soulscape

I “interviewed” my mother about her father, my maternal grandfather, earlier this week. I was hesitant to do this assignment (for my creative writing class at Pasadena City College). I don’t know why now. I didn’t want to sit down and engage my mother about it. Although having done that a bit in the past, I should have known that it was going to be an eye-opening experience. I am so closed off from my family, and hence so closed off from my family’s history.

I asked mother about her father, and at first the information came slowly. She didn’t have a lot to say about him. He was in business. Or rather, he was a business owner. The whole story I got from her is typed out in a separate document. I noted that as I concluded the interview and said I probably had enough information for this assignment, she asked, “You don’t need any information about mother?” Apparently, she was closer to her mother than her father.

Having received all this information about her side of the family, I’m filled with emotion right now. It’s inside, right at my heart. I don’t know what it is. I think part of it is a sadness at knowing more about some of the tragedy of my mom’s life. Her brothers and sisters are spread across the world. The time of her marriage to dad, and even my birth, were times of strife, with the Communists taking over South Vietnam. She went from a state of relative wealth in Vietnam to poverty here in the US. But perhaps more traumatic for her, moving from a place where family surrounded her to being here in the US, relatively “alone” with dad, and us. At this moment, I realize that this is very cathartic for me. I hope to ask my dad about his family next. The assignment says, “You may find that the story you are seeking has always been at your fingertips.”

It feels so true.

I am getting a sense lately that I am less interested now in fantasy and science fiction, and more interested in matters of the heart. My heart, and the hearts of my potential readers. If I have been given the ability to tap into both with my writing, I should explore that. So does this mean I am more concerned now with touching the heart than with touching the mind?

A Poem Written Later

I have come to the edge of the river of history
To hear my mother’s voice tell me about things previously unknown
To me
I had come on a fact-finding mission
A sterile documentation of things pertaining to fathers and mothers,
And brothers and sisters
And nephews and cousins
And, in extension, me
I have come to the edge of the river of history
The water refreshed me on a hot day
My mother’s voice, initially hesitant
But eventually nostalgic
Came from the waters
My mother’s voice informed me about things previously unknown
Until now
I only came to take notes
To gather information
But I left with the story of my mother’s family
The story of fathers and mothers
And brothers and sisters
And nephews and cousins
And me
My mother’s father, his name was Tu
Came from turbulent times in China
In the 1920’s
To find relative success in Vietnam
He bought a hand rice grinder
Which turned rice into powder into cash
He found a wife, her name was Nguyet
Eight children they reared
Four men and four women, my mother being the youngest
A strict disciplinarian grandfather Tu was
He who punished the daughters for staying out late
He who forbid the Vietnamese language to be spoken in the house
You must speak your native tongue, Chinese
He who disallowed growing your hair long, like the Vietnamese do
While others gambled and partied at the New Year
The sons and daughters hid when grandfather Tu came home
So work they did
A wholesale rice store they built
Also a general store
Shoes, toothpaste, fishing nets they sold
The children married
But from the North came a threat
Communists pushed to take over
Eventually, they did
The day I was born
Soldiers took over our family home
Staying for three days
My mother in the hospital
Cried so much her eyes are bad to this day
When the Communists said that the Chinese can leave the country
We left
Grandfather Tu had died of stomach cancer
My mother and her seven siblings were scattered across the globe
Canada, Belgium, Germany, China, Holland, the United States
Our ship out of Vietnam was boarded and robbed by pirates
We are lucky to be alive

I was born in the middle of strife, separation and pain
I was brought into the new world with nothing
The river of history told me so
In my mother’s voice I heard
The facts and informative statements
Which I stored in the proper sectors of my brain
But a funny thing happened at the river’s edge
I cried
And cried and cried and cried
Because this was the story of fathers and mothers
And brothers and sisters
And nephews and cousins
And me
Of our lives, and struggles, and hopes, and fears
And of my mother crying on the day I was born
Until her eyes became bad
My mother cried on the day I was born
In fear and anguish
Her family held hostage
In their very home
I lay in bed and the river of history poured out of my eyes
It came washing over my heart
And I felt the burden of a family’s history
That has led from China to Vietnam to the United States
And here I am
A lazy American
A selfish man
An inadequate son
Unlike the other sons of history
Who ground rice by hand
Who toiled and built
Who fought wars
Who hoped and dreamed before me
And here I am
Crying on the river’s edge
So lonely in this moment
And yet in such good company