“What do you want when you grow up?” he asked me.

“A 1970 red mustang,” I’d act like I knew what that was. It’s really what he wanted.

He smiled. “That’s quite a car. You sure you can handle that?”

I nodded.

“You have to be strong, fast, and know what you’re doing with that power. You sure?”

My head hadn’t stop nodding.

“Good. That’s a man’s car, you can’t drive it like some girl.”

“No,” I assured him.

Didn’t realize what he seeded in my head. All I could think about was flying down the Texas highways in that car. Windows down. Engines roaring. I’m behind the wheel with my dad in the passenger seat, both of our heads sticking out the window, like dogs in heaven.We’d hit those highway rises over the cross streets Duke’s of Hazard style. That was my favorite show back then and all I can imagine us doing. But the real image in my head would be closer to the fellas in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Just replace their faces with my dad and some kid who can barely see over the steering wheel. That was what my mind saw in the forefront, what it made me believe in was different.

Young was a Vietnamese guy, unmarried, and more importantly, a closer friend to mom. He was adapting to the U.S. in different ways then we were. Our family concentrated on getting a job and setting up a home. Young was more into the lifestyle. He was riding the remaining wave of the seventies. That is, he dressed the part, colorful paisley shirts and bell bottom pants with long frizzly hair. Given the typical skinny physique, with his big bug eye sunglasses you’d think he was a girl if it weren’t for his mustache.

“No,” I screamed.

“Aww, what’s the matter Khanh?” asked Young.

I pushed, then punched him when he got closer. “Men aren’t suppose to kiss men.”

“All I want is a hug.”

“Dad says you’re gay.”

“What?”

He shook it off and came closer to hug me and as a joke he puckered up, pretending to kiss me. That’s when I slapped him. It was loud. Then I punched him in the face. Not very pleasant I’d imagine. He fell back in surprise. This all could be warranted if we were alone and it was the start of some bad childhood experience, but it was in front of my parents. My mom stood there with her jaw dropped and dad was there with that devilish grin. I smiled back. Young looked up at my dad.

“Well, look at what you’re wearing,” my dad starts explaining himself.

They go on.

“That’s not nice,” mom kneels down beside me.

I stare at the ground.

“He’s a friend of mom. Be nice okay?”

Her words go through me. Same goes for Young’s words to my dad. I stared up at him. He was looking down at me, ignoring Young completely. He wondered what I was thinking. If I felt the same way as him. I didn’t of course. I didn’t care if my mom had male friends.

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.

“Eww, it’s a frog,” Phong leaned over.

“Where,” Tuan pushed him to the side. “Gross.”

It was on a rock. Its skin was dark green, almost blackish, you’d miss it had it not croaked or picked a white rock to sit on. The flesh under its throat grew and shrank with every sound. Not a very pretty thing for me to look at. I stayed behind and peeked through my brothers’ limbs.

“Get it.”

“No, you get it,” Phong pulled away from my brother as he tried to grab him.

“Go pick it up.”

My brother’s were arguing. Tuan was trying to pull Phong over to the frog. It had long hopped away, but they hadn’t noticed, or even cared. Tuan didn’t like the fact that Phong didn’t do what he said. I never liked being around when they fought. Walking away was always the answer, walking away to my dad. Yeah, I was that kid. The brother that always told on you. This time though, I ran away for another reason. The fight was a distraction for me to get away. I was smiling to myself as I ran inside. A devilish smirk. I had seen my Tuan eating candy earlier. Didn’t share it with anyone.

“Taste like oranges,” he said to my mom. I like orange. Cherry flavor was my favorite, but orange was in the top five.

I opened the cabinet where it was hidden, grabbed them, and ran outside. My brothers were still fighting. They had wrestled each other to the ground. I ate a few. They were my popcorn to a wrestling match starring the two all stars, my brothers. I imagined I’d be the next contender if my brother knew I was eating all of his candy. I had a plan though. Scarf down all of the evidence and discard the package. Had to make sure to bury it or something. No way for him to find out. And even if he did, it may have been worth whatever I had to endure. Children and sweets, the only thing we cared about. I was giddy.

If I had known how to read, I would have said, “I sure wish these Children’s Aspirin came in cherry flavor.”

