Sense of self, and the way one shares it, is perhaps the most valuable and poetic gift in the arsenal of one's life and craft.--Sean Penn
I'm writing a memoir tentatively titled I Love You's Are For White People (chapter 6 of the book). It recounts my struggle, as a first generation Vietnamese refugee, to reconcile the traditions and identity of my family with the need for acceptance and assimilation into the cultural fabric of Southern California. The memoir explores my relationship with my father, who is a harsh, unforgiving, and sentiments-phobic man. My father was not only orphaned at a young age, but was twice uprooted from his homeland and forced to live the life of a refugee. The psychological turmoil under which my father raised me ensured my young life was a constant struggle and often a comedy of errors. The sense of humor I've been able to cultivate despite my childhood trauma has done more than heal me; it has also bridged the chasm between a son and his father, who rejects the very culture that his son has fought so hard to be accepted into.
The book opens with my family’s harrowing escape by sea from the Communists in Vietnam, chronicles my formative years spent roaming and hustling on the worst streets of Los Angeles, reveals how I eventually abandoned the thug life for college and a Ph.D., and even recounts my first return back to my beloved Vietnam where I decided to find out for myself what dog tastes like.
While my book will certainly convey one aspect of the universal experience of Vietnamese refugees living in America, it is not the only component of my life and my writing. My writing style employs a tongue-in-cheek look at the insanity of my upbringing; some of the experiences have less to do with our identity as Vietnamese-Americans than as simply a poor family in chaos living in a difficult neighborhood. Many readers grew up in homes with their own version of the chaos I experienced, and many people have suffered the consequences of the poor choices I’ve made in life. Hopefully, they’ll find my sense of humor about my life amusing and they’ll be motivated by my understanding of how good choices and the right commitments have enabled me to rise above the confines of circumstance. In such a way, I hope that my memoir also serves to inspire readers.I Love You's Are For White People , is an often humorous, always revealing, and occasionally irreverent look at the journey by which I've transcended the confines of circumstance.
HarperCollins - Perennial is the publisher. In stores soon!
Here's an excerpt from my soon-to-be released memoir. Enjoy.
Five and Nine
(An excerpt)
Even though my uncles came to the United States on a 747, they were fresh off the boat. The International Terminal at LAX was packed with people, but my uncles were easy to spot drifting down the escalator. They wore tattered sandals, their clothes were patched with rags, and their luggage consisted of water-stained cardboard boxes strung together with duct tape. They were happy to see us amidst the packed crowd of greeters peeking over heads and shoulders and holding up name signs, flowers and balloons. America was my uncles’ new house, and they were anxious to make it their home.
I was fifteen years old when Uncles Five and Nine arrived from Vietnam. My mother had nine brothers in all, and it's Vietnamese tradition when you have this many boys in a family to refer to them by their birth order. By this time, my family had made great strides towards living the American dream—they still depended on government assistance, but were better off than they were when they first arrived to America. Their dream was to one day own a home, so they saved every penny for a down payment. But the welfare of the family came first. With the help from other relatives, my mother and father spent some of their savings to sponsor Uncles Five and Nine’s arrival in the U.S. They would live with us until they could figure out how to make a living on their own, and, though I didn’t realize it at the time, my uncles taught me a lot about my Vietnamese heritage and traditions.
The first few weeks in America were good ones for Uncles Five and Nine. Adjusting to the country's culture wasn't easy, but they made respectable progress. We helped them rent an apartment in Alhambra, they managed to find jobs in a furniture-assembly plant, and we taught them to avoid breaking basic American laws with behaviors that were acceptable in Vietnam: no pissing in public, no jay-walking, and no littering.
A month into their stay, Ma and Pa and I decided to take them to the park. We sat at a picnic table chatting while my younger siblings enjoyed the swings.
"Hey Brother, let's nhau this weekend," Uncle Five asked my father.
"We could if you want to. Ask your sister to make the appetizers," Pa replied.
We planned to nhau the following Friday. I loved nhau for the food and conversation. The stories inevitably grew in depth and intensity as the night wore on. By the end of a nhau--which was often 3 or 4 in the morning--you'd have people crying, sometimes screaming, and always laughing and banging on the table over a good joke. Many of my parent's friends were refugees who had stories to tell. Nhau was the only place in America they could come together to share and cope.
Uncles Five and Nine decided to get up and check out the rest of the park. Before long, the two tiny men were running back towards our table, wide-eyed and manic.
As usual, Uncle Five did the talking for them, "There are fat dogs everywhere! We're going to catch a couple and bring them to the nhau!"
Holy shit. I didn't know people really ate dog.
Pa went ballistic, "Are you crazy? You could go to jail for that. DO NOT do that!"
"I see a lot of stray dogs, just wandering the streets, and..." Uncle Five continued sheepishly until Pa interrupted.
"Catching a stray dog and killing it is against the law. They may not belong to anyone, but those dogs are protected by the government and if you kill it, it's like killing a person. They will put your ass in jail for a long time," Pa spat.
Uncles Five and Nine just stood there in awe, "But these are stray dogs..."
"I said Do Not!" Pa continued, "You can do what the Mexicans do...raise some chickens, some ducks, some quail. Eat those."
"Chickens, ducks, and quail are okay? But those are animals too." Uncle Five was grinning, certain he'd found a loophole to score some dog meat.
"But they belong to you," Pa said.
"So you could eat dogs if they belong to you?" Uncle Five asked.
Pa went back to pissed, "No fucking dogs, no horses, no cats."
"Crazy Americans and their laws. What's the difference between eating a dog and eating a cow?" Uncle Five was dumbfounded.
Uncle Nine even chimed in, "So it's okay to eat poultry?"
"Yeah, just no dogs. Ok?!" Pa asked.
"OK" Uncle Five said. Uncle Nine just nodded his head.
Friday afternoon came, and I was anxious to nhau with the uncles, so I hurried home from school. When I walked into the kitchen Ma was working on the appetizers. It smelled delicious. I could see all of my favorites--shredded papaya with beef jerky and liver, beef tripe marinated with sugar vinegar, and roasted pig's ears. Everything would be dipped in a spicy fish sauce that spiked the flavor as well as the group's alcohol consumption. I went into my room to finish my homework before people started showing up for the party.
Half way through my math problems I heard yelling outside. I pulled a gap in the blinds and peered out to see my uncles coming up the walk. Uncle Five was dragging something in each hand. I assumed they were bags of groceries.
"Hey, we're home! It's time to nhau! For heaven sake, we're going to nhau tonight," Uncle Five yelled.
"We've got something special this time," Uncle Nine chimed in.
"Lac, hurry, come open the door!" Uncle Five shrieked.
I ran down the hall, ripped the door open, and froze when I saw what Uncle Five was dragging up our porch steps... (to be continued).
My agent, editor, and I are working hard to get this book out to you. It's really OUR book, a story about growing up and finding our voice. It's worth the wait, trust me.
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