Thang Nguyen 555

I woke up by the alarm: my brother called back. He tested negative (for the coronavirus.) Good news! He is my big and only brother. When I started school at age 4, he was 21 – at the School of Pharmacology (he fainted at the sight of blood, hence, no Medical School option!).

Growing up in the shadows of two college siblings was playing catch-up: from language acquisition to musical taste, from ballroom dance to social development – while outside world was a gumbo of French Colonial, Traditional Vietnamese – much influenced by Chinese – and the emerging irreverent GI’s ethos: spent all your army pay before deployed back to the jungle.

Had my brother been tested positive yesterday, today would have been a sad time; time to make “arrangement”, pack up dark clothes – if travel were an option at all.

God spares me another trip back East, which I did last month when his wife passed away. According to known statistics, he is more at risks as an 81-year old first-year widower with some underlying conditions.

My brother is no angel. Part of him was made of those “soft genes” i.e. love for women, music and parties. But he also works hard, and nobody questions his undying love for the less-fortunate. He has donated a large chunk of change to orphanages and wounded-vet associations.

In between classes, this pharmacy student had to pick up his younger brother from Kindergarten (my sister had her share of dropping me off) on his Velo Solex.

On one occasion, my left foot got stuck in the rear wheel. That grind hurt a lot, even at 20-miles per hour.

My brother had wide connections among his medical peers: doctor friends to check out my tiny willy – “oh, it’s not worth a circumcision…just keep pulling it back every night”….” Or his dentist friends:” oh, your brother got a cavity. Let me help”.

Not once I saw money change hand. It’s war time. Thuy “Mexico”, as my brother was known – and still is – is always ready for parties: his violin, his amplifier, his guitar and microphone. He never touched the Chinese greasy lobsters VA restaurants put out on those occasions (instead, he taught me to squeeze down our throats a few drops of lemon juices).

“On va chantez les Parisiennes”et…”Mexico, Mexi…………………………….co” (the audience gasps at mid air, turn-heads to make sure there were no incidence on stage).

His attachment to Romanticism lagged the actual movement for about 10 years, same as mine with the 60’s. But what he inherited, he embraced.

The dancing, the singing and the camaraderie. He buried his first daughter on the front during one of his tours in Central Vietnam (Quy Nhon)

Then on April 29, 1975 he went about town, per my brother-in-law’s request to seek help/search for a way out. Both had been refugees of the country’s 1954 partition. 21 years in South Vietnam, with births and burials. These two Northern refugee boys-turned-men: decent yet hardened men who would stop at nothing to provide for and protect their loved ones.

But fate dealt them a curve ball. Despite their training in the US, they had no one to turn to for a passage to the US on Saigon last days.

Eventually, they managed to “flee without forwarding” ( see my other blog).

If his were a positive covid-19 test result, I’d probably cry for the turn of event. I would put on those music he used to sing all those years while the rain poured and pounded on our tin roof (those monsoon seasons found him shirtless, in front of a mirror, and practice moving his chest muscle from left to right and back). I would put on some of the stuff in my closet which he sent (heck, even our blanket was his – well-put-to-use during Texas Deep Freeze last year).

Nowadays, my brother still flips through some French instructional books (we’re both teacher’s kids, with natural affinity to French culture and language.) He has never returned to Vietnam, but he had visited Paris. Perhaps to validate his dreams, his longing for something better. Humanity got this urge to flee, a wanderlust to seek out a better place, a more permanent one.

Perhaps our time on Earth is to sit, with boarding passes in hand, waiting for sudden departure (the Terminal).

COVID-19 or not, positive or negative test result, we already know our fated outline: birth, life, death and burial. In between, I shared some good years with my brother – when he was stuck at home before getting drafted and married, like when we siblings painted the house on the days leading up to Tet.

Growing up in his shadow has been hard and honoring.

To reproduce their ethos, you would need to combine those 1917 movies, 1945 movies and 1975 movies. In them, my brother and sister – young kids then – ran around like “napalm girl” starving to death (1945) then ballroom- danced like there were no tomorrow (the US involvement 65-73 bought them some time), before fleeing again as refugees on one of those USS battle ships (whose sailors recently tested positive for the virus) to gladly start at bottom-rung jobs in remote New Jersey town, like one would in Brooklyn, the movie.

To get to where he is today, my brother has paid a dear price (working until he is 77 year-old at an all-Black all-shift D.C. hospital). God spared him yesterday despite dry cough and slight fever.

