Thang Nguyen 555

The book, the movie and the song. Three-legged stool. “Where do I begin…”

Love and death, hand in hand. Death in combat and Love during R&R. Cy-clo May (three-wheeled cycles) and cy-clo dap (just plain three-wheeled cycle, manual pedal).

The GI’s Loved it. Today, the backpackers. Old French Quarters, New Orleans , Hanoi or Saigon. The architectural backdrop was definitively Colonial French, overlaying and interlacing with Indo-Co-Chinois.

Somewhere you will find love. Somewhere you’ll find money. Lots of money during war time. All in cash, burned in a hurry, ready in a duffle bag if need be. Seen it with my own eyes aboard a US Navy warship. Just toss them all, blowing in the wind. Dylan-esque.

How many roads must a man to choose…America at war, with foreign powers and persuasions. American Artists in the “moveable Feast”. American Army abroad in the 60’s (Vietnam) after its Feast of the famine (45).

Somehow, there stood a South Vietnam, wobbling, but stood for 21 years nevertheless. Amidst bombardment and chaos like Today’s Ukraine.

Students still showed up. Soldiers too.

A sense of normalcy amidst the abnormal. Tear gas, guard posts and lots of bribery. Then there was the sound of Rock and Roll. Of “hair to the knees”. All Right Now….Maybe tomorrow I will love again…Love is blue. Where do I begin…

Charles Anavour’s Et Pourtant, handed off to the British Invasion (indirectly) of Vietnam. Cultures in collision. Outdoor concerts in the park – French colonial park. Cream and CCR. California Dreaming.

Without dreams, nothing happened. So today, after many decades, the relics and remnants are here, in California. All the leaves are brown.

“and I pretend to pray”…Been “got down on my knees” all these years. Praying for peace in the land. In the town and out in the country. Where the VC’s once ruled the night, the SVN and US Army the day (in strategic hamlets). Per Vu Quoc Thuc’s Ph.D. dissertation, Vietnamese power lies at the grass roots level among which the VC’s had stronghold. Then Nick Ut’s shot of the Napalm girl. Malcolm Browne of the burning monk. The Press loves sensationalism. It sells. It sizzles.

All the elements of chaos were present. Where do I begin,…to tell a story of Love. of the aristocrats of the NorthEastern shores. Of Ivy League. Of unconcerning nostalgia. What do the pajamas people have to do with Eric Segal’s beige beach sweater, besides born out of the same time frame.

A conflict and collision of cultures and concerns. Of the two world views that could never co-exist: the ones with and the other without money. The two C’s. clashing and collaborating (Xi and Putin are meeting to find common ground soon). UK with new PM and anointed King while the US is still struggling with legitimizing its elected President.

Elements of chaos are always present, since the beginning of time. And the times, they are a changin… How many roads must a man, travel…a hundred miles… Lord, I am three, hundred miles, away from home. Chaos, crisis and culture collisions. Yet there still Love amidst of it. With death and money trailing right behind.

Mark Chapman. The name that forever is associated with “The Jealous guy”. Not sure the song had anything to do with his pulling the trigger to kill John Lennon. The talented and the wannabe. Stardom and starstruck.

Takes two to tango e.g. The Fan (De Niro and Wesley Snipes), Play Misty for Me (Clint Eastwood/Jessica Walter).

Not just in India or Britain, everywhere, we have two classes: the powerful and the powerless.

In taking down the former, the latter feel empowered. They stabbed our writer, maimed our journalist, shot our singer and jailed our dissidents.

Disagreement prevails, not dialogue. Nowadays, there is even a prebuttal speech, then an informal rebuttal rally in PA .

Quite a disagreement. Jealousy?

Strong enough to kill. With words first. Then incitement. Keeping the Secret Service busy, on both sides: past and present President.

How come my student debt wasn’t forgiven? (I went on and won two cars at work to pay them back. Check it out, it’s in the record).

Kids today get it easy. But then, back when I was in school, my set of worries were different: AIDS, Nuclear annihilation, and the Challenger explosion. Today, we face Artemis delay launch, Omicron variant and the resurrection of the former Soviet Union.

