Thang Nguyen 555

Amber Alert is one thing. Abandoned in immigration/concentration camp is another.

It’s hard to imagine it is happening here in the US: kids lost in the shuffle.

I thought it only happens somewhere far far away, where the “thin red line” is (and even then, the whole village would chip in, help out and raise the child).

In our current situation, which needs to be rectified quickly – enough damage done to these 545 children’s psych on top of the US reputation. The policy served its intended and unintended purpose alright: nobody would want to “traffic” no kids no where near that border wall (no Mexican government is paying for it. Only its General who was apprehended in LAX on alleged drug charges).

Besides, with covid causing Latino deaths disproportionately, it’s a safer bet for everyone to stay put in South America. At least there you live and live together.

We can have a third-party Ad Agency (bi-lingual) run a campaign “We really do care”, blanketing countries of origin, to ID and re-unite families. If North and South Korean families can (after 68 years), we, the greatest nation on Earth, too can.

It’s unconscionable. It’s inhumane. And it’s unacceptable ( border-separation pilot? was it like a covid clinical trial Round 1, with lots of bugs- in this case, 545 of them).

Modern history condemned 9/11 and condoned the hunting down/killing of Bin Laden i.e. when it’s obvious, we act. Now we face another test. Can we, collectively, stand tall, in front of a mirror, and face our compromising selves.

Forget about Dreamers. Forget about Affordable Care Acts. This issue is plain and simple: you cannot “Ooops” in the name of anything. Since covid, the only terrorists we saw were home-grown domestic ones.

The Rule of Law still stays but as a subset to the Golden Rule: we don’t do this to other people’s children because we don’t want them do to ours. When I grew up, I was semi-abandoned between 9-5. But the adults in my family made sure we had domestic helps, who watched over me while doing their other chores. Now, I spend my days on payback and pay-forward.

Abandonment is like death. It deprives one of his/her rightful inheritance (the gap in memory and the missing piece called love).

Well, if we are connected at all by red blood and moon river, karma will have the last say. Don’t wait for it to speak up, for by then, it would be too late. Imagine yourself being one of those children in detention. Even when Apple and Nike decide to donate their corporate goods, what would the kid do with shoes and I-phone 12’s? Calling whom? and run toward whom? “I really don’t care, do U” (as the jacket says).

I remember now that B/W picture of children running towards their Dads, POW’s. who just got off the plane, still holding luggage across the tarmac.

We want that happy ending. We can make it happen. After all, NASA has just landed on an Asteroid safe and sound, for God’s sake. Our tech gets way ahead of our humanity. Like the one with Bruce Willis in Mercury Rising. Still plenty of days (10) to pull an October surprise to uphold that reputation as a nation that once said “Give me your tired, your poor.”

Tonight, instead of the second Presidential Debate, we’ve got each candidate pitching under the banner of NBC and ABC.

Perhaps the moderator will end up on CBS.

I still remember the days of ABC 3-anchor Network: Max Robinson (Chicago), Frank Reynolds (D.C.) and Peter Jennings in London (wearing a tan London Fog).

Maybe I will watch old movies tonight. At least, the world I know remains predictable, with happy ending…unlike today’s, where Johnson and Johnson (I assume that’s the names of 2 founders) couldn’t agree on to trial or not to trial (the covid vaccine).

They said when you keep seeing “re-runs” on TV like M*A*S*H* and Taxi, you’re too old.

Like going vinyl and flair pants.

Like going on a Ferris wheel (instead of indoor water parks).

Like putting on a stamp and sending out a Thank-you note.

Like using a Thomas Nelson map book (or an Atlas) for road trips.

I know readers can relate to these changes, but at least we can agree that the rate of change has lately been much accelerating e.g. Amazon and Apple, Facebook and Google. Where are these Four from? in the rear-view mirror where objects appear closer than they actually are? Or it’s the other way around.

I know one thing: American are decent, wise (after all the trial-and-error shopping on/off line) and optimistic. The outcome of this election will prove my points. Until then, should I tune in to CBS tonight?

