnamese kids in my Head Start program, so I didn’t feel completely alone—I just couldn’t talk to anyone. But there wasn’t much need to talk with a mouthful of doughnuts anyway, and I was too busy enjoying all the activities to care much about conversation.
When I advanced to first grade, I was in school only a couple of weeks before an error was discovered on my enrollment record. On American calendars the New Year always begins on January 1, but on the Chinese calendar the start of the New Year varies each year from late January to mid-February. I was born on January 1, and according to the American calendar the year was 1976. But on the Chinese calendar the New Year did not begin that year until January 31, so according to that calendar, my birth year was 1975. My parents had used the Chinese calendar when they recorded my birth year on official documents back in Singapore, and that gave everyone the impression that I was five years old when, in fact, I was only four. When the error was discovered, the school decided I was too young to be in first grade and should be in kindergarten instead. The decision to move me
back a grade level meant nothing to me at the time, but it was to have a major impact on my life later on.
Kindergarten was new to me, and it had its challenges. On the very first day the teacher announced that everyone should bring a towel to class the next day for nap time. The teacher knew I wouldn’t understand, so she gave me a note to take home to my mother that would explain everything—but my mother didn’t know any more English than I did, and the note didn’t help at all.
Yen helped her decipher the note, which is something she always did for our family. Whenever there was a note or letter for my parents to read, Yen helped them figure it out; whenever there was a report card or a permission slip for my parents to sign, Yen signed it for them. Yen managed to figure out that I was supposed to bring something to school the next day, but even Yen couldn’t understand what the item was. It was the word towel that confused them; towel sounds like the Vietnamese word thao, which means “wash basin,” and my mother couldn’t understand why in the world the teacher would want me to bring a wash basin to school. It finally dawned on Yen what the word must have meant, and she explained it to my mother.
The next day when the teacher asked everyone to take out their towels and spread them on the floor for nap time, I watched as the other kids unrolled enormous beach towels with He-Man or Malibu Barbie printed on the front—then I reached into my pocket and pulled out a little washcloth. Everyone laughed at me, and while they were all napping on their fluffy beach towels, I had to curl up on the carpet.
Coke, more, and towel—my vocabulary was expanding fast.
In grade school I also learned my first lessons about racism and discrimination. My elementary school was predominantly white, and my brothers and sisters and I stood out like beacons there. In my first-grade class we were all sitting on the floor for story time one day when a boy raised his hand and asked in front of everyone, “Why does Vinh have a flat nose?” I lost count of the number of times I was asked, “Do you know kung fu?” and each time I was asked that question, I wished I did. We were called “flat-faced,” “fat head,” and sometimes names that didn’t even make sense.
I was in second grade before anyone called me “gook,” and I had no idea what the word meant. Another Vietnamese boy had to tell me, “Don’t you know what that means? That’s the worst thing anyone can call you!” and I had to make a mental note that the next time I was called gook, I should get very angry. That’s the strange thing about discrimination: it has to be learned, on both the sending end and receiving end. In a fistfight no one has to tell you if you’ve been punched or not, but you have to learn when you’ve been insulted in a conversation—and I was given plenty of opportunities to learn.
My biggest struggle was that I didn’t speak English. I got into a pushing match with a boy in first grade, and we both had to go to the principal’s office. The principal listened while the other boy explained his version of the story first: yes, the boy admitted, it was true that he pushed me first, but only by accident. The principal turned to me and asked, “Is that true? Did he push you by accident?” I had no idea what he was asking me. Accident—that word was not in this week’s vocabulary lesson. What did it mean? I don’t remember what I said to the principal in reply, but whatever it was got me punished and allowed the other boy to go free.
It happened again in second grade. I got into a pushing match with another boy, and this time my teacher asked me, “Don’t you think you owe him an apology?” I just stared at her. I didn’t know what an apology was, and I wasn’t sure if you could owe one or not—so I told her no and got in trouble again.
In both cases I clearly remember thinking, That’s not fair. I wasn’t being punished for pushing someone—I was being punished for not knowing the words accident and apology. If I had possessed a better command of the language, the other boys would have been punished and I would have gone free. That was when I first began to understand the power of language. I could use it to attack, and I could use it to defend but only if I knew the right words.