Inflation rise, old worker age rise and high rises taller everywhere, not just in Malaysia.

Planners who had the foresight to preserve green space, like Central Park, should be remembered forever. Greeneries remind us of nature, of long-lasting values and of that which is bigger than ourselves.

Live your life so they want to shoot, to maim, to jail and to stab you. Wish I could write that well, speak that forcefully and arouse that much passion.

In the end, we’re just nano dust. Stardust and emptiness. But for now, while still kicking, fingers running on the keyboard, let’s make them feel jealous, as much as we are “jealous guys” ourselves.

Back in the late 70s, the dust seemed to have settled at the end of the Vietnam era. We started seeing “Deer Hunter” and “Taxi Driver” (America, are you talking to me?). A period of introspection. Of collective PTSD. Rebuild Better. Then the collapse of the Berlin Wall. Give Peace a chance, like Lennon used to sing.

In death he lives on. Still a jealous guy. Still disruptive and controversial. But not just as an individual; he turned icon. So passionate and personable that a doorman can just shoot him, out of jealousy and envy. For a while, we all thought Hate ruled. That the music died. Even today, we see a stabbing of writer, of journalist, shooting of politician and jailing of dissidents. The human race still thrives, evolves and disrupts itself violently to re-bend the moral arc. Even when we all hold on to the inevitable truth, that all men/women are intrinsically worthy of living and dying in dignity. That our end should be just as glorious as our beginning, when we were showered with enough love for the road.

The inherent right to live and live fully. Mark Chapman should have cheered for J Lennon. Instead, he hummed the song and acted out his illusion of grandeur, as if killing could snuff out and silence the music. About time we click on Youtube and search for Jealous Guy. It will bring you right back to the time I was referring to above. AIDS, nuclear annihilation and the Challenger explosion. Are you talking to me? I am the only one here.

It depends. You can always make a U turn. As in “Boulevard” the movie starred aptly by Robin Williams (coming out). Or learning a foreign language upon retirement? A bit late (for full fluency). One sure thing: it’s never too late to start a healthier diet

https://time.com/6209652/how-to-lower-your-cholesterol-naturally/

We operate on different clocks: internal and external.

Biologically vs socially, the two clocking speeds are at odds with each other.

Time is of the essence. Do it. Fast lane fast foods.

I once experienced a painful night. So far, my longest one yet.

All because I was hesitant (Look before you leap vs, he who hesitates is lost). My values and internal speed are different than that of other people. Confucianism, Buddhism, Christianity , the 60’s Sexual Revolution (God is dead) , the 70’s Me generation, the 80’s “Greed is Good” joint forces to produce a synthetic and syncretistic me. If I were to live in VN, perhaps Cao Dai-ism would suit me best.

I have a hard time knowing what switch to turn on given a new stimulus. Perhaps anticipation trumps satisfaction? Aren’t we all! At least, we can agree on a set of core values: protecting our young, respecting our elders, and not consuming more than we need etc.

Yet with social media and its speed and scope, we feel our (inner) selves chipped away one post at a time, like an invisible Michael Angelo hand on the marble, to reveal our hidden selves (meanwhile, our outer layer looks better- due to global supply chain that brings about materialistic abundance).

Voila. Two facedness (not online/offline persona). But within ourselves. Wanting to do good. Yet feeling so isolated. Slated to be a sucker? After all, the Me generation urges us to be free, to go out and get some, to become what we are meant to be. Never too late (to join the Army – to be all you can be?). Only when she’s already been taken (in my case, taken away in a taxi while drunk – date snatching) that it’s too late.

“Come back to me and we will be happy forever” (Boulevard, the song).

I often wonder how many lifetimes needed for suffering and joy be evened out.

Or, if this life was it, with no rehearsal, then it’s never ever too late.

Yet, in mandarin tradition I was taught: respectful always. Unless and until. By forced circumstances. Out of self-defense and preservation.

