Thang Nguyen 555

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

They came, lived and died.

The long and short of it. In between, a lot of melodrama.

From de-colonizing to the Unthinkable (Republic of S Vietnam flag atop the US Capitol).

The ghosts of yesterday war. Forever haunting the airbnb “hotel” clusters (who else and how else can one live in Orange County on a South Vietnamese pension).

The culture clashes. The ideological clash. And now, the generational and demographic mismatch.

A lot of memories within the mile-square bedroom park.

People come and go. The land stays. From Pendleton to Washington. The significance of American involvement in the China Sea is documented and de-classified.

John Wayne Airport, however, is still standing. Shooting from the hip. Marines leave no one behind. always locked and loaded ready for deployment. Promise kept.

Exploited and embarrassing at times. Grown men cried while ghosts not quite buried.

The geo-political twist and turn, a gamble loss as our technological society thrives on. One generation then another. Always build back better. Always forward-looking. Always with a plan, albeit scrapable (course correction).

The Best and the Brightest. The Accounting approach. Fixing the boat while wading waters at the same time.

Then the stalemate. Then the tearful withdrawal two years after the China card play. To save face and fight on elsewhere.

Rocky turned Rambo.

The later buried, with a marker. The former, a statue in Philly.

A continent and cemetery adrift.

Contested. With Head of State (albeit number three) visit. “Most dangerous place on Earth”. Every hot war is.

Let me show you what we are capable of. Our missiles. Our range (of destruction) and our influence since the invention of firecrackers.

Among the neighbours, we’re the best and the brightest. We have been here, done that. China talk.

The longer one’s history, the growing its burial plot. From one generation to the next, with nothing to eat. Always the land, the plan and the talk. Tough talk. Paper tiger. Until we’re all dead, buried and forgotten.

Soldiers turned vets. Once marching to order, honor and shame, all mixed. The rest of the day are for groceries shopping and idle talk. Tough talk. After the big brother up North. Picking up after them over centuries of colonizing and assimilation.

What did the Vietnamese have to do with anything in the aftermath, besides being adrift and buried, in this case, at the corner of Beach and Bolsa in Westminster. A long history of unsuppressed courage and de-colonization. A pre-cursor to Iraq and Afghanistan. Of being “model minorities” in a land that doesn’t give the time of the day to newcomers. May I help you! Which package would you prefer (with or without the hired mourners).

I am into cremation. Nano particles to be re-assembled elsewhere, the further the better. Unburdened and encumbered, by a past full of shame and tears – after the fall.

They came, lived and died @ Westminster Memorial Park. Cemetery adrift.

Pretty soon, we can show-and-tell in Meta verse, turning Self into Brand. From selling of a consumer category – industrial revolution with excess supplies- that bleeds into the selling of a Congressional candidate (red vs blue tie) to self-branding both professional and personal (Hollywood casting call automated as “What’s on your mind” on fb).

The branding of the self in everyday life, more possible than ever. Bandwidth-> brand U.

What are we for and from? Most importantly, where are we heading.

The 80’s motto used to be “he who dies with the most toys wins” (Greed is Good).

Now, it’s how many eulogies and likes – are you gone viral? How do we differentiate ourselves on and offline from other “Kim’s” (or else, they put us in the wrong casket).

We’re born with a distinct fingerprint yet leave behind digital footprint. Searchable and page-ranked like a Google key word search or “above the fold” (to use an old print expression).

Life evolves in tandem with technology. Excess capacity now makes possible and masked off as “free”, a U from those expensive campaign and contest between JFK and Nixon, the latter being perceived as not trustworthy (shifty eyes and sweaty), the former telegenic. Candidates used to crisscross the country on bus, eat sandwiches on the run, while media folks camped out on front lawn for days to catch a few-seconds soundbite.

Last month, we’re treated to J6 committee video reports. Polls show viewers either change mind, double down (a few jailed). Those raw “reels” shown to us (the beating, punching, going medieval etc…) were emotionally arousing.

It’s as if we relived the moment, of mob shoving and law enforcement feared for their safety (by the Secret Service themselves).

In short, it’s movies. Life as film. Story on a Metaverse near you.

Lean back. See and show (used to be a slideshow on carousel) in your own AMC’s. What our kids have known for years, now it’s our turn: you ‘ve got to get with the program. Go beyond pure selfies just stop short of 24/7 v-blog, since a picture is worth a thousand words, and film clips keep your narrative flow in time lapses (one can always tell an old movie by the look of car and phone make and model of that period).