Though school was difficult for us all, it was hardest for Jenny. She was twelve when we arrived, and though she may have been the brightest of all of us, she had the hardest time learning the English language. When I was only four, Jenny brought a book home from school one day. She always took immaculate care of her books; she saved the nicest wrapping paper from previous holidays to wrap them in, and it would have been unthinkable for her to ever make a mark in one. But she left her book on the coffee table that day, and I not only opened it but tore a page—and when I did, she slapped me so hard that I almost passed out. Jenny feels terrible about that to this day, but I understand. Jenny loved school back in Vietnam, and she suffered more than any of us when the communists took over and her dream of one day becoming an engineer was shattered. In America she saw a second chance, and the opportunity to get an education was far more precious to her than it was to the rest of us. The book I tore was sacred to her because education was sacred to her. When I tore that page, I think she felt her dream being torn away from her for a second time.
We all struggled when we first started school, and unfortunately the challenges did not go away as the years went by. The lessons just got harder—the lessons in math, science, English, and also racism and discrimination. We had a lot to learn about what it took to succeed in America, and the most important lessons they didn’t teach in school; we had to learn those lessons somewhere else.
Thirty-Two
GRAND AVENUE
THE TOWN OF FORT SMITH IS ONLY ABOUT 5 PERCENT Asian, and there were only two types of places where Asians could mix and mingle: a few small Asian grocery stores and the occasional Chinese restaurant. But while we were living at Allied Gardens, we discovered a third place, and that one changed our lives.
One of our neighbors at Allied Gardens told my parents about a Vietnamese church that had recently been started in Fort Smith, and he said there were about thirty or forty Vietnamese who attended every week. Thirty or forty Vietnamese all in one place—to my parents that sounded like Saigon. When our neighbor told us the service was translated into Vietnamese, we were sold, and the following Sunday the neighbor’s unsuspecting nephew dropped by. He expected to drive a small family to church but found ten of us waiting to pile into his pathetic little car.
When the smoking car limped into the church parking lot, we were all amazed—the church building was enormous. My father was the only one who could read the sign, though he didn’t understand all the words: Grand Avenue Baptist Church.
The Vietnamese church at Grand Avenue Baptist became the single most powerful influence on my family in Fort Smith. My father made sure we attended that church without fail, regardless of weather or circumstances. Bruce once sprained his ankle and thought he had the perfect excuse to stay home. He told my father, “Dad! I can’t walk!” but my father just said, “Put on your shoes and get dressed. We’re going to church.” The reason my father was so adamant about church attendance was that the church played a far more important role in our lives than it does for many natural-born Americans. For my parents, it completed a spiritual journey that had begun long before they ever reached America.
My mother had never been able to understand the vivid dream she’d had shortly before leaving Vietnam—the dream about a long-haired, bearded man in a white robe who pointed to our family and brought each of us back to life. No one was ever able to explain it to her or help her identify the mysterious figure who had the power to raise the dead. But the first time she walked into the lobby of Grand Avenue Baptist Church, she saw a portrait of Jesus hanging on the wall—the first image of Jesus she had ever seen—and she took one look at it and said, “That was the man in my dream.”
I have asked my mother about that experience many times, and she makes it very clear that the portrait of Jesus did not remind her of the man in her dream—He was the man. For my mother, walking into that church solved a mystery that had puzzled her ever since she had left Vietnam. She felt
as if the portrait were saying to her, “I am the one who delivered your family from death. Welcome to America.”
The church completed a spiritual journey for my father too. After six days adrift on the South China Sea and nearly dead from thirst, he had cried out to the Creator God for rain and minutes later found himself frantically bailing water. Onboard Seasweep, when he had heard Stan Mooneyham speak about Jesus, the Creator God was given a name, and my father made a commitment to Him. There were other refugees aboard Seasweep who had made that same commitment, but as soon as they reached Singapore, many of them returned to their former rituals and the worship of their ancestors. My father couldn’t understand how they could so quickly abandon a commitment they had made, a commitment he fully intended to keep. When he walked into Grand Avenue Baptist, that was what he was doing: following through on a commitment he had made to the faithful Creator God.
There was another reason my parents were so adamant about their children attending church: fear. Not fear that God would punish us if we didn’t—that has no place in Christian belief—but fear of all the things that could go wrong for us in America. Fear is one of the most powerful influences for a refugee; it is often the hidden motivation behind obsessive discipline and drive. There are so many things that could go wrong for the refugee, so many mistakes that could be made, so many things to be afraid of—and there is no margin of error. I walked a path two inches wide and eighteen years long, and my parents were determined their children would not step off that path the way other children often did.
I have asked my parents what their image of America was before they came here; their answers seem humorous now, but they were no laughing matter at the time. My father thought all of America was like Las Vegas: morally loose, self-indulgent, and superficial—which is understandable when you consider that many foreigners only know America through television shows such as Baywatch and All-Star Wrestling. My father had been misled by American media too. Back in Vietnam he had seen photographs of Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor and assumed they were typical American women.
Where the Wind Leads Page 23
