"Ta muốn cưỡi cơn gió mạnh, đạp làn sóng dữ, chém cá tràng-kình ở Biển Đông, quét sạch bờ-cõi để cứu dân ra khỏi nơi đắm-đuối chứ không thèm bắt chước người đời cúi đầu, cong lưng làm tỳ-thiếp cho người ta"

** Triệu Thị Trinh **

 

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

           

The outside of the house was dark. Large pine trees cast shadows all along the fence in the front yard and provided a clear division between the cold outside and my world inside. A warm light spilled from the window; faint sounds of a family’s activities drifted out into the streets. I wedged myself in between my brother and cousin; I looked around the dinner table at the familiar faces laughing, smiling, listening, and thinking. I have seen this same scene countless times. Every past Thanksgiving seemed to blend together inside my head.  I looked down and saw the communion of the Vietnamese and American cultures displayed on the table. Along with plates of carved turkey, platters of rice and roast duck were lined up on the four edges of the old tablecloth. Complementing the boats of gravy, bowls of fish sauce to dip the duck in were passed around the table.  No one in the family found turkey to be the most delectable choice of dishes but there were neither complaints nor suggestions for an alternative; this was the “American way” and carving up a duck or pig roast would simply not feel right. As the only American born member of the family (therefore the only possible candidate for the presidency), I, at a young age, took it upon myself to inform the rest of my kin that this was the “proper” way to celebrate Thanksgiving. I had seen families on television and in movies feast on carved turkeys that were roasted and basted in the oven along with sides of golden corn and creamy mashed potatoes smothered with gravy. My mother, who always tried to appease me in my attempts to be like the average American boy, managed to include a turkey, mashed potatoes, and corn at all of our holiday dinners. Each year there were also a few Vietnamese dishes for those less enthusiastic about ga tay, the Vietnamese name for turkey which literally means “French chicken,” which is actually more in reference to a “Western chicken.” Like every year, there was conversation, laughter, and reminiscing. However, for me, this was not like all of the other holiday dinners we had shared, this was the first year I was away at college and had somewhere to be returning from. This was when I discovered what home is. This Thanksgiving, things were different.

Almost subconsciously, I surveyed the room to see if anyone was missing. I always found a little joy in knowing that everyone was in one place at one time, no one left out and everyone laughing at the same jokes and sharing the special moments. I spotted the bright eyes of my grandmother, expressive and deep, hinting of the experience and wisdom that accompany living through the greater part of one century and into the next. I had heard stories about her life. Having to raise not only her own children but also the children of her brothers and sisters who could not manage, I have aunts and uncles who refer to her as ma, “mother” in Vietnamese. Her sense of charity exceeds that of anyone I have ever met. She lent out money to the poor with no intention of being reimbursed, often without thinking of her own welfare. I constantly hear about her unwavering and sometimes domineering conviction in anything she thought was right, stemming from her faith in God and also her own sense of morals and values inherited from her family growing up. She had been a part of my life from the time I learned to crawl.  I thought of how she woke up with me to wait for the school bus every day from the time I was in elementary school to high school, and waited for me to return every afternoon. I saw her old hands and remembered the picture beside her bed of her with her hands folded together and wearing a traditional dress, full of youth and beauty. She sat at the table with her hands in a similar position and I thought of how she was ]now aged but was more beautiful now because of the life she had lived. Every so often a topic came up at the table that inclined her to interrupt whoever was speaking and make her joke or tell her story. She always tells stories about our family in Vietnam, past and present. Her presence serves as a connection to my heritage and ancestors. Her example drives me through each day with a more grateful outlook.

I realized compassion for others is much greater if it inspires action to help. My grandmother’s faith in God inclines her to think of others before herself. She passes on teachings of Catholicism to me; according to her, living a good life will afford me entrance into eternal life in Heaven; she tells me stories in order for me to live. As everyone ate and drank, I found myself thinking of those without a Thanksgiving dinner that night. With the words of a selfless person constantly echoing in my head, I am a better person.

My attention was diverted by the gentle sound of my father’s voice; I fail to remember what he was saying or whom he was saying it to but I find it impossible to forget how I was feeling when I heard it. I looked over at him with admiration. His knowledge of anything and everything is vast; he eagerly discusses Confucian ideals and French philosophy or explains the causes of anemia and cystic fibrosis in detail. His hands and face reflect his life’s hardships. Imprisoned for two years after the fall of South Vietnam, his stories of hard labor, hunger, and despair cannot possibly express the feeling of anguish and suffering he endured. I remembered when he told me that boredom was one of the most excruciating aspects of the prison; he described to me how he would replay the stories he had read or heard as a child over and over again in his mind to deal with the lack of magazines, books, or any other form of literature. Books have always been priceless to him, I can clearly imagine his large frame reclined on a couch with his glasses on the floor beside him and a book held close to his face with an appreciation of each word that few will ever know. 

