Thang Nguyen 555

I often wonder how publishers manage those tedious spell checking and painstaking editing tasks before automation. To know who were involved in the process of birthing, you just need to flip to the Acknowledgement page.

At times, it’s in the beginning pages. Other times, near the end.

What if our lives were books? How long would our Acknowledgement section be? Where do we put it?

My father was tall and handsome by his countrymen standard. Son of a regional Senator (so privy that his oldest brother got into opium, while his younger brother, died a martyr – he was into anti-colonial Revolution after studying in France), he however just drifted as an outside sales after a stint in the Army. Post-army life found him lashed out when frustration boiled up. His hybrid nature of a warrior-poet – physical strength and emotional vulnerability – never measured up to our grandfather and his cousins’ standard. (plus “torn between two lovers” did not help).

Through him, I heard about Maugham, pre-war moonlight serenade and “Golden Music” (including some French).

That is my first person to be acknowledged.

Watching him ready for work, or taking siestas, and interacting with war-time larger society gave me a sense of proper conduct.

Always courteous, giving others the benefit of the doubt, and be strong if need be (neighborhood thieves and bullies all stayed away after a few shots).

My Mom, on the other hand, was quiet, graceful and “endured all things” (including sharing my Dad with another woman, who courted him while my Mom was seeking a teaching job in Hanoi, away from home).

Long time passing. Before my time.

But I want to acknowledge their guidance and guardrails. My well being depended on the sweats of their eyebrows. How they wiped the slate clean after domestic perfect storm.

Both taught me to put others first. Polite and kind. Considerate and compassionate.

And how could I not mention my two siblings, two decades my senior. They showed me what hustle was all about: college, P/T jobs, career, family and raising kids.

It’s hard enough to survive during the Great Starvation (45) then the Partition/migration (54), then evacuation (75) and of late, as widow and widower. Must be superman and woman for them to hit the ground running (despite stagflation and resignation of Nixon and Ford’s lost election 76).

So I acknowledge their direct and indirect contribution.

Even the ones who were cruel to me e.g. accusing me of stealing her bible or trying to steal my girl i.e. inadvertently turning me into a pimp; for through these worse-nature of our angels, I am reminded of life’s mixed blessings. And that not everyone loves you as your Mom would (ask George Floyd).

I also acknowledge neighborhood food vendors, who day in and day out, showed up with a smile on their faces (despite a war that was raging on).

From co-workers at Child Welfare in Indiantown Gap, to the Sycamore Community at Penn State, from my janitorial first job to the ABC news photographer internship.

I remember the school of journalism. How young and eager faces picked a tough field as their major in college. Must be because “All the President’s Men”….All seek after “the best obtainable version of the truth” as Carl Bernstein put it.

I thank Doug Mc Bee who showed me how to cold call (selling the whole PBX and voicemail system). Brian Fisher at MCI who saw my leadership potential. I could have joined the Episcopal Priest in Orange County to service our fellow countrymen. But then, I know deep down, I could not be confined into just a sub-group, living out my parochial life: back and forth in same ethnic cluster on short leash (and collar).

I thank those who showed me an alternative way of living, like that blind man in my Survival in the Wilderness class. Heck, he was not afraid of the dark ( even took part in going solo, fasting and meditation on top of then snowy White Mountain of NH). He was living in it his whole life. Or my Ghanaian classmate Joe who took me home to show me around. “Just call everyone ‘Chief’”.

I acknowledge the contribution women before and after ERA e.g. shared a bike ride, in restless summer. or brief romance which often ended up in disaster. Or short-lived matrimonies (it’s funny, that after we matriculated in school, we sought out its continuance in matrimony, another form of short-term matriculation).

The tie that binds. Unspoken agreement, through thick and thin; that we stay on and fight for our survival and happiness. My Dad doesn’t seem to understand compromises, not as much as my Mom, who was the one with stronger maternal instincts. Both lived on until their early 90’s, on separate nursing home arrangement.

And last of all, I acknowledge the loyalty of friendship. People who I can just say “hey, I am broke” ( often having lived out that streak of creative destruction on trips overseas, first as a volunteer, then an expat- as if, when summer comes around, the road is calling; stimulus – response ; repeat the pattern of that fateful and restless summer 75 on the run).

Good friends are hard to come about. We live many lives and carry many burdens. The journey is long, and often times, we barely scrape life’s surface. I if not for those good company would never have experienced fulfillment. They know me, and I them.

Despite decades apart, still we fit like a glove. Hard to see ahead and around the bend. But they are there. Always rooting for me, and I them. They know I was into the spectacular not mundane. Go for broke. In short, I am my own problem. And I myself am the solution. Good friends stay to the side, give you the space to be and grow to become your best self in your timetable.

This acknowledgment is for non-judgmental friends over the years who understood that one size doesn’t fit all. For them, I am forever grateful. One time, we’re just playing over and over Steely Dan’s “Do it again” on an Akai tape recorder to pass the time.

Hope to do it again one day soon. I acknowledge those whom I shared the road and to those who paved the road.

This acknowledgement is to be placed where it’s hard to miss even when the book has yet been finished. It’s my life. It’s also yours. From cradle to the grave, sandwiches and coffee in between. Those kind “might I refill your cup?” from the Corner Room of Penn State.

My book would not pretend to tell the whole truth (I am taking the fifth). But I promise the “best obtainable version of the truth” about my life as it unfolds.

Life as book. Evolved. Edited. Page per page, day after day, ever continuous.

At least for now the Acknowledgement section is out of the way.

We’ll have to take a commercial break.

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