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

You know when people say something like, “Oh he’s young, he’ll forget about this in the morning.” Well, it’s completely untrue. There are people that do.

Cause I still remember that moment when I woke up. I remember feeling uncomfortable. I was groggy. My body felt foreign. I was breathing uncomfortably. Something was in my nose and some tube was in my mouth. My belly button felt funny, a bit sharp and achy. I looked up and saw some guy looking over me. He didn’t see me wake up. My eyes where a little out, under his chin. He wore circular framed glasses and had your standard hospital issue face mask. I studied him to see if I recognized him. It wasn’t dad. A stranger. I’d freak out but nothing was really working for me. My mind and my body were under a heavy haze of white. He didn’t notice me until I tried to look around.

“Oh. He’s awake,”  he waved to the nurse. A few seconds later, I was out again.

This time when I woke up, I was greeted by a familiar face, my mom. She was sitting next to me on my bed. She caressed my forehead, moving my hair aside. I was sweating coming out of my fever, could also been because my bed was next to a window. The sun light cut through the shade onto my mom, making her glow. She didn’t have any sign of anger on her face. She just smiled as I awoke. I sat and held her.

“What’s happening,” I asked, my tears ran down her arms.

“It’s okay,” she kissed my head.

She held me until I dried out. No more tears, no more snot. Again, I was making a mess on her.

They kept me there for an extra day. I wore one of those blue hospital gowns. You know the one that covers everything in the front but leaves everything behind you exposed. It made me extremely self conscious. We were in the children’s wing with a bunch of other kids and their parents. I was glad my mom was with me. She’d walk me to the bathroom holding one hand while I tried to hold my gown together with the other. This made it difficult to walk as my sock covered feet scuffled along the polished floors. During dinner she’d eat with me and help me secure my new favorite thing, apple juice. Not the apple juice you’d get in the bottle or a cartoon, but the kind you find in a plastic container. The top had to be that shiny aluminum foil that you needed to peel off to drink. It came with every meal we got. My mom would give me hers or buy more for me whenever I woke up from my nap. I liked seeing her when I opened my eyes. She laid facing me, eyes closed, curled up on the tiny bed. Her maternal instincts woke her when I woke.

If by now you think everything was due to bad parenting, I have to disagree. I think it’s really a matter of the best parenting that one can do. We all learn these things as we go along. It’s the caring that drives it. The reaction and adjustments you have to make as things change, your kids change, your environment changes. You can never be around every minute of the day, and you can never predict how clever your kids can be. That was probably what went through my mom’s mind as she dropped everything and came to be with me.

And during my whole stay I didn’t even ask or wonder, where my dad was.

I never did.

I was too young and too afraid to do anything against my dad.

At that time, I was really close to him. Loved him to death. I hated being away from him. Even thought he was the one that gave birth to me, not knowing what “birth” meant. I’d cling to him where ever he was. He gave me loads of attention. Hugs. Piggy back rides. A seat on his lap at the dining room table. VIP service. All I had to do was walk up and tap him. He’d reach down and pull me with his two strong hands. It was something I loved to abuse when we had guests and wanted attention. I’d interrupt their conversations. Ask some stupid question they find silly. They’d laugh and start asking me questions. Whatever I misunderstood entertained them more. Especially when my dad asks who gave birth to me. That always erupted in pandemonium. My dad loved having that over my mom.

When they had me, they wanted a girl. Yeah, not cool! But anyways, months into the pregnancy they tried affecting the outcome the only way they could. My dad surrounded my mom with pictures of little girls. Listen to songs sung by women. Did everything you’d think was absurd. But guess what, this was a normal thing to do. They knew it wasn’t serious. It wouldn’t change anything. It’s like buying a lottery ticket. Realistically, you probably aren’t going to win. Still, that 30 seconds of dreaming about what you’d do with the money is worth it. This was worth it for them. It lasted the whole nine months. And to their disappointment, I was born a boy. A let down huh? Another boy to add to the collection. The difference between my time and theirs was that from my inception to my birth, times were good. There was a war, but for my parents, it was the best time of their life together. So when I was born, I didn’t cry. And when the nurse brought me to my mom, I smiled. That’s all it took. I was the prize, a prize that will be used in many ways later. For now, it was complete love and affection.

