Thang Nguyen 555

Landed at Harrisburg, PA at night, on a seatless transcontinental UNHCR flight, I remember the streets were dark and damp. Welcome to America, its Northeast. Then after a winding bus trip (about two hours), we got to our assigned barrack.

There were a chapel and a volleyball court nearby. Of course, we took for granted the mess hall. How are you going to survive without frozen French fries and fish sticks.

The next day, from the bulletin board, I landed a volunteer-interpreter job with the Bureau of Child Welfare, perhaps under Lebanon County auspices and authorities (the only time off-camp was to accompany social worker and kid to court for a case).

Co-workers from Lancaster, Harrisburg, Reading and Elizabethtown all showed up. 9-5. Only me with the shortest commute: back to the mess hall, then an evening of spectator volleyball game (set-up and spike).

People knew they were nearing their final resettlement (my 9th stop on the other side of the MP guarded fence). As long as the paperwork was in, sponsorship lined up and voila. My brother was the luckiest among us nine: landing a real full-time pharmacy tech job at Mt Holly Hospital in New Jersey.

Then my sis’ family of six to Falls Church, VA. Third my turn. A rep from IRC (International Rescue Committee), well-built and curly hair from San Francisco, asked me to sit side by side on the grass. He wanted to “chat”. Toward the close of the conversation (interview), I got a stamp of approval for State College under the expressed sponsorship of the Sycamore House Church at Penn State (whose meetings rotated and each member contributed an insight, a reading or in my case, “Sing” by the Carpenters to get everyone join in, mind them Minister or Material Research Lab overseer.

Then my birthday/send-off party, an unfolded map of Central PA to ETA our State College departure, winding drive around Harrisburg onto Happy Valley.

To the best of my recollection, I shopped at Weis, later bagged at Weis and the only expense I could recall was a Epiphone guitar. Greyhound bus trips to Falls Church or to/fro summer camp job at Mt Poconos.

Then the bi-Centennial fireworks in Philadelphia (thanks to my camp counselor colleague Bob).

I will never forget those firsts. I will always be grateful to the ideal of America, 200th-250th and its capacity for course-correction. To the best of my recollection, we fell short of helicopters in the desert, solar panel on the WH roof top (now wrestling tent), and countless fumbling (Nam, AIDS and covid).

Somehow, it’s the Art of the Deal more than the Art of the Start. The Magnificent Seven now rule and reign while Scranton-Wilkes Barre waste dump, I wonder, still I wonder, is still filled with scrap metal viewed from the exit? Back then, even Bob Dylan got religious “Got to serve somebody”, while everyone else “Knocks on Heaven’s door”.

At some point I will start to forget and cannot recall. But as of now, the bi-Centennial fireworks were one for keeps. We put Vietnam behind and had yet faced 444 days of hostage.

Carter was soon walking and waving on Pennsylvania Avenue, and America again (at the time) moved away from a deviant past toward a more decent future (now its new past).

The year of the Cat…Morning has broken…Jealous Guy…It might be you. Arts and music rose to prominence, all the way to “We are the world” a recording session Diana Ross wished it never would end. Perhaps prominence because of perpetual pain and long lonely winters.

I carried my Epiphone everywhere on campus, and on Monday nights, all three guitarists sang:

” Com on people now, smile on your brother everybody gets together, … try to love one another right now”. Surely, “some will come and some will go”.

I had reasons to rejoice then: my mom finally obtained sponsorship to join my sis’ family in N VA, my destination for carpool rides when campus cafeteria closed over holidays.