When I first started in media in the late 70’s, I was surprised that the US did not have MTV (music on radio only, while prime time was for All in the Family). Turns out, new releases were prioritized e.g. live concerts sold exclusively via Ticket Master to promote vinyl sales.

Now, with YouTube, all bets are off. Even the best of Rock and Roll generation are scrambling to re-brand. The long tail. The residual. The one-dollar song that Steve Jobs helped re-coup as IP rights violated by MP3 (now we all “Skip Ads”).

You and I will either do it poorly or semi-professionally. But it’s inevitable. Unavoidable at the expense of our privacy. The line (public vs private) will be blurred. It will not stop. No one wants to put the Genie back in the bottle.

In the future, we’re all famous for fifteen minutes, like Campbell soup , per Warhol.

Once a message in the bottle. Now, it’s the reel that captures and show how Genie comes out, even her breathing and bathing. Law enforcement doesn’t need to sift through evidence. It’s there in living color, willingly and voluntarily self-implicating. Part of transparency and price to pay for “free” self-branding.

Gotta make an U turn in how we operate. It’s no longer the 60’s. And it’s not just for Presidential debate, with Fairness Doctrine and Equal Time (rebuttal). Now, it’s a reel here, a reel there. Some clips and soundbites…to be sifted through that nudge the flow of self-narrative along. Present continuous.

Perhaps Google should coin a new term for page-ranking, since it’s no longer a static web page (1.0). Even Web 2.0 now an intermediary, prepping us for media-verse: anytime and “above the fold”.

sitting on that chair. It’s mine. I am entitled to my own opinion. It’s the American Way. The Only Way. Or the Highway.

You can grow hair. Or you can no longer. But Time goes one way, from Alpha to Infinity.

All in my family: the cast of characters, all were really old by the time I was born.

They fought over dinner, chasing each other around the retangular table. I just watched, speechless (couldn’t talk to begin with).

But I knew then, and I know now. Every family has Communication Crisis. In it, Opportunities for mutual respect and understanding. Can’t just pick up and leave.

Generational gap, ideological gap, culture wars…

Fight, fight, fight.

Depends on one’s temperament: high-strung or last-minute lash-out.

All the same.

Norman Learn turns 100. Producer of All in the Family. Prime time. Just sit on that chair, don’t bother to clear out your TV tray. America, deep Blue and Red. Long hair and shaved heads, bottom up and top down.

Even Meta gets reorg-ed. And Mark barely turns 38.

Such is the State of our world. Deal sizes now reach the tune of Billions (even Mega Millions sees its own inflationary values).

The gap is widened, and all the policy changes DJT has to offer Washington is to move the homeless into Tent cities (not Central Park, please…I couldn’t take the Central Park 5 let alone thousands). No apology – even after they were acquitted. Lock them up and move them to concentrated camps and contained clusters. De-gentrify the population. Easier that way. No metal detectors. I need the mob effect. Any publicity, negative notwithstanding, is good. Stay relevant, stay out front. Even a court case. Hyperbolic statement. Future statement. Sound bites. The press (vultures) will always eat it up from your hands.

Feed the narrative.

Let the world know there is only you. No dialogue, no prologue nor epilogue.

Just monologue.

Me, me, me.

I am the One. Will walk with you. Will be with you till the end of time.

Will be great. All in the family, American family (as if it’s been Central casting and command ever since).

Round them up: Jews in Hollywood and Japs in San Francisco. Go so far as rape (White woman) to propagate and germinate selective population growth.

To his WWII credits, Mr Lear said in his NYT piece on his 100th birthday, that true patriotism doesn’t equate with interfering with a peaceful transfer of power.

He knows a thing or two about all the arguments in the family. What are some of the boundaries, respects for the individual and his/her dignity, and of course, truth at times is found in differences and dialogue, not homogeneity.

When the older members of my family were still around, they often said things like “No choice”… At the time, I was still busy with career pursuit and material acquisition. I did not and could not relate to their silent cry: time is both short and long, depends on where you are at which stage of life. You may hold an opinion, fight to the death. Being stubborn or loud doesn’t make it right. It’s the hypothesis, the underlying assumptions and foundations of one’s thinking that matters. Logic aside.

Glad to be around to see the rise and rehash of old script. Like All in the Family. Pretending that it’s always been Great selective memory – and needs to be made great once more. It ain’t so, has never been.