The way my dad spoiled me was probably what made my brothers resent me. Resentfulness might not be the word. Jealous? No, I don’t think that’s the right word either. It was simply unfair.

“I saved the Peanuts for you,” I put my torn out newspaper next to him.

Phong turned his head on the pillow, away form me. He was lying on his stomach. Our beds were small spring held beds that met me at eye level. He was still crying. You couldn’t hear him, but his body was shaking. Under orders to be quiet or else the belt comes out again.

“If you don’t want it, I’m going to throw it away,” I snatched it and threw it on the floor.

In hindsight, I think I could have been more compassionate. Yeah, I know I was just a kid, a stupid kid. But I was aware enough to know what happened, why I shouldn’t be mad at him. This was how I learned about guilt. The first lesson was going to be in the form of my brother not playing with me anymore. Sure I had Tuan. Though I don’t remember playing with him. It was an age rank thing. Oldest plays with the middle, the middle plays with the youngest, but never the oldest and youngest. I think it was competition for attention. Not a good mix. Particularly, when I’ve already won over my dad. My mom though, was different. I think she loved me more than my dad, but I didn’t see it. Too busy hanging out with dad. Things were going to change.

I remember the first house in Texas more than the one in Baltimore. It was a rambler, single level house. White wooden house with a porch that spanned all of the front. There were about four steps of stairs leading up to to the porch and to the door flanked by two rectangular windows. It would have been symmetrical if it were decades younger and the foundation and mother nature treated it better. The white planks of wood skinning the house were stained and chip. A new paint job was well over due. The roof seemed to favor the right side of the house where all the weeds grew. The rest of the lawn was busy overtaking the sidewalk and walkway leading up to the house. So if you really needed metaphor to describe our house, I’d imagine it like someone took a scoop of rocky road ice cream and dropped it on the lawn under the blistering Texas heat. And that’s what went through my mind every time I came home. Not because it really looked like that, but because I liked, no, I loved ice cream and I dreamt about eating our house on day, like those kids in that story I had seen. That popular one. Makes you want to never run away or accept any hospitality from old wart faced ladies. That must have made me uneasy around old people. Thankfully, the oldest person in our family was Grandma. She and Uncle Diep stayed with us. The house had enough room, enough as in a room for her and a room for my mom and dad. For my brothers and I, yes, in retrospect it was messed up, but back then we had the biggest room of all. It’s what you’d call, the living room.

Grandma watched over us when my mom and dad went to work. It was great for my parents, but for grandma, it wasn’t ideal. She wanted to take classes and learn English. She bought into the American dream. And she was used to working hard back at the farm, bringing home the food and the money. Now it was cooking and making sure we didn’t get into any trouble. Not very challenging and the supervision, well, let’s say it was a valiant attempt.

The winter months in Texas could get cold. Once in a while it might dip to the thirties and there have been historical moments of snow flurries. Rare. Very rare. So with that sort of meteorological data, most houses were not built with heaters. Ours being one of them.

“Stay away,” my dad told us.

He had bought a floor heater and put it in the corner of the living room. It was cold, well not to me. My folks might not have been fully acclimated yet. Texas heat and humidity was nothing compared to tropical heat. And it wasn’t even winter yet.

“Wow,” Phong gawked kneeling in font of it, ignoring my dad’s warning after he left.

It was a small propane heater. It was about six inches tall and was as long as my body. Little flames stood next to each other forming a row of blue and yellow dancing, mesmerizing, lights. They looked alive. Pudgy blue bottom creatures with yellow heads, tempting us to play with them. But the heat and metal bars kept us away. That was, until Phong found a way.

I wanted to say we’d get in trouble, but what came out was, “Neat!”

He had stuck a wound up page of news paper through the jail bars and somehow freed one of them. The tiny dancing blue creatures. It danced on the tip and walked slowly toward his hand, leaving a trail of black ash with each step.

“What did I tell you,” yelled my dad, slapping Phong’s hand and stomping out the fire. “You don’t play with fire.”

Phong let out a shriek as he got slapped. I did the same, but not because I was hit, but because Dad had just killed our new friend.