In freedom, there is free fall. It is fearful indeed. To live one’s life as meant to be is dreadful. No wonder we never stop searching out there for that heart of gold and we’re getting old (per Neil Young). Or “Be the change you’d like to see” per Obama’s campaign. Meanwhile, from Redwood to Hollywood, filmmakers will be glad to drum up more story lines for us to dream on. Of what might have, could have, should have been. All the while change should have occurred within.

Baby now, it’s too late (Carole King). How many lifetimes is enough? One. Provided we accept that which we cannot change. A lot of it we can’t. But once we are wise-up, we change course and act swiftly. Before it’s too late to make that U turn. One retired doctor went back to be a life-guard. Others collect Cuban-cruising cars. All the powers to you’ll. Our protagonist made an U-turn (in Boulevard) to re-claim an alternate life-style he had always meant to be. All the powers and happiness to him as well.

Boulevard.

The majority of South Vietnam intellectuals and elites have passed. Been 47 years. If survived at all, their memoirs would be full of selective and misplaced details. Sold at an ethnic bookstore near you e.g. Bolsa or Bellaire (CA or TX).

Few, but not many, books were meticulously referenced with footnotes, endnotes etc… I either did not want to open them, nor did I want to finish them. I fear the ending. I fear having to experience loss over and over again. The moments.

More immediately, I have just finished Alan Phan’s 42 years of Doing Business In US & China.

My fellow Penn Stater, albeit his accomplishments were way up there: already taught at an University in Saigon while I was still in High School. Nonetheless, the kinship is there. I could relate to his struggles (inked a NJ battery factory deal just to get an EPA multi-million-dollars clean up fine), his dare-Devilishness (taking a Black date to Bel Air Golf Club) and his aching nostalgia (commuting every weekend from Hong Kong to Ho Chi Minh City).

He had a blog while still alive, and even linkedin w/ me given we’re both from PSU.

What do I do with social media connections who are deceased? Send a message saying R.I.P.? (and drop dead if getting a response).

Back to leaving Saigon, leaving Kabul, leaving Kiev. Somehow, America takes in and takes on a sponsorship role for the huddle mass.

Penniless (or “white-handed” as my brother-in-law used to say, instead of empty-handed).

Given time, we all become “American”, and America’s problems = our problems. No one can tell exactly when that occurs. The only test was when we read about America is in a decline (the ground starts shifting underneath us…look around for a next oasis?).

Like Ruth, the Moabite, “your people, my people”.

By the river of Babylon, there we sat down, and we wept. Dried or flowing river.

As long as there is still water. There is hope and link. Global. Our common home. It’s just a plane hop away. Like Alan’s weekend commute. Like a trip to Little Saigon, with plenty a taste of Pho.

I did not want to touch those books. For fear of their ending. For fear of re-living the end of a sad chapter. Our younger generation even sings about it in Vietnam “un film de Coppola”, in French. We’re a diaspora, just like the Jews and Chinese before us. Or the Afghan and the Ukrainian today. Soon, they’ll find themselves with time to look back (history vs news), in context and with perspective. Haunting, introspective and melancholic as it is, their stories will be told again and again via different media and in different times.

Then America gets new blood, rejuvenated and revitalized. In decline? Hope not. Not yet. With complacency and slow-burn, maybe. New horizon, new problem – compounding. Just as soon as I turned away from the above ferry view, I have faced new challenges till today. Non-stop.

Depends on which search results, one may find between 660,000 to 1 million IDP’s emigrated from North to South VN per 1954 Geneva accords’ Operation Passage to Freedom, which allowed for a 300-days grace period. IDP’s could resettle in the region of their own choosing ( stoke by rumors about a certain slaughtering of Northern Catholics under Communism once the dust were settled).

It did not stop there. The mass migration was further exploited: grift and cronyism under the banner of Heaven. By the time my parents picked up their lives and moved South, Madame Nhu was taking French lessons from her soon-to-be wedded tutor. Once married into power, she was so emboldened to the point of tossing soup in the face of her brother-in-law – President Diem. South VN first President had been confirmed via a referendum around the agreed-upon but ignored general election.

