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My brother's family recently moved to San Jose into a small one story home with an old family friend of ours. This old family friend knew my parents and grandparents from way back when in Viet Nam. She is now a widow and has been living alone since her husband passed just a few months ago. She kindly opened up her home to my brother and his new family. Since he moved there, I've been visiting often.
Not sure why, but today something sparked my interest in her family's story as I was sitting there eating the sauteed beef and peas with rice. So I started asking her a series of questions without much pause in between.
"So Auntie...can I ask, when did your family come to the US?"
"...1986."
"How did you get here?"
"...Sponsorship by my sister."
"What happened to your family after 1975?"
"...We stayed in Sai Gon."
"Did your husband go to reeducation camp like my dad?"
"...Yes, for 2-3 years."
"What were you doing while your husband was in camp?"
"...I was taking care of my 4 kids alone."
"How old were your kids at the time?"
"...My husband left on the 23rd. I had my youngest just 12 hours after he left."
"Ohhh k...so what was life like when the Viet Cong took over?"
...silence...
I stopped chewing and placed my chop sticks on the plate. She was still facing the stove stirring the soup in the pot. I leaned to the side to see if she had heard my question but noticed that her cheeks were getting red. She started sniffling quietly and tears began to fill her eyes. She started shaking her head, shocked at her own reaction to my seemingly harmless questions. Shaking her head vigorously as if to shake the tears from her memories.
I didn't know what to say.
I felt so guilty.
I started explaining to her why I was so curious about her family's history and experiences. Telling her about the growing disconnect between refugee parents and their children and how the gap will eventually lead to an out-of-touch generation. I told her that hearing such stories are important to me, and helpful in understanding my parents and grandparents.
She responded,"My memories are too painful to recall. Let's not talk about it now." She remained silent, pulled deep into her thoughts as she continued to cook.
I withdrew and finished eating my rice. I got lost in my own thoughts. This experience just reaffirmed my understanding of disruption. Disruption of refugee memories, families, culture and experiences. I was reminded that the healing process sometimes never has an end. And that those of the first generation who struggled through the war and resettlement experience first hand are still scarred so deeply... yet remain so silent.
And for the Southeast Asian refugee, this silence... is worse than the belligerent outcry or the emotional rage.
How do we contribute to the healing process?
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last night, i was at the CLS banquet. binly, yer, jerry were there too...
ReplyDeletea friend of mine got to experience the magic of refugee nation for the first time...and the first scene they showed was of a disconnected youth poking and prodding an elder for information about their familys hidden past. the short skit moved him so much that he is now on a mission to bring the production back to the bay area/sacramento valley area.
i dont know how exactly to go about contributing the healing process, because at times i feel like i go about it wrong and open up old wounds. it wasnt until i convinced my family to go watch Refugee Nation that got my family to start sharing our own familys experience...
A friend says to think of it like a real wound, you need to open it up to clense it first, if you don't yea it will close, but with all the bacteria inside. Could be turmoil or in worst condition.
ReplyDeleteSo maybe we are slowly clensing out the bacteria, little by little by reopening the woud. and maybe it'll be in better condition as time goes on.
Way to go, Danni. Take some sensitivity training courses.
ReplyDeletethis is an interesting post for me, because ever since i've been back in vietnam i have been unable to think, unable to really describe my feelings because my mind has gone haywire. i'm not sure if the word "confused happy" encompasses it...i don't think it does. but i suppose its due to my ability of making my own memories in vietnam, rather than have them recalled to me, is what is making me feel this indescribable feeling. the smells sounds and way of life, have become part of my life.
ReplyDeleteit is a first for me... instead of vietnam being such a "distant" memory, or something that i had to discover, imagine, picture, ask or pry out of my family..its here and its real life. and the fact that the two have meshed together (past and present) have been really overwhelming.
thanks for this post danielle! altho im still..."confused happy"
This post strongly resonates with me. You're right Danielle, the healing never does end. And has it really even begun? Indeed, we as the 2nd generation and so forth, are slowly raising our voices. But the members of the first generation are still silent.
ReplyDeleteI don't know how we can contribute. But I do know that healing from any trauma or pain, we have to go towards the battle. I think your question: "Ohhh k...so what was life like when the Viet Cong took over?" was very valid. What resulted was not silence. What resulted were tears. And though it is still quiet, there is some sound. Some healing taking place.
I don't have a direct answer. I just know that the dialogue that is happening right now, around the issue is not only enlightening, but helpful. It starts here.
“It does not matter how slow you go so long as you do not stop." Confucius
Hey Danielle, if we can be of any service here at AACI, let us know. Your story and many other like that are the reasons why AACI got into the business of providing services in the first place.
ReplyDelete