We weren’t sent to our room, because as you may have guessed we were in it. My dad dad decided to take the heater away and give my brother a whipping. Only him. Tuan and I stood and watched. We were both guilty. I was an accomplice. My brother was the one that showed him what to do, weeks before, with the kitchen stove. We knew because that’s what Phong cried out when my dad asked why Phong would have such a stupid idea like that. At the time, I didn’t know why my dad wouldn’t stop. Phong answered all of my dad’s question, yet he was still getting beat. I couldn’t do anything, but cry.

The next day my brothers were dragged off. During our young years, it was punishment to go grocery shopping with family. It’s the worst situated a child could go through. Surrounded by tons of food, none of which you’re allowed to have. Any attempt to get something and put in the cart that’s not approved, not asked for, and most of all something you really like, would result in a hand slap followed by an order to put it back. Sometimes we wonder if our parents just like slapping us, because we did see them take the very thing we had put back. It made no sense. And to make things worse, the grocery store was in on the sadistic game as well. At the checkout line would be that wall of candy. Beckoning us down at our levels with rich milk chocolatey goodness. That was THE longest miracle mile for children. I dreaded the grocery store.

Back at the house, I was with my grandma. I don’t remember what I was doing. My mom had left for work already, so it must have meant I was about to drive my grandma crazy.

The heater was out in the living room again.

My grandma was cold and must have wanted some heat as she did chores. She was in the kitchen. If you were to talk into the house, in front of you and to your left would be my room, the living room. There was a door on the far wall leading into my parents room. On the right was a small dining area that lead into the narrow kitchen. The wall separating the kitchen and living room was about ten feet in. That was enough to have a view of the heater as Grandma prepared food for the kitchen.

I stared at the heater and at my grandma. She was busy chopping something up. I waited patiently. I decided to prepare. I found the newspaper on the dining room table. I climb up on the seat and read through it. Not really. I was doing what kids do and imitating. I found my favorite section though and decided.

“Marmaduke, you’re going to help me rescue those trapped animals.”

I rolled up that page as tight as I could. My elbows bent in awkward angles to turn the page into a firm crooked twig. I held up my creation and smiled. My grandma looked over and I dropped it. I kept my smile though. Folks always laughed or squeeze my cheeks when I did that. Fortunately, I was far away so I only expected a laugh.

“What are you up to?” Grandma laughed.

I watched her as I kicked my feet under my seat. Her hands were messy with strips of chicken fat. So was the big cleaver she was using. No matter how helpful people try to be with grandma, she never needed a hand. She was as healthy as an ox. The large cleaver went through the pieces of chicken at the mercy of her strength. You could hear the cutting board cough after each cut.

“It’s the mailman.” She looked pass me out the window.

“It’s my chance.”

She does the same thing every day. After the mailman comes, she walks out to the end of the lawn where the mailbox was and pulls out the mail. My grandma loves to pick up the mail. She loves getting mail even if it was just junk mail. Someone out there was addressing her and she’d take the time to try to read it. Especially when it had pictures of food, because those grocery ads were easy to read. All you needed to spot were the prices. Who cared what they were called, it it was cheap we’d buy it and try it out. This was my grandma’s daily English lesson. Associate words to the pictures. Eventually, this led her to do the grocery shopping. But for today, this led to a misfit’s bad idea.

I stared out and waited for her to sit on the steps, in the sunlight, and read.

I hopped down with my paper in hand and ran over to the heater. It was hot the closer I got to it. When I got close I slid down on my stomach. The hardwood floors felt cool. I lifted my shirt and let the floor cool my tummy. I squirmed around and lifted my torso and arms. The paper made it’s way through the bars shaking and bobbing. My tongue was hanging out the side of my lip. I was balancing myself on my stomach now. The end of the paper lit up a bright yellow and I pulled it out. I got up to my feet and stared closely at the end. It wasn’t as big and animated like my brothers. It was slow and barely moved down the paper. The yellow flamed wasn’t too impressive during the light of day. An idea popped into my head. I scurried over to the kitchen throwing a quick glance over my shoulder to my grandma outside. I opened the closet door next to the kitchen and went inside. It was pitch black except for my little yellow friend. It flickered. I was still small and lazy at the beginning, but then it stretched. And boy did it stretch. It doubled, then tripled in height. I shook the paper and noticed it was floating in front of me. Suspended and still growing. I opened the door and there it was. It was burning my dad’s jacket. The whole sleeve was getting engulfed in flames. With all the knowledge on what to do in case of emergency instilled in me by my parents, I did what any smart kids at my age does. I threw the paper into the closet, closed the door, ran outside, and sat next to my grandma.