See, we miss the “most trusted” man in America once anchored CBS. Or Jim Lehrer of PBS, who moderated multiple Presidential debates with firm hands and clear head. We upheld high journalistic expectation once. And we can do it again. Maybe I will rush out and buy Robert Putnam’s The Upswing – about how American once came together and can do it again.

Let’s hope so. Let’s not channel-surf on Presidential Debate night. It’s un-democratic. It’s not nice – like walking out on some musician’s in the middle of the set.

I hope and pray for the return of normal. Just saying, as if it’s possible in the times of Covid. Tell that to the Parisien smokers who sleep during the day and only come out at night like Vampires on lockdown.

Use everything to advance yourself and your agenda.

Speak out of turn and speak up a game.

Always be in front of the camera armed with tweet-able gabs e.g. “Deal or No Deal” “You are fired!”.

Get much exposure good or bad (counting on the mass’ short-term memory, on “mis” translation and on force-multiplier when your message cross-overs to other cultures i.e. the sheer weight of non-verbal, massive imagery, icon, symbolism that dominate and paint a personal brand: “I am successful” (with nice ties, great hair and big belly as props as taught by The Health and Wealth gospel and Electronic Church).

Spot their hot buttons e.g. trade war hot war, pro – life pro biz etc…, then press them.

Chin up, always, even when you’re 100% wrong.

Intimidate others and sniff their fear for leverage.

Be the aggressor i.e. always on the attack. No apology

What weakness? That’s only for losers, born with unalterable traits.

Deception replaces decency (circling the wagons – manufactured seized mentality and scarcity). Always portray a “they”, the “Others”…fake news, the media, the Green Party ….

Pride in place of humility.

Use people, God, things and anything to win.

There is nobody but me. Why should I admit any wrongdoing (high-birth and perfect genes).

My ethos and eco-system revolve around me: fast-food, quickie sex, then discard the wrappings.

To Hell with the Paris Climate Accords.

Damn you all. Oh wait, please first vote for me. And when you don’t, I will call in “proud” supporters to wrangle it back , the podium and the penthouse.

Cause I am the smartest guy in the room (Enron?) …full of losers and lesser mortals, the hired and fired hands. One-upmanship (my 47 mos > your 47 years) and showmanship (How is my hair?)

The Art of the Start ( using NYC tax rebate) and Art of the Comeback ( using campaign fund).

First and last impressions: I-me-mine (relics of the 70’s Me Generation and zero-sum game of the 80’s).

Fear, uncertainty and doubt (FUD), problem analysis, then the inevitable solution: me.

Just consume, communicate and F the consequences. That’s for the next guy (gal) to mop up. Kick the can down the road.

Smart ethos!

Stormy Daniels is also smart (albeit with NDA hence no access Hollywood nor Hill.) Just a $130.00 lap dance.

“Smart” finishes first. Good finishes last (weak).

Who is the winner? Who is the fairest of all? Who is first in line?

Until the line turns the other direction. Smart gets to the top first, only to find out, it’s the wrong building ( post-truth & pandemic one).

Then, as the good Book says, “last becomes first” cause “pride before the fall”. (see my other blog “Give me an F”).

While Cream’s White Room was on the air, 2001 A Space Odyssey on the screen, I was sitting at home, on lock-down. It’s Hue 68, and the US Embassy in Saigon was under attack. Across our tiny alley, on tin roof, black-pajamas and rubber sandals chased by police (one of VN famous photos afterwards was that of Colonel Loan executing a terrorist at point-blank).

Colt-45’s and AK-47’s shots mixed with firecrackers to announce the arrival of Tet. Simultaneously, the war finally hit home, both in the US via America first televised War and on VN TV9 whose newsreel slowly panned as if to account for the 3000 civilians buried in mass grave, with Exodus soundtrack on channel A, and mourners’ primal scream on channel B.

Couldn’t go to school, couldn’t go outside, couldn’t go anywhere. but watching that B/W documentary over and over. Cronkite later showed up on-location: “At the very best, it’s a stalemate”. Quite prescient a prediction, albeit off by 7 years.