I sure am glad for him. When gone, he will no longer be there to serve as a reminder of where and what we have been through, and how worthy it has been to experience our own version of the “stations of the Cross”. Stuff that makes humanity what it is: the power to remember, to reflect and to reciprocate.

Last month, upon returning from his wife funeral, after saying goodbye to both my sister and brother, I had a feeling I had seen my parents – despite dead and buried – who have left behind their gene sequencing, hence their images living through my siblings, so I wouldn’t be alone.

We are both copies and copy machines. We make copies of ourselves who are copies of others ( 70+ DNA sequences plus a few of our own, both demons and achievement).

I figure I am not much different from Thuy Mexico. Perhaps more in English than he French. Perhaps more rock and roll than he with Slow Rock. Perhaps a notch wilder just as he when compared to my father’s. But we are all lucky S.O.B’s having survived so much thrown at us, from the turn of the 20th century to the next. Take aways: stay alive, stay positive and test “negative”.

I wouldn’t say I love my brother, in a sentimental way. But I know I wouldn’t want to entertain the opposite – of him testing positive. Back then, I was just glad he show up on time in his Velo Solex and short-sleeves, leaving behind jeers from peers “hey, Thuy Mexico….you’re gonna pick up your “baby” from all those random encounters with girls? hahaha”.

The summer of my 8th grade, I took up Hapkido. Had to keep up with my classmates, who, one by one, held Tae Kwon Do and Judo titles; who, when horsing around, often used my face for target-practice

It took some arm-twisting for my mom to sign the Release Form and open her purse my Martial Arts uniforms – white belt- to start. We warmed up then practiced moves and kicks. A few weeks into it, a red-belt Master visited our class. He had us line up to kick a piece of wood he was holding.

When he shouted “next”, it’s my turn to build up momentum, then in slow motion. jumping up high in the air, right leg in full stretch and locked knee. Having held it for a while, the Master twitched and jittered to re-brace himself and the board. That split second, with a moving target, I missed. Punching through thin air, I landed sideways and heard my left arm breaking on impact.

That whole summer, 15 year-old, home-bound and restless, I was bored to tears. Tous les garçon de mon age….went out dancing, chasing after chics etc…while I nursed a broken arm i.e. no guitar, no singing, no washing and no scratching. In short, a lot of Don’ts and no one could tell me the Do’s. People stopped by and signed my cast, as they would on a guest log-in book at funerals.

I flipped the pages of Essential Idioms in English by Dixon:” Get on- Get off; Put on – Take off, ” but couldn’t help experiencing sudden sadness. In between lessons, I gazed beyond the confine of my house, located half-way in an alley with two imposing long tombs (perhaps of a high-ranking mandarin’s and his wife’s).

I rarely reflected on life, certainly not that early in life.

But that summer, being “sheltered in place”, I wrote for our class white-paper ( posters on the school wall near those ping-pong tables) about coming-of-age, about the road ahead and my existential loneliness ( other classes often illustrated similar theme wirh simple sketches of young girls whose stoic faces half-covered in Cher-like hair).

I knew then and now, that people were joined together for a while, biologically or what not before parting ways, sometimes amiably, other times with slam doors. Either way, life is fleeting (even when people’s tombs were huge) and the sum of all choices, sometimes with no choice e.g. came home in a casket from the war-front as in the case of my next-door neighbor.

I knew each was with different options and orientation. Many from well-to-do families (great zip codes), or influential ones (Army brats). As a TK (teacher’s kid), I grew up humbly and possessed few material things.

Even the bike I rode to school was salvaged from a rusty broken frame, garbage haul from my aunt’s balcony. The life I lived was a part-time one: I had to “Airbnb” my Dad with his other family.

I knew we were of different breed, despite our (martial arts and school) uniform and universal language of math and science, subjects that many already showed signs of mastery.

I had my own inarticulate demons to wrestle with, so poorly that I turned my grief inward while screaming my lungs out – with guitar as my shield, performing at imaginary concerts after-school to quench hunger.

Somehow I got through that summer. Four years later, we faced the inevitable : the war could not go on forever: friends found themselves socially distancing for fear of sabotaging their family escape plan.

We knew that life as we had known it, would never be the same.

Post-war rebuilding e.g. major and mate (mates, in my case) required us to drift further apart. When we saw each other , South Vietnam or Southern California, something were missing. I couldn’t for the life of me put a finger on it.

