Memory of a flood

I jumped on the divan and sat in the middle of it, as far away from the rising water as possible. For a  3 year-old, the sight of water everywhere must be frightening. Water like what was brought in yesterday by the storm. Saigon was hit direct.

Trees toppled and treasure lost.

The French architect planned this Indochine admin city for less than 100,000. Now it caters to 10 million. Tu Xuong, Hoang Van Thu and Ky Hoa, all saw huge oaks fallen.

These oaks were like heroes of a thousand faces, stood firm to witness the changing of the guards.

I listened to the radio back in 1963. General after general making great claims just to be toppled by another.

Boom, bang.

The city was flooded not with  water, but waves of army men and women. Some from Australia, others Korea. What did they have to gain – showing off their Martial Art and weaponry ?

To lose?

Amerasian children later immigrated to the States.

They were accepted by neither society.

This land is our land, from California to the New York Island.

From sea to shiny sea. America America….?

Can’t even take care of your own, however illegitimate.

Don’t blame it on the controversial war.

When the GI had sex, he was just American as Apple Pie.

When Agent Orange was sprayed, the toxicity was traced back to DOW.

Just as American consumers are blaming Made-in-China dry-wall products.

Have you ever heard of RFID? We got the technology to scan, to search, to ID.

Come on!

Be brave. Clean it up and move on.

Just as people are doing all over this city now. Solve the big problem by divvying it up into smaller pieces. Make for good firewood.

The water is now receding. Life is back to normal i.e. noise, pollution and traffic jam. Yet people are happy to pack away their ponchos. Soldiers during war also packed away their ponchos. I saw them retreat (7th fleet). I saw people toss bags of  currency that were no longer of any value. I saw tears in the rain. Rain like yesterday once more. Rain like when I was growing up. Jumping right into the middle of the divan, hoping to stay clear of the rising water.

Memory of a flood, of rain, of tears and of separation.

Of loss and of despair. Water recedes, rain stops fallen, but tears still flow. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be pain. I know, I know, no pain no gain. But pain of your own choosing is different from imposed pain.

Ask the GI’s who fathered those Amerasians. They would rather forget than be reminded. Yet their Amerasian children are growing up, hopefully married and raising a family of their own. Their grandchildren will surely ask? Why do I look like this?

What event brought my parent here? Who and what did grandpa say if anything when met? How would he react? Shameful? Regretful? Forgetful? Memory of a flood. Memory of a war. Biological memory of humanity in the balance.