The rest of the time we spent at that house was a blur. My long term memory must still have been developing. I don’t even recall my mom there, just the time at the hospital. The house was more tied to my grandmother. And the remainder of the memories were with her. Nothing in particular at the house, well, besides the fire. All I did was eat, sleep, and play with my brothers at home. Those memories were congealed into one. So what made me remember my grandmother so distinctly? It was what we did outside the house.
As you can imagine, the stale heat of Houston can leave you irritated and sticky. A feeling no kid likes. So any time any one would ever mention going outside, it better have been dark or raining, unless of course, it was with grandma. Doesn’t matter what time of day. I’d go in a heart beat. And I know she treats me differently because we barely go to the grocery store. The rare occasions that she does, she only buys whatever she can carry. Light enough to carry onto the bus. And that was the fun, taking the bus.
In my eyes, the bus was this gigantic moving thing. Another piece of moving metal in that sea of shiny colors people called traffic. It looked different, long and white. The large tinted windows made it look like a whale. An interesting one with all the cool pictures on the side. Every time it moved, it sprayed black smoke into the air instead of water. It was one cool whale. As long as we waited at a particular spot, the bus would stop. Its doors folding to open. Totally awesome, and even better, the blast of air conditioning. Oh, that invites me on every time.
“No,” my grandma would hold me back.
“Why?” I pouted wiping my forehead.
She points to the label, “It’s not our bus.”
Okay, so it wasn’t all fun. Waiting for the bus in that damn heat was grueling.
When we got on though, it was all worth it. There were all types of people. White, black, latin, crazy, fat, skinny, old, you name it, I’d see on the bus. And apparently, there were no asians. We made up for that demographic. Didn’t notice that back then. We were inner city people. Not many Vietnamese people would go live where we were. I didn’t care. I had my grandma. I had the AC. I had small beams of sunshine flicker in my face telling me its nap time. Time to lie down on grandma’s lap. I did. Many times. And it was great. I loved her. Always making me comfortable anywhere, even on hard plastic seats.
In many ways, my mom was like my grandma. This was all in retrospect of course. My grandma lived a challenging life and so did my mom. Their stories had a common theme, but let’s go over grandma’s. You see back at our village, as I mentioned earlier, my grandpa was a predominant figure, as far as villages politics go. He was looked up to. The man who owned the largest farm in the area. A durian farm to boot. Every decision effecting the village, would need his approval. This was a given. So as you can see, anyone close enough to know him was lucky, a friend, even luckier, as a family friend, even better, in a way. My grandma was that person. The daughter of a family friend. They spent their childhood together. Living and learning about the world, and eventually about each other. Best friends forever? Ugh, not the proper catch phrase. They were both good looking people. Grandma especially. No. The saying to use on this matter would have been, “It’s better to let someone know how you really feel than to let the chance slip away.” That was my grandma. And as fate would have it, my grandma was there for him through the good times and through the tragedy. Enough for him to realize the love he had. Of course, this wasn’t ideal. This was no fairy tale. This was how things happen. But if you don’t believe it was love, remember that grandpa passed away when my grandma was still young. In her thirties, which, in this day and age, would still be considered young. Still, she didn’t re-marry. All the hopeful suitors, turned away. Mind you, she was raising seven kids, three of which weren’t hers by blood. And yet, in spite of all the traditional Asian advice from the people around her, she stuck with her heart and found a way to raise her children. Yeah. Again, it was not some fairy tale story. There was plenty of hardship. Something you’d ask why anyone would put their children through it. I should also add that my youngest aunt was actually raised in an orphanage. Given up because they provided shelter and food. A practical move that appears heartless. But was actually more family driven than you’d think. In any case, they survived, they lived, and they progress, just because grandma loved my grandpa so much.
The mind never makes sense of this.
As a kid, though, my brain was only good for one thing, getting into trouble. But my heart knew. It all made sense. Cause I loved my grandma and would do anything for her. Every time I heard the story when I was little, I didn’t see what the big fuss was about.
I’d smiled when she woke me up.
“We’re here,” she’d whisper in my ear.
With all the noise in the bus, I only woke up to her voice. Pretty amazing. I can’t quite remember where we went usually. I think to the welfare office. Something she never liked cause she knew what it really meant. Probably what pushed her to learn. But of course, dad would rather her stay home and watch us. Free babysitting for him to do more of what he usually does. Have fun.
