My Oldest Sister...Han

Our Asian family is very stereotypical in many ways. Growing up, there was little emotion shown in our house, except when my stepfather got really mad. We didn't discuss much or in any depth. What you didn't know about your family exceeds what you did know about them. When I talk about my sisters, it is just the three of us, Chi, Judy Huong, and me...however, there was one more. One that rests behind in Vietnam, before Judy Huong, my middle sister, was born.

I remember learning about Han when I was in Junior High. For most of my life, it was just ba cong chua...the three princess. The details and circumstances around how I became aware of an additional family member are very vague. Like everything else in our lives, it was a matter of fact, not emotion, that she had existed. Only my oldest sister, Chi, ever met her. We never spoke of Han. It was the first time I really looked at my mom with a different perspective, than of just that of a somber mother. What did she look like? How had she made it through the loss of a child? What happened? One didn't question one's parents...on anything. They had "disciplined" my reflex to ask "why" out of me.

This week, I finally asked my mother about Han. She was born 1968 in Saigon; the same year my father was drafted into the Army. In my mom's recollection...she didn't look like any of us...she was the prettiest of us all. "Like an angel. The photographer used her picture in his display and adverting." How else can you view your first child. Makes us wonder, how we measured up as the ones who came after her. She was the first grandchild on both sides of the family, and thus pampered like the princess she was. She was bright and very intelligent, however reserved and quiet. Early in Han's life, my mother was working part time as a math teacher a couple hours a week. Fighting between the Viet Cong and the South Vietnamese was escalating and my mother, father, and Han moved to Ba Me Thuot when she was 2 years old. Their apartment was close to the Army base. My sister, Chi, was born in Ba Me Thuot. My mother's sister, Cam Tu, was living with them and helping out with watching Han and Chi, since my mother had to work full time now. Within 2 years, my family moved back to Saigon. At 4, she was attending the local French school and was reading. One morning in late January or February, Han had a very high fever and my mother took her to the hospital. She had tuberculosis leading to spinal meningitis. After a month, she did not return home and passed away. My parents relationship suffered greatly from the loss, but the forged on with my sister Chi.

I have infrequently thought about the implications of my sister Han and how it changed the dynamic of our family. In speaking with my mother at length about Hanh over the last week, I have a better perspective on the situation, however do not think I can fully digest it all now. My mother couldn't find the picture she referenced, but Chi and Huong both remember seeing it. Attached is one of Han (left) and my mother's young cousin, as well as a picture of us in Monterey when I was 2. She had my mom's cheeks. I wonder if she had my dad's high forehead like we all do.

Being Thankful for the American Experience

We live and have been raise in America. If you get sick, you can go to multiple hospitals to find reliable treatment. If your house gets damaged in a flood, you can find at least 4 companies to help you clean up and so many neighbors and friends offer their resources. We can congregate freely. We can work hard and live healthy and well. We can vote.

Today, there is a manhunt for a 19 year old boy who is believed to be behind the bombing of the Boston Marathon. He spent his teen years here. He went to Prom, a truly American function. I will never understand people who have come to this country, and received an education, take part in the American experience, and feel compelled to harm other American citizens. Many will feel he is guilty because he is running from police. I don't know if he is or not, but he is young and cannot appreciate the gifts this country gave him freely.

I feel gratitude each day for the love I have been able to give and be given. I wish others didn't feel resentment in this freedom, but strive to make it a possibility in their home country.

Missing from me...

Growing up, I didn't question if my parents loved me. I questioned their lack of ability to express their love for me. They showed how proud they were of our achievements by boasting to their friends, however never praising us directly. They didn't say "I love you" to me until I was getting married...which gives the impression that my value, when sought by another, gave them leeway to state the value the saw in me.

Knowing this, I strive to be more affectionate with my boys. Hugging them and telling them I love them everyday and every night before bed, no matter how frustrating the process has been. I saw this quote and shared it with Jaiden. That every time they are away from me, they are missing from me. I don't know if my parents ever had that perspective. If we were ever viewed as a true extension of themselves or a representative of their name. Given the stoic nature of my parents, their ability to communicate so little, maybe they will answer my question now that I am a parent. Maybe not.

A new chapter...literally

I have always wanted to put my mother's harrowing story of her crossing to America down in print. It is harder than I thought it would be and more daunting that I wish to admit.  However, a great friend of mine, suggested that I take it one anecdote at a time. Trying to see if there were similarities in our experiences that could explain the nuances in our relationship and the situation.  I am not starting with her crossing...but just short pictures into our lives.  So here is the first one...

As a self centered, pre-teen concerned with my image, I did not want to wear a traditional Vietnamese ao dai to the Annual Tet Festival with the da vu after. I wanted to be cool and attractive in my 13 year old, boy shaped body.  Without a thought to what my mother had to do at work, I called her in the middle of day to express my displeasure with the wardrobe choice for the Festival.  The conversation escalated into a full blown argument, with me railing against my overly calm mother, about how unfair it was that I HAD to wear an ao dai while other girls didn't have to.  How could she put me in a situation where I wouldn't fit in, when I was already the suburban, not truly Vietnamese, girl at the Festival.  She was staunch in this belief that I should represent my heritage, even if I didn't like it.  I should look respectable and be respected.  I pouted that weekend as I wore the ao dai, but my father rumba-ed and cha-cha-ed with me a number of times to show how proud he was that HIS daughter nodded to tradition.