“Anything for me?”

The question alone was odd on so many levels and my grandma knew I did something wrong. She grabbed my hands and inspected them. Turning them over and peering down every finger.

“Did you cut yourself?”

She felt horrible for leaving the kitchen without cleaning up. But that wasn’t the mess that was brewing back in the house. To make things worse, my grandma wasn’t around when my brother got in trouble last night. She was in her room and didn’t know why my brother was being punished. It wasn’t an uncommon thing.

“What’s that smell,” her head popped up. “Is something burning?”

I stared up at her and saw the trail of black smoke exiting the top of the door. It ran across the bottom of the roof and off into the sky.

Yet I still said, “No.”

I don’t think I convinced her. She went inside and saw the billowing smoke coming from the closet. She ran over. About ten years from then, Hollywood would title a movie on what I was about to see when my grandma opened the closet door and a huge fireball leapt out at her. Yes. Backdraft. I didn’t care for the movie cause it went over this like its some sort of unknown phenomenon. My grandma and I have just gotten a lesson on what fuels fire more than polyester suits, oxygen.

My grandma jumped back and threw a pot under the sink. She filled them up and started dousing the closet. Over and over she’d splash it. I could still see the flames reaching out from the closet. I was still sitting on the steps. I turned around and saw my uncle careening into the driveway. He bolted in. My brothers ran out.

“The house is fire?” Tuan asked peeking into the door.

Phong knew what happened. He was looking straight at me and knew exactly what I did and exactly what was going to happen. He was going to get whipped for this and it was because of me.

It was a strange place. I wonder if I cross images of my nightmares with my memories or vice versa. If one word could describe that time, I’d say “chills.” Thankfully we didn’t stay there too long. Yet, I don’t remember how long it was.

My family stuck together in the area here. This townhouse was for everyone except for my older aunt. She stayed with her husband in another house outside the city.

We called her, Aunt Hoa. And no, it’s not translated, it was literally, “Aunt Hoa” like how country folk would say. You may wonder if this makes any sense, because she was the one married to an American, Uncle Chuck, yeah, that’s what we called him too. Maybe because we were learning English and didn’t know any better. But this never changed. Even stranger, we called my mom’s younger brother, Uncle Diep. There were no ties to an American there. Not yet at least. Then there’s the youngest sister, who we call ouc, which isn’t her name, it’s a Vietnamese word for the youngest in a family. Grandmother was Ngoại, Vietnamese for our maternal grandmother. And my mom, everyone else calls her No, and that’s Vietnamese, where you’d say phonetically “nuh” in tone 3 for those of you who study Asian languages. We just called her Mẹ, or mom. So dad was Bà. And if you haven’t figured it out, “we” are my brothers and I, and “they” were everyone else in the family. Tuan’s the oldest, Phong’s the middle, and I pull in last. My name’s Khanh, but everyone in the family calls me chu tư, which I translate, with my awful Vietnamese, to “Mr. Fourth.” Odd, I know. A revelation a decade later informed me that, my mom had a miscarriage with her first child. So out of tradition, we kept our nicknames. In our culture, addressing people properly and respectfully was huge. Everyone had a particular name depending on your relation to them, mom-side, dad-side, younger, older, it was very confusing if you weren’t constantly practicing it. That might as well sum up why our names weren’t consistent. Some were salutations, others were pronouns, and the lucky ones get to keep their names, or nicknames. My brothers and I were at a culture clash. Somehow the names stuck.

For the sake of clarity, I’ll continue forward with our English versions.

Uncle Chuck and Aunt Hoa were quite a couple. Chuck was this big brawny guy. Put a picture of a lumberjack in your head, minus the red cap and axe, that would be him. Full of energy and the center of every conversation. He could go on about his opinions on how the world worked, what was wrong the system, what we needed to do to fix it, and so on. Didn’t help me the slightest since loud things made me cry. And he made me cry plenty. Mom loved his helpfulness. He got things done for my family in the fashion only Uncle Chuck can do. Messy, but quick. Hell, that’s how we got here ahead of all the madness. Makes you wonder how he got along with Aunt Hoa. She was this dark piercing eye individual who’s eyes can cast a judgmental stare even in her sleep. This may be a bit harsh to characterize her as such, but I think everyone has someone in the family that isn’t scared to call things out and draw that line which you didn’t know you crossed. Everyone has someone like this around. She just happens to be my aunt and I love her for it. Sometimes.