He once stood up to Ho Chi Minh after serving a time in a Chinese prison. A stern and stubborn mandarin, he remained single and devoted to the affairs of God and men (even washing dishes in a New Jersey seminary – a strikingly similar tale to Ho Chi Minh’s European sea drift). During his stay in the US, he garnished and gained the support of US Catholics among whom Senator Kennedy (himself got booed by America’s entrenched WAPS).

Mr. Diem and his brothers (Nhu – second in command) on the one side, Mr. Kennedy and his brothers on the other. Madame Nhu on this side, Jackie on the other side. Visual symmetry. LIFE magazine loved it. Something to grace its cover. Headline-worthy, not unlike Mr. Johnson’s line “I’d rather not send our young three thousand miles away to fight a war that Asian boys ought to do it for themselves” when he was “torn between two lovers” (The Great Society and the war abroad). Civil rights and human rights. At home in Kent State or abroad in Khe Sanh.

Hell No We won’t go.

Meanwhile, Madame Nhu filled in the power gap upstairs to the Presidential Palace, where her husband was busy with sanction to root out opposition (which later backfired). Her ascent was swift: from a private student to President’s sis-in-law to self-proclaimed “First Lady”. She had her hands in all the pots: commanded an all-female cadre and shaped legislature reform.

What can go wrong, when your husband handled the security forces!

Well, as Karma had its way, she was sent on a speaking tour abroad and away from the blood shed at home, God-Father’s style (the signal was two fingers, not three, for the Diem brothers. Later that April, a third was tried and executed, leaving the Vatican-endorsed brother/priest a sole survivor in exile).

War was ugly. Just like the World Wars that had preceded it. Or today’s Ukrainian war six-months in.

People grabbed what they could: possession or power (later, President Thieu’s wife boarded a plane to Taiwan filled with furniture and whatever else). Northern IDP’s meanwhile we’re discriminated against, except for the votes on the President referendum. Democracy, in its infancy, had a lot of bugs and baggage. Evidence? His state-level entourage were often seen in all-white suits, IBM-like clones, with sound bytes – today’s Tweet – “if they wanted to ‘barbecue’ themselves, I will be glad to provide plenty matchsticks” – Madame Nhu’s infamous quote. UPI, AP and AFP ate it up. After all, tabloid sells. Just like pictures of a burning monk, so iconic and emblematic of the times.

So our Dragon Lady lived on in France, lots of baguette and no barbecue- nor boat ride. Jackie Onassis she was not. And her Queendom ceased to exist in early 1975. Her legacy: No divorce and No dancing (to prevent G.I’s “dirty-dancing”). Footnotes: In 1982, Amerasian immigration law allowed 23000 to come to America. It is to show, one way or another, hormone always finds its way, especially in war, when soldiers had frequent brushes with death.

Meanwhile, IDP’s kids – myself included – found ourselves with shade-closed “family ballroom dance” (sneaking – just like drinking in the times of Prohibition). One afternoon, I even saw the burning of that monk whose strong smell of lit- kerosene on human flesh I would never forget.

Female or male, power grab is innate and absolute. Both genders are equally motivated when it comes to ill-gotten gain e.g. Tammy Baker and Imelda Marcos. Yet, officially speaking, the Ministry of Information’s spins are of the opposite: God-anointed leader? Even with help from those hundreds of thousands IDP’s votes, the regime was just as ill-fated as the region it was propped up to rule.

Wish I were her, pushing that cart, her whole possession for the journey: across the campus, down to University Boulevard and Main St. Weekend hangouts, the Corner Room and the alley (where I used to listen to WXLR soft rock).

At the Student Union Building, during Orientation, various student organizations are out to recruit. Then lectures, concerts, free or otherwise.

We used to have Coffee House and subsidized flicks. And of course, the Collegian for aspiring journalists.

The gym and football season in the Fall energize the whole community. All this barely scratches the surface. Four years? what four years?

Then the panic. Senior panic. Invitations to friends’ weddings, Upstate or in state.

Companies used to recruit on campus. Seniors in suits and ties. From class to interviews. And on Sunday mornings, those in suits are the ones going to church.

We read and ran. It was the second half of the 70’s. Everyone runs. Just Do It. Socks covered calves, not low-cut.

