on being sexiled

First, I want to credit the late Tom Wolfe for his mash-up word – sexiled.

Second, the group The Guess Who, for providing the sound track “These Eyes” on 8-track format.

Third and last, to Penn State Student Housing for providing me with temporary housing (mezzanine floor of a dorm lounge), so I could have a balcony view of my two La Crosse team roommates, who played These Eyes over and over and over again during Winter 76.

On weekends, Student Council took over the lounge to party, inviting the opposite sex over. So I was sexiled. This was on top of my being exiled a few months back, a long trek: Saigon – Subic Bay – Wake Island – Indian Town Gap – State College – University Park, PA.

It was cold, snowing and fun. Main campus at University Park was where the action was: frats rushing while off-campus non-frats fucking.

No more wars to protest, classes to cut and only grass to smoke.

Baby, “born to run”, run. Rabbit was not yet at rest. So the whole campus was restless. Sperms were in the air. And I was caught up in second-hand (weed) smoke from Spring break. Girls were out in dresses. And guys, all hair. “Here comes the sun” the opening act sings. For three days, Main campus (Old Main) just “chilled”. Along the “wall”, one would find many who just sat around while others trying to duck those flying frisbees. We debated and discussed the war aftermath over mini Rolling Rocks.

I chose energy conservation for my TV production final.

Others just wanted to finish up their Ph. D.’s to work for Defense contractors. Penn State in the second half of the 70’s found a handful of Chinese students, who had no place to go during Winter break. So they found strength in number by mixing up with Taiwanese, Vietnamese and assortment of colored students in International Building. (They are now those Civil Engineers building bridges in East Africa and God forbid, hackers and rocket builders)

I, on the other hand, found myself on the bus, with stops in York and Hershey (before it turned out to be a theme park with Disney-like attractions) to Washington D.C., my sister’s home whose couch was available hence, no more sexile.

The hot food (sticky rice and Chinese sausage) tasted good (PSU cafeteria was closed anyway). The only tiny Chinese grocery store across from Arlington Skyline was open for business selling soy sauce and instant noodle. China wasn’t even on the radar ” what the hell was Toys R Us”. Only “these Eyes” still reverberated in my head. Couldn’t get rid off it, just like the sense of who I am and where I was coming from .

My subsequent roommates at Penn State were sincere when peppering me with questions: were you a VC? had you seen “action”? what’s like to grow up during the war? were there a lot of whore houses?

Those questions came at me as frequent as the stares I got while moving about on campus. No, I was not a VC. Yes, plenty of action: in 1963, I eye-witnessed the “burning monk” at the corner of Le van Duyet and Phan dinh Phung, near my house. It’s a mixed feeling trying to describe one’s growing up in war time: you couldn’t sit like a man behind a scooter (police feared that if one was allowed to sit steady behind a scooter driver, not cross-legging like a lady, one might be able to stand up and toss a grenade), and you were forced to stay home for months on end during Tet (68).

Still, we learned to extract the best that life had to offer: I played the guitar, sang those Peace songs ( the answer was blowing in the wind) and started dating. From zero to 60 miles in 5 secs: girls would kiss too in war time since in the back of our minds, we were aware that it could very well be our last dance. And the last dance it was: Saigon was spent, having used up its supplies of respirators. The war finally reached its appointed end. Big Minh’s final words ” I have been waiting for you guys – NVA – since this morning.” He couldn’t wait to go hit some (tennis) balls at Circle. Curtain falls. Finale. Flags down. Eyes lids closed. These Eyes. Playing over and over again, on the 8-track player. Exiled. Exhumed (bodies).

If any one asked me those questions again, like, “are you glad you are here”, I would punch him or her in the ears (where it hurts most but not injuring).

Don’t you know the price one has to pay to play? Exile hurts more than sexile. A few hours hugging a date whose name you barely remember to keep both warm, bidding time for your roommates to party, seem like a drop in the bucket in compare to a forced life time away from home, country, friends, families, food and fun.

For now, I don’t wish it on anyone. Don’t leave home, unless you have to, or are forced to. A hut or a house is still a home. It warms your heart even in the coldest of Winters. Your identity and yourself is lost, in a hurry and on the cheap, in exchange for a number albeit Social Security or Credit Card. Then you are anyone, everyone and no one.

You have become …..oh well, the guess who with those eyes that “cry every night”.