The other thing was, she wasn’t the oldest. My grandfather had eight kids total, three with his first wife and five with Grandmother. When we left, the oldest was left behind. I never got the full story why. She eventually came with her family many years later. At this time though, we were without her, Chi Năm, um, “Older Sister Five.” I know, I’ll figure this out one day.

In any case, the lot of us stayed in this townhouse. That was until my dad found a job in the oil business. It paid well.  Enough for us to pack our bags and head on south. Oh Texas, I never knew the draw of money came at such a risk.

We were all in a large room, a government room. Sterile, yet dusty, it spanned about a fifty square feet, enough to hold over a hundred Vietnamese immigrants waiting to be processed. The chairs were plastic with shiny metal legs, blue seats, curved, possibly to fool people that they were comfortable. My dad sat reading through forms with my brothers tied by mortification from something they shouldn’t have done. My mom stood holding me.

She was bouncing me up and down, trying to get me to stop crying, staring around the room.

There were several things going through her mind. First and foremost, were the people. Everyone was Vietnamese yet she knew no one except for our immediate family. She worked at a U.S. military office back in Saigon. So it wasn’t much of a change seeing foreigners behind the desk. But here, they were citizens and we, we were the foreigners. It really hadn’t sank in completely that she was away in a completely foreign place. That is, until she saw her first African American. A large black lady behind one of the counters and behind her were even more. they stood around talking and laughing in the background. She had seen them on TV but never before in person. Nothing but the common stereotypes ran through her head. The stories of how obnoxious and rude they were in the army. The way they strutted and the way they talked. Jive talked if you learned everything from television. That was all she knew. She stood mesmerized. Still as a deer in headlights. And then, according to my wonderful aunt, I broke her out of her spell. In a loud and smelly way. Like a plug that popped open, I soiled my diaper.

My mom sighed and brought me to the rest room. She changed me and came back out.

Typical mom thing right? Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, I should mention this story had become family folk lore and brought up many times, especially when I get a stomach ache and have to hit the can while either my aunt or uncle are in the vicinity.

I’d always get a laugh then, “As long as it’s not as bad as that time…”

The time my mom changed me and a minute later, I went again. And again. Three times and I exhausted all the diapers. I mean, my mom had alot of things to carry, and that should have been more than enough diapers. No one knew I was born with super human powers. My mom had to fashion a makeshift diaper out of a shirt. That must have pissed me off. Because for some reason, the last one blew through onto my mom’s dress. Oh, I guess I forgot to mention, my mom wore a dress. A nice dress. That long slim traditional Vietnamese dress people wear on special occasions. Coming to America was apparently one of them. Being part of a natural disaster should have been another.

I figure this must have caused a scene.

She ran to the rest room to clean up. Kept my butt in the sink under the running water. My younger aunt came in with a change of clothes for my mom. She changed and threw away the dress and again, according to my aunt, they stayed there and kept me in the sink. They were out of things to change me into. They didn’t want to sacrifice another garment for my unholy butt. And my mom was too furious to cater to my comforts. The sink was good enough. And who needs diapers, or pants even. This was where it probably started. Anyways, more about that later. This was really the start of my mayhem my mom had to endure.

In any village, people knew one another pretty well. From the time people were young to when they were old, a village was like going to elementary school, learning from older people, making friends, sharing memories, and never quite leaving. You have your enemies and you have your friends. There’s a common courtesy you have among the people. The cordial greetings and the helpful hand. These were all givens. Expected behavior. In fact, it’s in your best interest to do good things because these are people you see everyday. In that room, on the other hand, weren’t people from our village. Strangers, only similar by skin color and facial features. All sharing a lost country and stuck in the same circumstances. Yet, this was all my people needed. You’d hear all about it in later times. Stories of Vietnamese refuges strengthening each other to overcome the odds of escaping. Carrying one another out of times of poverty sharing food, clothing, and shelter. These were all countrymen striving to keep the yellow and red striped flag alive in our hearts. And those stories would dwarf anything coming out of a cramped immigration lobby rest room, let alone a little child’s butt.