All happenstance in a new social order i.e. Maslow scale ( survival, security and self-esteem…). We can’t find our way home. Never again, even with a fast walk through the once-familiar serpentine alley.

As with that broken bike and arm, time heals.

That summer, I used quarantine for reflection. I conjectured that my life would zigzag like the serpentine alley “Around the bend, we will take a different path at those forks on the road”.

” I hope when we meet again, further down the trail, there won’t be too much of a gap between us..” (Khuc Quanh – Bich bao Uoc Vong B3- 71).

It was my first writing about love and friendship outside my immediate family.

Without that incident, I would have played guitar summer long, not given a thought about that far-flung future and the only thing that broke would have been those poor guitar strings. ___________________________________________________________________

For my class of 68-75 who had to face with so much coming at us while coming of age.

Eyewitness account

“To see a World in a grain of sand

And a Heaven in a wildflower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour”.

– Auguries of Innocence –

by William Blake

1945 2 million northerners died of famine

1954 Partitioning of Vietnam at Ben Hai River

1963 16,000 US marine “advisors” ordered onto China Beach

1968 US embassy breached – Cronkite CBS stalemate comment

1970 Kent State massacre – Cambodia bombing protest

1973 Paris Peace agreement

1974 Watergate hence war aid denied

March 29, 1975, Da Nang – Convoy of Tears

April 17, 1975, Phnom Penh fell

April 22, 1975, President Thieu resigned

April 22, 1975, Ambassador Martin ignored Kissinger’s evacuation order until

April 23, 1975, President Ford at Tulane University: “Game over!”, bookmarking President Johnson’s April 1965 at John Hopkins

April 25, 1975, President Thieu left for Taiwan (Scotch hang-over while Martin pulled the flight stairways out and away- as if to unhook SVN decade-long life support)

April 26, 1975, ARVN planes took off, one-way to Utapon, Thai Land

April 27-28, 1975, bombs and rockets rained down on Tan Son Nhut – world’s busiest airport

April 29, 1975, Big Minh facilitated regime change both in 63 and 75 – with P.M. Vu Van Mau call the US embassy to evacuate all US personnel

In all, 4.6 million tons of bomb dropped, 150 billion dollars spent and 3.4 million dead among whom 58.220 US service personnel with the last 2 killed in this story.

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Monday Night April 28 – 1975

Living by the airport, my sister, her husband and four kids witnessed columns of smoke rising from the airport ammunition depot. All six panic and packed up. “To grandma”, my sister said. To seek shelter and stay out of bomb range. My brother, a Medic Captain, newly divorcee, was also with us. At 4 AM a barrage of bombs (dropped from stolen aircrafts) hit again. Casualties: 2 US marines at Gate 4 – and 8 of my sister’s neighbors.

Air traffic circulation ceased. Hundreds more dead while holding on to embarkation paper and meager possession.

For context, throughout previous weeks, half-empty seatless World Airways C-141s ferried 50,000 passengers over Saigon sky out to Subic Bay, then Guam. Most ominous was Operation Babylift, Ford Administration “Peace with Honor”. One of the two US Air Force Galaxy crashed. Death toll from the lower deck: 206 orphans, orphan-wannabes and tag-along.

A month earlier, at Da Nang and Nha Trang Airport pilots were overwhelmed. Unruly mob punched or plunged from mid-air. Worried about overload, one of my classmates, Air-Force and all, jumped out on take-off. That self-preservation split second costs him 44 years from Saigon to San Diego.

His “sliding doors”. Now mine.

Tuesday around noon April 29 – 1975 at the corner of Ban Co – Phan Dinh Phung (now Nguyen Dinh Chieu St.) District 3, formerly Saigon. now Ho Chi Minh city.

My sister and her youngest waited anxiously for her husband and my brother who were on a recon mission. Out of the blue, a stranger approached:

” Do you know the way to the river?”

It dawned on my sister that the US was leaving for good (“decent interval” from 1973 to 1975, from 3.2 billion down to 700 million, and Operation Homecoming)! This central-region curfew-violator had strong urge and momentum to flee – his fear struck a chord: he didn’t care for the Prime Minister Vu Van Mau call for reconciliation (Ambassador Martin – himself was in deep denial, doubling down on prolonging negotiation to honor his son’s sacrifice in that war.)