In the aftermath of Tet 68, the Embassy was better re-enforced (still not sturdy enough for would-be refugees wanting a chopper ride out). The Great Society negotiated and shared the Nobel Peace Prize in 1973, leaving millions stranded at sea.

White room, White House.

A friend observed that David Lynch’s Twin Peaks’ opening shot : a perfectly manicured lawn slowly rack-focused to reveal insects underneath. Drain your own lawn.

You need me, and I need you.

Everything else is secondary.

All the talks and no walks, all the fighting and folding; all in vain.

Just hang on to dear life, especially the last chapter – for those who took vitamins, who ate healthy and entertained positive thoughts.

I root for neighbors and at times for enemies. I wish them well. Life is short, hard and unfair.

Life is difficult. Often, it is full of exploded or unexploded ordinances.

A thousand years from now, Jeff Bezos (we didn’t even know his name 18 years ago) will also be among ” The Remains of the day” after his beloved title. In the span of things, we are mere blips. Like those 3,000 bodies lying in the gutter. Like an Imperial City lying in ruin (Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket did not overlook the Hynos toothpaste billboard – featuring a black man smiling), like a chopper ride that never came, like a long-dead anchor whose on-location report once tilt the war. Or the almost half-a-million deaths in the US (covid is our WWIII).

Yet, we are significant in our own small way: we matter to our loved ones, to the little ones and to the guy we have just given our spare change to.

People are living under the Freeway as we speak.

No one seems to care (typical of the Seminarian dilemma – rushing to the exam whose topic is “the Good Samaritan”.) You are cursed the day you are born. In war and in peace. That gene pools and gentrified policies determine 95+% of your chance in life. Work hard, play hard. Oh yeah? For some, it’s White Room. Others White House.

For the rest, keep browsing, clicking, buying and enriching Billionaires, even during a pandemic. No collaboration, no common fight against covid. Everything is in the rear-view mirror. Gloss it over. Kick the can down the road. Just win. Until….the best possible outcome = a stalemate.

In the words of President Johnson, “I will not seek re-election”. The Great Society has just declared! Boots gave in to sandals, “full-metal” jackets to pajamas.

My 1968 which I don’t want to remember but can’t forget: the Exodus soundtrack, the B/W documentary showing Hue common grave, the lockdown (curfew). Now my kid is on lockdown and cannot go back to school indefinitely. Teachers quit, people gloss things over. Some may even win a Nobel Peace Prize. And God knows who will pay the price.

I stop watching political propaganda. I stop watching a replay of White Room and rehash of White House. I want to open my eyes, breathe in/out, and live out the rest of my days, in full awareness of what has happened, and often happens again.

Can’t fool me twice.

I want to say Goodbye. Perhaps Farewell.

It’s too much on my plate. Our plate.

The virus trend is back up (June 27th, 2020) while it’s not the V-shape economy (I heard that back in 2008) we had expected.

Can’t travel to NYC. Can’t travel to Paris or London. You can sit next to me on American. But where are we flying to?

Once when we finally set foot on US jurisdiction (USS Battle ship), we felt safe, well – not quite (see my other blog – Fleeing).

Now the Captain got fired for going back channel, hence no one should feel safe from virus or political repercussion.

Back to why I want to say Goodbye, just in case.

Being in a minority, male and older (although half of recent cases, according to VP Pence, were under the age of 35), I am next in line to be a carrier (not mail, but of covid-19).

Blame it on the “I can’t breathe” protests. Blame it on the beach and bar re-openings.

Blame it on TX phase-re-opening.

Blame it on Bruce Lee (kung-flu) or Blue States but look at where all the cases are right now. Blame it on Washington D.C. when it becomes a State.

I heard about a new crime i.e. “injuring” a statue.

Statutes can’t protect themselves. But then, who will protect us when we need to be admitted into the ICU’s? When we “can’t breathe” and lay still well – as a statue , no pun intended? A set of algorithm to determine who gets tested (as a Hospital Admin guy explained on a recent Rachel Maddow interview)?