I remember sitting in the hallway, waiting our turn to access the computer (only two at the time for the whole student body).

For broadcast students, like myself, a P/T job working for an on-campus studio was quite a career-making opportunity. Then the internship. Then the job offers.

From the bottom of the totem pole, up, one rung at a time.

Although that bin contains all a freshman’s belonging (and prior knowledge), by the time school is done with him/her, he/she should be learning from many respected intellectuals. I love Speech profs. They always looked you in the eyes. They enunciated. They spoke clearly and articulately.

Cable was emerging. CNN wasn’t even born then. But we learned radio, we learned Residual Message. And we learned about “noise” and perception (selective).

Now I look at a Penn Stater, on move-in date, I can’t help asking : have I done myself justice. Have I acted on what I learned i.e. consideration for others, interaction with others and through the process, learned to stand aside to let myself go, After all, when at home, I was programmed to please my parents.

On campus, and at work, it’s the profs and supervisors. Now in life, I meant to be true to my inner self. its longing and passion, its dream and disappointment. I hope for new arrivals on campus, a life of dedication and single-mindedness. To serve and leave this world a better place.

When my parents passed away, I was at a loss. Just as when I first arrived late on campus stateless and penniless. Not knowing who to turn to. Authorities I need for structure and reward. Self-redemption turns out to be a lifelong process, of being both stern and soft with yourself, in the absence of authority figures.

To my surprise, it’s the next generation who, coming from behind, emerges as viable replacement of profs on campus and parents at home. Even though I still looked up to and loved them, it’s those who are in the rearview mirror that matter more.

Simply because they will be better informed , more educated and self-actualizing to face the future. Not to mention, more gears for the gig. A whole bin full.

By now, a year after Kabul, we come across news about the Taliban and Afghan women left behind.

Adventurous folks would dine at one of the ethnic restaurants in multi-ethnic neighbourhood, many of which gentrified. Like the Cuban before them, the Vietnamese and Korean. Out of curiosity or nostalgia.

It’s almost as if you could learn about American history and its wars via cuisine that came from somewhere else.

Italian, Polish, German and lately, South and South Eastern regions (hint: American Naval power).

Marconi, millimetre waves (makes possible quick communication across the air e.g. “abort, abort”).

By now, some little girls from Kabul, if fortunate enough to be back to school, would feel at a total loss: why would her classmates insist on wearing jeans – pre-washed and pre-ripped? How come people in the neighborhood keep telling “white lies” (while their body-language betray them).

Why people are so efficient at firing and not hiring. Or devoid of EQ while achieving high-academic standing (IQ), like Kissinger – who celebrated when the last US servicemen made it out – like Nixon press secretary Ron (that statement is no longer “operational”).

By now, that Afghan girl would be baffled by Costco shoppers (while she, a K-mart one): bigger carts, bigger cars, bigger garages (that hardly store cars ). By now, that Afghan girl – soon to be American – is feeling bad inside, seeing homeless folks here in American cities – who eat out of garbage dumpsters, near a McDonald and other “fast-food” joints.

Meanwhile, the party that got involved in far-away and forever war, can hardly recognise its own principles and players e.g. Liz Cheney – as Republican as it gets – can no longer recognise her own party, nor is she recognised by it. Hijacked. New norm. New low. De-classified materials and morals.

By now, that little Afghan girl would shop in her designated ethnic stores, with some re-print literatures in-language. She would never see the light of those classified documents until she is with kids and grand-children, who in turn, wear cut-off jeans, pre-washed jeans, and pre-ripped jeans.

By then, she would look back to that arduous journey as one of 76000 have made from Kabul to Kansas.

And maybe, just maybe, she would rationalize – proficiently (telling white lies) to herself, that “it’s a wonderful world” just as Louis Armstrong had put it. She will be by then, our cosmopolitan reader, savoir vivre and savoir dire. Devoid of emotion and loyalty. “I swear allegiance to the flag…one Nation….indivisible”. I hope she lives right at the border, the purple DMZ line, if she ever seeks an abortion or wants to live free from the Taliban, from Torah to Talmud or shades of Theocracy. Enough “anointed” and annoying in one’s lifetime.

