A Thirty-Year Journey

My husband is fairly private and not much into blogging or emotional storytelling (unlike his wife!). However, he reminded me that, this month exactly three decades ago, his family left south Vietnam for a journey that brought him through a refugee camp in Thailand to the west coast of the United States and which led him to a small town in rural Northern California and a job as the Chief Medical Officer of the county's biggest health center.  While I have heard parts of his story, from both him and his parents (and was lucky to visit Vietnam and meet some of his overseas relatives in 2010), it's a remarkable journey, and in a time when there is so much anti-immigrant and anti-Asian sentiment in our country from people who may not know (or love) an immigrant or understand what many of them have endured, I thought his story should be told and documented if only so my children know their history. Even though he has been reluctant to toot his own horn, I forced him to write about his experience!

"Both of my parents came from large families (eight siblings each) in Vietnam. My father studied to be a lawyer, but served as a military officer for the South in the Vietnam War and, while he fought bravely for his country, his side was defeated.  As a result, he was sent to prison for five years and, after surviving the “re-education camps,” was left with nothing.  He was blacklisted and could only find a job as a cyclo (three-wheel bicycle taxi) driver, despite his previous ambitions and talents. Through friends, he was introduced to my mother (a schoolteacher at the time) and they soon married. Both of my parents had tried (unsuccessfully) to escape Vietnam many times after the war (as did many "boat people" who came in the first wave of migration) but it was only more than a decade later that they got their wish as young parents of three. 

I (born Khoa) was raised by my grandmother in Saigon while my parents were working to make ends meet, an arrangement that is common in many multi-generational Asian households.  In a large family like mine, we had very little (meat, a luxury, was very scarce) and I remember that we had to divide a single egg among eight of us in our house for the dinner protein. We were poor, but in my eyes, we lived comfortably, and one-eighth of an egg still made for a happy meal when we had each other.  

When my dad (having served in the military during the Vietnam War on the U.S.'s side and taken as a political prisoner) was allowed to immigrate to the U.S. in a "third wave" of Vietnamese migration, sponsored by family who had fled the communist country before him, my parents (as many did) courageously made the life-changing decision to leave everything behind to start over in a new country. Not knowing a word of English, they traveled via Thailand to the U.S. with me (just shy of nine years old) and my two younger siblings (Khai [Kenn], then aged six, and Thuyen [Katherine] aged one and a half) so that we kids could have the opportunity of a better life in a free country. The day we arrived in the States was September 11, 1991, a fall date which carries a lot of significance now for so many American citizens.  

Leaving Vietnam

On the day I arrived stateside with two suitcases, my family was picked up at LAX and driven to my great aunt’s house in Los Angeles, where we enjoyed a true "welcome to America" dinner meal of Kentucky Fried Chicken, a food I had never heard of before. It was new (and slightly nauseating), but it represented change, wealth, and opportunity for me as someone now on American soil (I still like fried chicken and wings, preferably with hot sauce, and it certainly beats one-eighth of an egg).  

First (running) steps on American soil

 

I started fourth grade one week later at Emelita Elementary in Reseda.  Not knowing the language, I carried a piece of paper on which was written phonetically in broken English "Where is the restroom, please?".  On my first day, the only other Asian kid, who happened to be a girl, had to lead me there so I wouldn't get lost.  As a hardworking and studious student, I was expecting to improve my skills in math and begin English lessons.  Unfortunately, in a predominantly white school, there were no ESL classes so, while my classmates were given attention to improve their reading skills, I was placed in a separate part of the classroom in the back and given Disney coloring books meant for preschoolers to occupy my time. 

 

Since we didn't have any money, my parents were only able to get me one new pair of pants for school -- a pair of jeans.  They were new and seemed like the type all the other kids at school were wearing; however, since I only owned the one pair, I wore them practically every day (washing them on the weekends). I still remember that, a few weeks into the school year, some kids began staring and making comments (which I didn't initially understand), or covering their noses and pointing, especially during recess. After some time, it registered that they were making fun of my single pair of pants, the only one that my family could afford to give me. I still knew that we had it far better than many families left back in Vietnam; however, the cruelty and taunting got under my skin.

One afternoon, when I was in line to play handball, another kid cut in front of me.  I begin to yell and spoke the few English words that I knew, which were, "Hey, me turn." The kid turned back towards me, laughed and said something while gesturing at my pants, which was the last straw for me.  I charged at him, pushed him to the ground and as he began to cry and all the kids surrounded us, I was promptly sent to the principal's office (for what it's worth, Asian kids, even those who don't speak the language, are not always timid and soft-spoken). As soon as I saw my parents, who were called in, tears rolled down my cheeks because of the shame I had brought upon my family by “troublemaking,” despite the righteousness I felt about defending myself, my immigrant community and family, and my one precious pair of pants. I was sent home that day, but it was the first and last time.

After three months, my parents decided to move us to Orange County to be closer to a larger Vietnamese community. When I started at my new school, Woodbury Elementary, I was no longer the only non-native English speaking student. I started ESL classes, and finally felt like I started to belong and assimilate.  I later (as did my siblings) chose an "American" name. There were still very limited job opportunities for my parents as we grew up, who, despite the classes they took upon our arrival, did not speak the English language well or confidently.  My father took a job as a car mechanic while my mother did odd jobs while maintaining the household and keeping our family life running (she later got a job in retail).  However, despite their blue-collar occupations supporting a growing family (which soon became six as my youngest sister Theresa was born in the U.S.), my parents were able to afford a few more pairs of pants for school.  They were awarded their citizenship five years later.

 First apartment in Orange County

I had a quiet yet happy "average American" childhood -- I made my way through the Orange County public school system until graduation, as did my siblings. I played sports (despite being the smallest kid out there, which I credit for improving my tenacity and grit), got involved with extracurricular activities, and became the president of high school clubs. As the oldest of four kids, I knew that I needed to set a positive example for my siblings to follow and that higher education for all of us and meaningful careers were the key to validating my parents' incredible sacrifice to abandon their homeland to start over (in our culture, children's professional successes, exceeding their own, brings enormous pride to Asian parents. My siblings and I all graduated from four-year California universities.).

   

First American Christmas

After college at UCLA and medical school at Western University, I met my wife Tara at UC Davis during residency.  We moved to Humboldt County to serve a community in need as small-town rural physicians, and while our cool, rainy climate (although it's getting warmer and drier with climate change) and population density are quite different from the intense, humid heat and packed, bustling city of southern Vietnam of my early childhood, I am truly home. 

I will be eternally grateful for my parents.  I have worked incredibly hard especially in the last two years, leading our organization through all of the challenges of this pandemic; however, my efforts pale in comparison to all my parents have worked for and worked through their entire lives. They gave up everything they knew for the chance but not the guarantee that my siblings and I could have something better than what they believed remained for us in their home country.  They don't have retirement savings, a house they own, nor much interest or taste in fancy things or outings. What they do have is a legacy of hope, faith, resilience against the odds, perseverance, big dreams for all their children and grandchildren, and a belief in the inherent value of a close-knit family, which is everything (and the only thing that matters).

Now, as a parent myself leading my kids through the pandemic unknown, hoping to find joy and opportunity on the other side, I carry always the gratitude that they are, like I am, alive, safe, and well despite the odds and all that has come to pass. I have a closet full of pants now and I know it is my responsibility to use my position and privilege to honor my parents as well as to help others along the way and to make this country, and world, a better place for all future generations, no matter the place or status of our birth. 

 

To quote Hamilton, ‘Immigrants— We get the job done.’

Here’s to another thirty years in America."