So I say Goodbye. To Meritocracy and Monarchy, Aristocracy and Democracy (in its current form and function) where contractors can’t get paid to build the Wall (just as they once got cheated of their hard-earned pay after bankruptcy of failed casinos) hence, can’t get health insurance even when it’s the Law of the Land.

Can’t go out. Can’t pee in peace.

I say Goodbye to traveling, to dancing and dining, to singing (damn karaoke microphones are full of Covid-19) and swimming. I say Goodbye to Love. I say Goodbye to gym, to face-to-face banking and tax filing (they did not let me in yesterday).

I will only enrich the 5 (Amazon, Apple, Facebook, Google and Tesla) without much choice. Without anyone to complain and vent to.

I say Goodbye to ghost war and ghost work (blogging so WordPress can sell foot fungus cure and facebook – pop up ads).

I say Goodbye to tax return and tax refund. I say Goodbye to checks mailed to dead relatives and pretty soon to my name.

I say Goodbye to the America I love, with Appolo 13 collaboration, between space ship and space center, with single-minded prayer and purpose to bring home the three.

I say Goodbye to the idea and ideal of “ask not what your country can do for you..”, of rendering volunteer services and of resilience because the State of the Union is strong.

So it’s Goodbye. No more 100 words here and there, peppering the Web, a Web that was once built by gay and straight men, black women and white men. It’s quite convenient to stand on someone else’s (connectivity) shoulders, and pee from its platform (fake news and dis-information).

I still have a dream though. But I prefer to keep it to myself. It’s not quite free until everyone is home-free. Not just the three, and not just one time as in 1969.

Godspeed. God be with us, all kinds of people including people of purple skin (due to lack of oxygen during covid-19 resurgence).

Born to run. Born in the USA. Born to be wild. Born to be Black.

We sing and swing, party and celebrate. Music unites us. Sports do too. Then we unite in the face of common enemies e.g. WWII, Nam, Iraq, Afghanistan (Contras in between) as the most integrated US troop.

Despite being born – not of our own choice – with a different set of genes, we all bleed red (although 11 per cent in population, Blacks in combat during Vietnam was a whopping 26 per cent).

No need to look hard into the future – man working with machine – which promises a chicken in the pot and a Chevy (EV) in the drive-way, living on the high-tech reservation, and playing penny slots against .. AI machine in a game of Go..

Our faith has been mis-placed. Instead of valuing and respecting our fellow men, we bet our humanity on machinations.

We have low regard for Emotional Intelligence and high regard for Artificial Intelligence. Machine isn’t programmed to tell us straight into the camera as the Rev. “sharp-tongue” Sharpton did, in regards to our being short on humanity.

During the early months of the pandemic, there was a sudden change in our habitat, so quiet and unusual that shy animals would venture out (deers and rabbits) onto paved roads (lions too) until our man-made disaster (choke hold) reclaims the pavement with protesters.

Protesters brave infection, rubber bullets and “vicious dogs”. (Personally I felt shameful back when young high-schoolers stood up to resist school shooting and climate change). Are these issues ones that affect me? That I care about?

All the ventilators in the world, invoked by the War Production Act, did not help. “I can’t breathe”.

Mama. Maman. Me Oi!

George Floyd, me, you, were loved once. We were fed and loved. All that lovin. He and I might not come across as lovable to you. But each of us is loved, deeply at least by one other human being, who gave us life, not taking it.

All that lovin. All those hopes and time spent while it rained outside. All the little chastising, tough-loving:” Be a good boy”, “Be somebody when you grow up”…..In other words, be better than your very present self. Reach for the stars, for True North.

Each of us is a narrative. Some lives are cut short. Others die of old age. But the common thread is there: we share Mother Earth, each has a “Mama” that towering figure we often revered and respected.

All I am asking is..at the very least, work on your story. Make sure to straighten your records: we are not born into this world to cause troubles, to take life, but to add to it, making it more beautiful and abundant.

” And I think to myself, what a wonderful world…” If it were a machine killing man, then we called it “industrial mishaps”. But then, machine could never move me with its refrain “…and I think to myself, ‘What a wonderful world’”…

Facts: In NYC nursing homes, we learned more colored old folks died by covid-19 than white (as of April 22-2020)

It would be interesting to overlay that with 9/11’s deaths in NYC just for juxtaposition.