Don’t you dare sit on that chair!

Move out – vacancy – move in.

Keep moving on. Keep zooming in, pulling a James Webb, to find a newly discovered (by us) yet old planet.

Same way with the truth. Men/women often stumbled upon it by surprise.

The truth, most relevant, is about themselves: how low they are capable of stooping to e.g. giving Russian secret Ukrainian locations to target and how far they are willing to go to get what they wanted – even with bitter taste of buyer’s remorse e.g. getting elected or collecting shoes…e.g. the Marcos family.

Young artists were told to explore and know the depth of oneself, to not get in the way of their creative impulses…In short, to die to one’s ego. Let eternity live through them, temporal creatures (nano before, nano after, nano particles go on in space and time).

Stardust – floating aimlessly around – making demand and making admen.

Seeding, tending, watering and blooming before vanishing. Like morning midst, so elusive : “on the first grass, praise with elation, praise every morning”. God as gardener “where His feet passed” (bare feet or wearing sandals?)

Just do it. Nike urges us on. Of course, in doing so, we need to walk the Earth. Then we need shoes.

From Oregon to Orlando, just do it.

Action. Doing the same thing over and over and expect a different result.

Insane. John Wick, fourth (and final?) installment. Shoot’ m up. Reload. Rinse and repeat.

The end is near, the end is now.

Let’s rush it. No time for Morning has broken nor Peace Train.

Just show them what you’ve got. More ammo, go turbo, justice in the American (West) way.

High noon.

Take down the bad (by your own definition) guys.

The other. Often times, darker = badder. Hollywood version of a happy ending (squirting or shooting).

The rich, the powerful, the connected will always rule the Earth for a thousand years. And more, if we keep birthing and having babies. Let the taxpayers chip in. You just do the seeding. It takes a village.

The race war is now involved not just ideologies but also individuals – which group – mob or mass – can raise the most babies. To replenish the Earth, to occupy the Apartment (and re-decorate it in our refined taste and His Image).

America, the Continent. From Columbus to current Pope, from rehab them to repent (for the wrong perpetrated in forced boarding schools). Not the first and only time that words and action don’t match ( the Church teaches people to obey the government, “give to Caesar what belongs to him”. paying taxes, to get the tax break on its properties and schools… supporting a party of Law and Order, but then rallying behind a lawless leader. Beats me. ) I felt sorry for the Gary Harts of the world, when Watergate and J6 made his 1984 transgression look like a child play.

Keep zooming in. You’ll find ugliness and incompleteness. Foot prints and snakes oil on the grass while struggled artists are urged to stay out of the way. Let Eternity live on in one hour, and Infinity be found in the beauty of the lilies.

When we leave here, there will be new occupant(s). Depends on the circumstances and timing, it might be- for them- treasure what we deem as trash. We are mere stewards of space and time allowances – yet, all the while full of false self-congratulation.

To a lesser degree it’s a version of self-sabotage i.e. a cheat here and cut-the-corner there, fewer crunches, one more chip or an additional squeeze of ketchup.

Over time, unchecked atomic habits stack up, as we surrender to the current of time. We’re our worst enemies.

Then we shift the blame. It’s the parents, politicians, preachers and police.

All their fault.

We’re born perfect until the “system” corrupts us, by not supplying us with proper nutrition. Opioid is plenty, baby formula scarce.

After the body, then it’s the soul. We seek cheap grace: just believe the lies.

We’re all going to Heaven, without a need for Peter pence or indulgences (by faith alone).

No one is guarding the gate. It’s wide open even if the road is narrow, since we’ve got insiders’ tips. Don’t worry (sounds like a great stock tip). It won’t be like what you thought.

And so it goes. A life under-lived. A disgrace to our parents. A disappointment to our teachers. And an undesirable to society. Blame it on Hollywood, who in turn, blame it on screenwriters, who in turn, blame it on corrupt cops. Art imitates life.

Voila.

No one is responsible. No one is held accountable. (I don’t even want to touch Climate Change, a consequence of collective neglect).

Meanwhile, our leaders’ hands are tied. Every country now resembles Sri Lanka or the Philippines. Unrest that spreads from the Middle East (remember Arab Spring) to Asia summer. It’s hot. It’s the Climate, stupid. It’s the Economy, stupid.

It’s someone else’s fault. Never ours.