However, this was the part that everyone but my grandmother left out. Mainly because it wasn’t funny. And it was something only a grandmother can tell you and have the proper effect.

We probably stayed in the rest room for an hour. My mom was making sure I had everything out. I was told I didn’t mind, I slid around bare against the smooth porcelain sink. I was laughing, and yes, I was clean. Remember, this was all a precautionary measure. But then there was a knock and a lady came in. She brought some diapers to my mom and gave it to her. And what was astonishing, was it was a stranger, not even Vietnamese. It was the black lady she was staring at. She had seen the whole incident and must have gotten the diapers for us, knowing we couldn’t leave. She smiled and said a few things that my mom could barely understand as “Take these, they are for you.” I know if this were some television show, this would be that defining moment where the main character shatters their wrongful thoughts and does a 180 turn after the commercial break. Not exactly so. This was reality. It was a tiny move in the right direction. My mom’s first lesson, a pleasant one, in the new reality we were registering for. I can only picture in her mind, a light bulb sparking in front of a door labeled, “misconceptions”. A place to visit. A place to re-evaluate subjects. A place to redefined what Vietnamese meant. Mainly because we weren’t in our village anymore.

Saigon, Vietnam, February 1975.

We were farmers, except for me, I was thirteen months old, on a durian farm. A durian, if you don’t know much about the fruit, is this spiky green fruit. About as hard as a pineapple that you’d have to break open to eat. It’s what’s inside people go for. This mushy, fibrous yellow-orange substance that gives off one of the worse pungent smells you’d encounter in fruit land. It’s amazing this stuff is considered a delicacy. But lucky for us. That made us a pretty wealthy family. Actually I should point out, it was because of my grandfather. The farm was his family legacy and my grandmother married into it after his first wife passed away. That was many years before we entered the war. From what I was told, he was a prominent figure in the village back then. My grandmother was fortunate to marry him even wit his three kids. I guess things were great. My grandmother had four other children, three daughters and a son. My mom was the second oldest in my grandmother’s bloodline. Everything was great until, the war? Yeah, but no. It was my grandfather. He fell ill. I still remember what my mom told me.

“I knew it when came home,” she’d tell me staring at my aunt, the youngest one. “I didn’t even need to go inside.”

My mom always wanted to make sure her sister was okay whenever she’d tell the story. I’ve heard it a million times. I’m sure she had too. It wasn’t ever going to be a day, she’d break down about that.

“There was a crow on the front steps. It cawed and flapped its wings as it walked back and forth. I was scared, but not of it. when it flew away, I knew he passed away.”

He passed away when my grandmother was still young. It wasn’t like life instantly changed. Anyone that’s been in any family can tell you that. It’s more like, they slowly changed. Life still moves on and those years you’ve spent together does mean something. It’s never anything you can wash away no matter how hard you scrub and never should you try. It only leads to pain and trouble. Really.

So basically, my grandmother and her kids ran the farm, from picking the fruit to selling them. That was them. Once part of a prestigious family humbled to basic farm workers. What happened to the other side of the family? I’m not sure.

As the war came, we still lived our normal lives. My mom eventually got married to my dad and had us, my two older brothers and the little shit, me. My dad soon was enlisted as a pilot for the U.S. It paid well. Enough for us to buy a house and even a car. This was back in the seventies. Imagine, in the 21st century, the primary mode of transportation in Saigon was via scooter. A car was rare. So back in those days. I’d like to imagine we were doing great. It was a jeep. I know because it’s the only picture I have of us back there. A black and white picture. We were at a corner of the house. Only thing you can make out is the overhanging roof and our house number 3519. We were all there next to the jeep wrangler parked next to the house. It was at an angle facing off to the left of the picture. There was no driveway. My parents stood in front of the left side mirror with my two brothers standing below. I’m sitting on the hood with my dad. He holds me firm staring at the camera. He sporting his plaid button up shirt and shiny watch. My mom wore a flower print shirt and black bell bottom pants. It would have made the perfect 70′s family picture, but my mom had turned to me as the picture snapped. I figured I did something. You can’t figure out from the picture, so I must of did what I did best back then, farted.