Today, we witness “the proverbial tree” shaken with old folks slip quietly into that gentle good-night, covid-19 assisted. We got more crises and fire to put out e.g. CDC warning about upcoming winter (we haven’t even “out of the woods” from the first lockdown yet).

My parents were in nursing home, one after the other. We were more than 4 decades apart. As a result, I have a profound empathy for the loved ones who could not conduct proper funeral.

A friend told me about a drive-in funeral with big-screen TV live-streaming the service, as in those 50’s Drive-ins whose parking lots were full of convertibles and outdoor speakers.

We laughed with tears in our eyes, knowing the stuff we’re dealing with nowadays are out-of-this-world.

Bless those with old parents who are still them, living with them, and saying a word of encouragement to them. In any given day during pre-covid19, people would drop their kids at Child care and their parents at Adult-day care.

With telecommuting, with Zoom and Zuckerberg, there should be a creative alternative for our future lives – vocationally and socially.

Before nursing home, my mom was living out of “Assisted-living” apartments, a step away from nursing home. Back then, she still could walk for her groceries. Most heart-warming was when a lady, drove by and back up to offer my mom a ride back without asking. A complete stranger. Good Samaritan. Seeing an old lady struggle with her gallon of milk (her spine gave slowly as she aged).

I stopped often for a visit when in town on business travel. Once, my mom needed time to prepare our home-cooked lunch. She urged me to have a nap. From all the striving, without knowing, I needed that brief rest. And to this day, I still remember that half an hour while my mom was cooking, buying me time. It was her last home-cooked meal we had together.

It’s easy to remain distant when one heard on the radio about folks in nursing homes died by cover-19. It’s the other way when it’s your mom, your dad, or someday,….it’s your turn.

How would you like to die disproportionately just because of the color of your skin ( ….than the content of your character).

We still have a few months to prepare for next winter, ahead of CDC warning. Let’s lend a hand, stop the car, and give them a ride. Bless that lady driver who stopped for my mom. I will stop for her any time when it’s her turn needing help with her groceries.

The proverbial tree continues to filter out the unfits and misfits. Up to us to show our humanity, the kind that fits for all ages since the start of everything that was, has been and is to come.

My youth was largely occupied with his top hit,…”sur le sable mouille”.

War-time Vietnam: coffee shop, coffee shop and coffee shop whose attendants would change their AKAI reels with Lobo (side 1), Christophe ( side 2) then others. Followed the 80/20 rule, 80 per cent of the time, the top two ruled.

French language languished, but not completely: a lycée here, a copy of Le Monde there.

On any given day, we could still find French bread much easier than hamburger. and Citroen over Chevrolet. Then all of a sudden, the third C arrived: C-rations flooding Saigon with Pall Mall and peanut butter neatly in a box, can opener included.

Back to Christophe….et la mer. He sang about love and loss, the sea and existential suffering.

And we gorged it down, while upheavals all around us.

A classmate lost his eye out in the front. Many, myself included, skipped 10th grade to delay the inevitable mandatory draft.

We switched from French to English as our Second Language. The power of the purse, of gun powder and prestige of leader of the free world.

Then everything collapsed. Perdu. Aline, et j’ai crie…pour Elle revien.

Loss. Never to regain. New norm. New shores. New faces and friends.

“Hey, can I crash at your place for the night”? Stranger would take me in, as on a snowy night in Harrisburg, PA, just because I said “Chao” in Vietnamese.

We were lost souls, without directions home.

Hair and the road were long. My first earning went to a cassette-tape player, so I could record songs from home (others would have shot-gun weddings that kept the refugee-camp chaplain so busy) with one of Christophe’s in the mix. Two Sanyo recorders – one to play back, the other to record. An army barrack’ washroom at night turned makeshift studio with “natural” hissing sound. But it was comforting knowing sound from home could finally be captured – like message in the bottle floated at sea: “Il faut me crois, la vie est belle, et Notre histoire, peut continue”.