Meanwhile, she could never afford those Afghan grills in Washington D.C., just like counterparts in the Cuban-American, Vietnamese-American, Italian-American communities before her. Frederick Douglas once said:”if a nation is comprised of people of different strides…., and not considered equal for the pursuit of happiness….then it should be dissolved”. I sure hope she keeps at it i.e. following the trail that leads to the Truth, which alone, can set her free.

From my heart as fellow sojourner and truth seeker, I congratulate her on her first year in America, land of the free.

An accident by birth (born not in the USA). Then proceeded stoically to make it first in a series of self-degradation and self-victimizing: environmental pollution and problem.

Culprit? China and the US of A. The latter played the China Card. The former Russia’s five decades later.

Zhou Enlai with his “loss leader” banquet to greet Nixon. 3000-courses meal.

The US at the present regrets having offshored its critical manufacturing components to the Far East e.g. computer chips and medical device. It will take just as long to reverse course e.g. workers need to be retrained to work alongside the machine, our new blue collar co-worker.

It’s like a slow-boiled effect, like an osmosis effect (wealth creation tilted from one side of the Pacific to the other). A generation of new Chinese grew up and know not about shanty town. Only funky town.

East and West will the twain ever meet! The East brews it (anger and shame) patiently. The West, shoots first, questions later.

Both tend to care less about Earth’s health. Until today, with the signing and signaling that the US cares. About its senior’s health – depository of wisdom and experience – and environmental health.

Not too early and not too late, given recent studies showing marine heat waves on the West coast.

Greta would be pleased. Back to school. Let the adults handle it. After all we’re the culprits. Many of us were born into shanty towns to begin with. We did not cause them. Only exacerbated the problem. Sorry. For leaving a mess.

We’re the Me generation, dancing in funky town, and leaving behind shanty town.

We’re sorry for outsourcing hard labor overseas, thinking we could “export” our pollution elsewhere, only to be hit with the bills. Either pay now or later (with interests). Us or Gretas.

A few days ago, I stood in awe of an early sunrise, slowly looming. Never seen anything that beautiful. And I said to myself: gotta to love the Earth, our only home. For however long left, I vowed not to waste a moment. Of loving both funky town and shanty town, despite the circumstances of one’s birth. Make it the only accident and not a series.

We’re due for the Great Clean Up. All of us Sleepy Joe and Sloppy Joe. Don’t you love it when everyone chips in, then shares the joy of living in clean home. Even God rests on the 7th day to admire his handiwork. It’s you and me and our shanty town, It’s been worse due to slow-boiled effect. At some point, the public sphere and the private sphere merge. And our collective irresponsibility must be dealt with by one conscientious person at a time. Until the movement gets some traction. Like Greta.

Like you.

While her organs were still warm, experts already are on the lookout for their use. Viable organ donor. Medical good-will.

Such a well-lived and well-died life, benefiting human society to the last breath.

Maxwell House society. Organ donors’ society.

Let’s give and good to the last drop.

From blood to kidney, books to clothes. Can’t bring them with us.

Dust we must. No hesitation. No regrets. The life we’ve lived. However it’s turned out.

By hooks or by crooks.

Moment to moment. But as a whole, it is always worth it. Towards the end, politicians often signed book deals. Lessons learned. Best practices. Rehashing old stories for new money.

Turns out we’re no better off today than last century.

We breathe worse air, read much less, watching movies that catered to our lowest bases. Tension in the West, tension in the East. Geisha in Japan gone, now child brides in Kabul.
Can’t find Renoir, Monet and Picasso. Maugham and Hemingway.

Only short tweets and “erased” tapes. Clever soundbites and micro-fund raising.

For what cause should you donate on your birthday?

How about donate your whole body while it is still warm. Check here on your DMV application.

Unplug the beast. The grid. The system. Au revoir, mon ami. Nice to have played with you. Now I must go. Been “six days seven nights”. Enough fun in the sun.

“Goodbye to you my trusted friends. We’ve known each other since we’re nine or ten ” (not sure, been a while).