He always stresses the importance of my knowing where I come from. Although I was born here in the United States, he is insistent on reminding me that Vietnam is part of who I am. He has told me stories of our country including the folktales, fairy tales, and historical events. I used to hear bed-time stories with undertones of morality and always containing some sort of lesson. Often I would get a lesson about Vietnam and its roots in Southeast Asian history. He has read me poems and literature and has incorporated his own experience as well. By giving me an understanding and knowledge of my past, he established a sense of identity for me which helps me and guides me through my life. On another level, by telling me stories for me to live my life, he lives through me. As his son, I am an extension of his life and the lives of my ancestors. The act of passing stories down to the next generation is a means by which one is immortalized and continues living. Beyond that, he feels a need for me to know what my predecessors have accomplished. I look at him and resolve to do for my children what he has done for me, preserve the past in order to move forward with the knowledge, wisdom, and experience of many generations before.

I thought about my brothers and I wondered how four boys growing up in the same household could become so different. They had all grown up and established their own unique identities. This Thanksgiving I thought about their lives in relation to mine.

They suffered much more than me; during the time in the refugee camp, lacking things to play with, they would mold dirt. Early years in the United States were not much better; an ice cream was shared between the three and was considered a special treat. They lived with hunger and want. I am the last of the four brothers. I have experienced few hardships. I was not dropped into a foreign country where I had to assimilate to a new culture and language. I had more toys than I ever asked for, more food than I ever needed. Growing up I had worries about being popular and liked, not about having less money than the other kids. I thought about what brand of jacket to buy, not about being cold during the winter. I looked around the house at the luxuries I have grown up with. There was a library with countless books, a piano by the fireplace, and a room upstairs that all belonged to me. I eat out at McDonalds without a second thought. I finish a carton of milk knowing that it will soon be replaced. Knowing all of this about my brothers’ childhoods enables me to appreciate my life; I take advantage of the doors that have been opened for me. Struggles do not seem as interminable and failures have become simple challenges for me to overcome.          

I noticed my mother getting up and down repeatedly from the table. This was no odd occurrence; she constantly kept herself busy by putting dishes away, getting more napkins, or checking on the stove. She is a person who must constantly remain busy; a common sight in the house is one of her with a vacuum trying to keep the house spotless. She is over fifty but any outsider would swear that she is not a day older than forty. She seems never to get tired but occasionally after a long day at work she shows her fatigue and goes straight to bed. On Thanksgiving night we saw only her strongest side.  She maintained a smile on her face throughout the night, the same smile that greets me every time I come home to visit. Her smile has become a constant in my life. It is her way of telling me everything is all right; no matter how bad the grade was on that midterm, things would be ok. She has a strength to her that holds everything grounded during the stormiest times. At the time she was only a few years older than I am now, with three young children and a husband imprisoned, she persevered and survived. Even after countless failed attempts at escaping from Vietnam, she refused to give up until finally the day came when she, my father, and three brothers set foot in a refugee camp in Malaysia. After more than a year in the refugee camp, my family moved to the United States. Through a difficult period, she had the will to continue and the instinct to care for her children.  With virtually no money upon entering the United States, she and my father started by struggling to survive and steadily gained success through hard work and eventually lived out the American dream. From my parents, I learned a desire to succeed and ambition without limits. I used to feel guilty because I came along when the hardships had been alleviated. Growing up, I realized I had a responsibility to make my parents proud but more importantly to excel for myself; the story of their struggle compels me to succeed with the foundation they have established.

My eyes moved over towards the mantle where a crucifix hung and a delicate statue of the Virgin Mary stood. Perhaps one of the most powerful influences on how I live is from the belief in God. Followers of any religion are taught to abide by a set of rules; in some religions these standards are more defined than in others. Given the example of the Bible, not only does it have an explanation for the origin of Man, it establishes a definition of holy conduct in its Ten Commandments. It instills morality and religious order; it teaches compassion, charity, and moderation among other virtuous attributes. Christians live by the messages of the biblical story, finding in it the purpose of life and how to fulfill it. The story of Jesus Christ sets the foundation of how one may emulate God and how He spent his time in this world. In some instances the quote “we tell ourselves stories in order to live” may be taken literally. In a secular world, we are capable of losing everything including our family, fame, and fortune but faith in the word of God is the constant. When people’s lives seem to crumble, a glimmer of light remains in the stories that religious leaders emphasize: God will always be there.

As we began to wrap up another Thanksgiving dinner, the conversations began to become less animated, words were spoken more slowly, and laughter softened. I scanned through the faces of the people surrounding me, my family in every sense of the word. They are the family I was born into, linked by lineage. They are the family that protect me, shelter me, and teach me. The stories of their lives shape the life I live and who I want to be. Thanksgiving was originally about the pilgrims. In past years, I never truly understood the significance of the day. I would remember this night not as another Thanksgiving but as that Thanksgiving. Stomachs were full and eyes began to droop. It was dark outside the house, the front door opened and guests and family began to file out. My grandmother and my parents went to their respective rooms. My brothers and I went to ours. The warm glow that poured out the window earlier in the night was replaced by a darkness that blended into the shadows. Thanksgiving fades away along with that light but I have learned what is more important than the single holiday is the constant appreciation I feel every day, the light I carry within myself. 

[This was Thanksgiving 2003.

Dr. Stephen Ho is now a resident physician in Radiology.]

(Photo credit: Northwest Asian Weekly)