Oh mon amour, I long to be with you once again. If only for a fraction of a second. To roll back the tide, rewind the tape. Hear it again. And again.

Like Lucy who swipes the screen so fast, decades would lapse in seconds.

Then I turn and look at the news: my idol is dead of COVID-19. Aline, et j’ai crie….pour Elle revien. Oh mon amour…un autre vie, t’attend la bas.

A friend once said that there were something in Alain Delon’s narrating voice. Something in the drinks, in those chocolates. Perhaps the Devil. Or maybe Life in full swing.

But I know with all my zest I once lived with Christophe songs lurking in the background; bombs exploded in the distance… and we lived as if there had been no tomorrow.

R.I.P. Christophe chanteur français. 1945-2020.

Since early age, we were told to fear failure, to avoid it and to hide it.

As loathing as it was, I had a few run-ins with it , yet none “failed” to produce positive results.

First time I failed was at the entrance exam to a public high-school: limited supply, high demand (three students to a small desk in a non A/C room).

With French linguistic and geography, singing and Physical Ed background, I was in no shape to compete, the Vietnamese Essay in particular. As if in a trance, I drew a blank until the examiner called for time. Give me an “F”.

365 days later found me at the same spot, facing the same challenge. This time, better prepared, I took a deep breath and let it go.

In fact, there was no stopping since, until I hit another wall: the high-school SAT-equivalent scoreboard. How come my name was not in there? Friends with half my dedication passed with flying colors. This couldn’t be. Deer facing headlights.

The papers printed fake news that I committed suicide (someone from the school apparently took a disliking to the IBM machine intrusion into our entrenched Mandarin educational testing).

When you fell, you know who your friends are. That morning found me at my own “wake”: a few friends, co-ed by then, showed up early. They thought they had been there for my viewing (the papers said so).

Still in pajamas, I was blushing. Among the unannounced were some girls in my class (my parents had to “receive” a lot of my unannounced friends, but on that occasion, at 18, it was my first “beast” graced with “beauty”).

The embarrassment was the last straw from the past few days having close friends lounging around, not wanting to celebrate (our equivalent of prom) since “all for one/one for all”. The IBM machine didn’t spit out my name only my friends’. (It’s like your neighbors getting the stimulus checks, while your mailbox is empty).

The day after, one of my friends barged in, out of breath: “you passed”.

We started our revving and rolling in a New York minute like a gang in Grease. And sure enough, the Addendum had my name and student ID i.e. not having to die needlessly (Nixon’s Vietnamization of Vietnam) from a then-rigged war.

Beer overflowed, paid for by my proud Dad who just days before, not sure about his son’s uncertain future. Of all the people in this wide world, he should have known better.

Yet you can’t argue with failure just like you can’t with success.

I once got an “F”, then an “A+” from flunking to acing exams, like a pendulum.

From having a broken heart to thriving with a heart full of gratitude. I understood life from both sides, more from its underside. I experience how long it is, those interminable moments in purgatory and doubt.

People are not that merciful to those who failed (California gives $500 to each undocumented immigrant in the State – is quite an exception).

We set up hoops and walls. Exams and exemptions. Those who are inside feel just as “trapped” as those on the outside (COVID-19 is holding up its cosmic mirror for all to see themselves).

I once had an “F” with its untold social consequences (ostracized). To come to my “wake”, friends would have to turn me over for an ID. But in no time, since I take my time, they found me bounce-back from face-down in the gutter.

An “F’ is a pre-requisite and preparation for real life. We are goaded to avoid an “F” at all costs – parents would pay a fortune for Ivy League admissions (what if your child is autistic or stuttering). Only when you make friends with darkness that the stars shine brighter. (Garfunkel’s “Hello darkness my old friend”.

As trite as it may sound, one should embrace an “F” and its narrow road, for the road to Hell is always wider and more welcoming.

I know who my friends are in hindsight. At least, who showed up at my supposed “wake” that comedic morning. The beer paid for by my Dad has never seen the likes of it since. Failure behind, success tastes all the “tastier”.