Our world makes things too complicated: this app and that app, this system, and that system. Often, not working well together. “Are you a robot?”. No I am not. I don’t know how to prove it, to be verified… it’s been a long time I last lived at that address or used that password.

You can take the whole thing: organs, guitars and drums. The whole set. Just make sure you make music and not noise, make people smile and not tear up. Promise me. To be good, to do good and do no evil.

The latter- plenty. The former – in short supply. Yet, I still am, to borrow a recently deceased celebrity’ refrain “hopelessly devoted to you” albeit you (life) have proved undeserving of my donation/devotion.

Signed: Organ donor.

Before I, they. The four adults. Now two left, both in their early 80’s. Back in 1954, when the OSS and Colonial French bosses were in charge, my brother and sister, both late teens, were eager to emigrate to South of the new DMZ. Their trip was orchestrated for re-districting and motivated partly by land redistribution. 1 million made it South, via land and sea, with the help of the US Navy and French counterparts.

My brother later a medic Captain (in my father’s Army footsteps) often suppressed his creative talent: his pastime was for painting ships and ocean. Meanwhile, my sister formerly with Agri-Dev bank, still wants to pack up and move out of current nursing-home arrangement for her next resettlement – perhaps out of anxiety receded in long-term memory.

I, on the other hand, carried on our rambling tradition when Vietnam ended (for them, it was a deja vu). The adults took it more stoically – been there, done that. for me: first cut is the deepest – having to leave my friends, my familiar surroundings and territory behind. Luckily, my immigrant DNA were activated i.e. sniffed and navigated strange terrain: salad fork, steak fork and dessert fork (I settled for mash potatoes and peanut butter; easier that way).

For other kids, leaving for campus was a big deal.

For me, it’s an occasion for re-branding (even printing my personal “business card” with pronunciation, as one would find in the dictionary).

Dating? what’s that! Oh, you just want me to treat you on a night out, without any commitment? While both were “sexiled” (a Tom Wolfe’s term) by roommates, we conducted mate interviews before claiming back our dorm-room space.

So, I learned to cope, to adapt and to survive. Very much like my parents who after settling down South, one night on a creaky floorboard. Voila! An afterthought in the aftermath of North-South partition. Could have been worse – with 13th as opposed to 17th parallel demarcation.

Once the dust was settled this side of the Geneva accords, another agreement (consensual) between two adults gave birth to my restless genes.

Consequently, I always understood what’s it’s like to be an immigrant, a refugee, who picked up one’s life and fled in haste with no need for additional persuasion and propaganda (they had 300 days to ponder Passage to Freedom). It was less than 5 minutes when it’s my turn, before Operation Frequent Wind was activated ( its cue: White Christmas played on Armed Forces Radio near the Saigon Zoo).

The animals got left behind. Us human fled. On us, paper money from ATM and clothes on our back. A picture taken later during the vetting summer on Wake Island showed the entire cast and crew wearing the same outfit as first seen on fateful April 30, 1975.

In it, I stood still, in group picture, with a thousand-yard stare toward the camera, no Foster Grant sunglasses and no clues as to my immediate or long-term future.

Until today. This moment. I know I was cut out for the run. By instinct and by indirect experience. My immigrant DNA both helped and hindered me. It disrupts an otherwise normal and stable life. But then, there were forces at work, back then – 1954 and 1975 that triggered massive responses from us. We simply cannot sit still, and let our fate be decided. We were that “domino” which stood and fell, but in our own term. Today, it’s Taiwan. Yesterday, it’s Ukraine. On and on. Geo-political maneuvering, Kissinger style.

Then when I realize it comes in large part from within, I could only blame myself. For enjoying our lonely planet and the ships’ sirens. In the absence of “Passage to Freedom” and its 300-day cushion, I faced instant and tearful separation – a life interrupted.

Although ideology was not quite articulated, biology manifested itself without hesitation: The lust was deep down at cellular level.. Do I have any say, given more than 2/3 of me pre-programmed for life on the run. Once on Wake Island, half-way from either home, I over-heard Paul McCartney ‘s “Band on The Run” on the next barrack’s radio.

There’s a suitable soundtrack for a nomadic existence