So that was the only picturesque image I had of Vietnam.

It was a month before the official fall of Saigon and we were ready to go. My aunt, the oldest, had married an American G.I. and as you may have guessed, that meant we were going. And this was by plane. We were the other migration of Vietnamese you seldom hear about. Not the boat people and their courageous stories, but the bastards that got a free ride, straight into the U.S.

It might be because I’m sleepless again. My hyper thyroid was acting up. I thought I had it beat. Two years of some experimental Japanese treatment worn off. Hoped it would be the cure. It wasn’t, it’s back. That equates to me up at night. Sometimes I could cheat and get to sleep quick. You know, responding to yourself when you’re actually sleepy. But most of the time, my body is awake, a touch of apprehension, a pinch of adrenaline, and my mind, it’s in no state to sleep. Basically, it’s that feeling you get when you wake up from a nap, a good nap, after spending all night studying. You feel okay. You could use more time sleeping, but your body won’t let you. The sun’s out, your mouth’s dry, and you got that imaginary hand squeezing your brain. Yeah. That feeling. But it’s like 2am and I’m lying in bed sensing everything around me. My covers tickling the hairs on my legs. The dusty scent lingering in the air. The feint voices from my neighbors. My senses were all awake but I wanted to sleep. I needed to sleep.

And of course, it hits then. It’s more than subtle. A vibration rocking everything around my bed. I can feel my arms bouncing. But it wasn’t strong enough to shake anything around me. Not quite dramatic like the ones in LA.

It lasted for about 30 seconds.

Yeah. Whatever.

Not quite the same.

But I had to do what I always do when I go through an earthquake. Look it up the next day. Many thanks to http://earthquake.usgs.gov for keeping everything updated. If you ever saw LA’s map, there’s always an earthquake somewhere. It’s quite colorful. For San Francisco, it’s not as exciting. Especially that morning. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. A couple of futile refreshes later, I knew.

Fuck. Here I go again. Time for a new place. I better get into a newer place this time.

Okay “heap of junk” might be too harsh. Our old Oldsmobile back in the day, now that was a “piece of junk”. That thing was one of those boxy chrome behemoths that looked like it wanted to be a Cadillac. Yeah, like a pimp-mobile, but no. It was this light green colored car any reputable ho managing fool would stay away from. There was no sense of novelty being in that car. It was pure embarrassment. The car could barely accelerate. From 0 to 60, it would take a good 30 seconds, and that would be on a good day, on a straight leveled street, with 93 octane gas. Downhill, even better, but uphill… that was a huge problem. And in the neighborhood I grew up in, creeping cars meant one thing, a drive by. Of course, that would be cool if everyone ran at the sight of our car. But no. Humans have that stupid instinct, like you what see in the movies, to make sure it really was a drive by even if it was too late. They would wait there, squinting. The impatient ones would get off their porches and meet us halfway on their yards. They had that much time. Seriously. I wished my mom would gun them down as the car meandered by. John Woo style and all. But no, adolescent kids never get their wish. It was always the opposite. So there was our car driven by mom, her head, with her big honey brown framed glasses, peering over the steering wheel. While my brothers and I sank in our seats, even to the lower feet sections, where I fit perfectly, doing what we could only do against the laughter, complain.

“I hate this car.”

I had to slam on the brakes. The car was drifting backwards. The clutch wasn’t catching or something. Plus I could smell too much exhaust. This car was new. Everything inside was electronic, the windows, the seats, the transmission, even the fuel injection. Still with all this technology, the car doesn’t even go or even acknowledge something’s wrong. It was a metal box with an engine that’s eating up gas.

I tried the same thing again. Foot off the brakes and accelerate. This time, it slipped back even more. Several feet. I went back to the brakes. They didn’t hold like before. I could still feel the car driftng back. I pressed on them harder and heard the pads grind. The car started to pick up speed backwards. This was ridiculous. This hill was steeper than before. Soon, it was off the road and into the woods. Trees we passing by as I continued pressing as hard as I could on the brakes. I was too scared to steer. I didn’t want to turn around. I braced my head against the car seat anticipating.

I watched the street shrink ahead of me. The green forest closed in.

Bang.