So J6 Commission keeps questioning. Civil society at work. Functioning and humming in air-conditioning. The internet (social media) keeps pumping out tabloid-news. Bad news and sensational ones sell. And we’re all suckers whose eyeballs are monitored and monetized.

The gym puts crunch machines in the corner. People walk right by. No one seems to pay attention. Even when we use them, we tend to count our reps faster. Human nature seeks the path of least resistance.

It’s been centuries of civil societies: architecture, art and literature. Yet it’s always sex and violence that attract most and make the most money. Richer = better. And so, it goes. Keep the popcorn coming. More Top Gun, more maverick whose formula always works, from the studio standpoint. After all, we’re stardust.

Who cares about a little short-changing and self-indulging. Let the Cassidy’s of this world help with the clean up. I rest and watch Animal House to relieve stress. Perhaps we all wake up to a better tomorrow, after cheating ourselves just a bit today. Keep kicking the can down the road. Somehow the moral arc will right itself. It’s the system, stupid. Not us who believed, sworn, and promised to be good.

God always help those who help themselves. Get to the gate. You’ll find some Peter pence laying around. But get there early: climb, use your feet, hands and foreheads.

Discern and believe not in the call to wrong action, the summons to unworthy cause.

Always ask, in a Capitalist society, who is benefiting? Whose pockets are we lining.

When we cheat ourselves out of thinking and living our full potential, we’re the victims of our own making. Crunch anyone? Or stand there holding the bag waiting for the get-away car that never comes.

August 2000

Little did I know, my first trip back to Vietnam was a journey in self-discovery.

It began with a phone call from one of my middle-school classmates. He urged me to look for Hieu, who used to sit next to me. a B/W photo of Hieu wearing a Kitchen God’s hat and sunglasses (we 8 graders were raising money for soldiers absent from home during Tet) brought back memories. him scratching Hippie caligrahy, having 2 eggs for breakfast and first to buy James Taylor vinyl new release.

While on the Hong-Kong bound United Flight, I laughed: perhaps even Hieu’s family couldn’t tell by looking at a 28 years old photo. But I had 3 other pieces of data: his father used to practice acupuncture, his family owned a ceramic factory and they planted plums in Bien Hoa. That’s where I got off a bus, with passengers wishing me luck. They all knew I was looking for a needle in a haystack.

Then my scout/scooter driver told me there were more than a dozen ceramic factories in town. He needs a point B to navigate the town, near Long Binh, where the US Army once staged its ammunition supplies.

So we agreed on a reasonable fee for one hour of canvassing. We figured to plant plums, the factory would have to be located outside of town. We could easily eliminate a few .

With cascading help from fellow “xe-om”, we got to a very remote Temple, then a monk showed us our point B (Hieu’s mom was a very devout Buddhist).

By the time we got to his house, by the river, he had been out surveying a piece of land, his latest purchase. His wife, whom I never met, showed some doubt i.e. friend from abroad, unannounced visit on a quest to re-locate a classmate after 28 years. Reluctantly, she led the way – zig zag through red dirt roads and potholes (no cell phones signals there back in the summer of 2000) deep into the interior of Song Be.

Later, she admitted her fear that we might have been imposters who would snatch her scooter around those deserted bends.

Hieu and I finally met, that was, after I took off my dust mask, sunglasses and cap. He, in turn, took off his glasses and recognized me after what felt like an eternity.

The shock of seeing someone you know after more than 28 years, unannounced, in the middle of nowhere (hard to get to even for locals) weighed heavily in the air,

We embraced, shook hands, and then, picked up from where we had left off. I found him with two kids and him, a bowling enthusiast. In fact, he commuted to Saigon every afternoon for the league.

After some catching up, I found out about another classmate, a wounded vet, who at the time, was living in O.C., CA.

I then called back State, to fill my original contact in on my find. Next day, 2 simultaneous re-unions took place across the Pacific Ocean: one in OC and another in Saigon – where I met another classmate, who had jumped out of an over-stuffed flight, an act that cost him more than 4 decades to get to San Diego.

On my way back via Kai Tac Airport, I exchanged some currency and couldn’t help wondering if my changed self also needs some conversion (so I could re-adapt and function in the US).

Re-discovering my communal self via re-uniting with friends was like stumbling upon your own lost treasures. Those treasures will never be depreciated, with no need for custom declaration. Only that they reside inside of me, as I interact with time.

I feel much richer and less like an orphan of war, with friends – lost then found against all odds.