Meanwhile, my brother and brother-in-law – both with job training in Denver and D.C. – frantically roamed our upheaval city in vain. Former DOS colleagues, all under the Ambassador Bui Diem, just shrugged:” Je ne sais quoi”! (Diem himself went off-script – like everyone else Ford included – when South VN’s 722-Million USD final funding request voted down).

Resigned to fate after a futile and frantic search, my brothers had their chow then doze-off. I just tuned out the adult rant – blah blah blah: “It’s a little bit funny…this feeling inside… I’ll buy a big house where we could live …”. Your Song = always opened our mid-day music broadcast.

“After all, what could possibly happen!” my father assured no one but himself: “One was with custom enforcement then DOS, the other, a medic- trainer – both non-combatants. Re-education camps, if it came to that would be lenient. Don’t you all know there is an enforced curfew?”.

“If people could roam, so can we”.

“There must be a way out!”,

My sister retorted in her familiar defiant tone. That direction-seeking central-region refugee had sure made a strong impression and triggered intuition on the part of my sister.

Unrehearsed and unprepared, the nine of us sardine-packed into a Simca (our Italian Job version with no diversion). My mom’s teacher salary and saving – soon-worthless – had been quickly and equally divided up on the day leading to that (should we be separated – an usual and frequent occurrence experienced on their 1954 North-South evacuation).

Now that I have had some distance from the event, I could appreciate that wisdom: a cousin of mine never got news of her MIA husband after the collapse of central VN – to place his photo on the altar, or not. Quite an agony and uncertainty.

Uprooted in 1954 at least they were given 300 days not 2 minutes.

P.S. As I re-read my mom’s hand-written last testament. In her late 80’s while in US assisted living, apparently, in denial and with dementia, hence, she discounted the fact that the house we had left behind that very day, was long ago confiscated, first the upstairs then the whole house in exchange for my dad’s decade-in-the-waiting passage and papers to America. Naively she instructed my sister to split the sales proceed three-ways to show her consistent concern and care.

My father wished us luck: “I am too old to worry as to what/if it might happen”. He, my part-time dad, French Artillery Army discharged, was with Air Vietnam, corporate account department. His other family (monogamy was written into law per Diem’s sister-in-law after the fact) lived a few blocks away. A man of two-minds, he was to be bogged down with overseeing two residences and my half-sister in tow. His sliding door!

Ban Co, where we lived, was a northern refugee enclave. Walls got eyes. One would not look for or find tranquility there. Moving about in a serpentine and narrow alley, residents tolerated one another. Often times, they turned captive audience of our live music and loud quarrel.

For fear of rousing up and rattled the cage during siesta (per Ken Burns, 1/3 of Saigon residents were indifferent to the nation’s change of the guards), we tiptoed and avoided eyes contact. “Where are you going! or worse, we knew it! they had been collaborators”. At Tet 68, sudden urban combat was brought home on the roof in front of our very eyes, plainclothes police shoot out with infiltrated VC force. Our intuition and apprehension built on solid base

For reinforcement, I called in a few markers. Mysteriously at the ready, with a Carbine N-1 in mercenary black, our next-door “homeboy” escorted us out while I pulled back the barbed wires cordon. His silent “wink” – an emoticon – concealed our tacit understanding – “we’re even!” (On that day, I cashed out all my social “deposits” e.g. hey, let me light that cigarette, just as my mom did with her three-decades savings.)

First hurdle!

TAN SON NHUT AIRPORT

Airport outer rings were airtight secured. We learned later that 5,000 evacuees – a portion of them perished while being trapped inside along with US dollars and classified papers burned, 2 last GIs dead. Outside, we drove pass RSVN troopers, all spread out and fired incessantly and indiscriminately in the air (my hot-war soundtrack during childhood: AK-47’s, M-16’s, B-52’s and Colt-45’s).

“Stay out!”

The property was condemned – per Ambassador Martin’s in-person assessment earlier. Spies stole A-37’s to destroy the runway and render Freedom Birds rescue inoperable.

Feeling futile and witless, I signaled a time-out. My pre-text? we needed extra fuel should our aimless journey take us down the Mekong. Actually, it’s more for me to stop and say goodbye to a friend. Emptying his jerry can, he made small talks: “Where are you heading.”

I just shrugged. Our ambassadors didn’t even know.

The day before, one of our friends had flown the coop. Bewildered and betrayed, Phong and I helplessly watched people looting Thai’s house. Consequently, and empathically, I did not want my friend to go through this twice (just in case). His father, a local skipper, was well-positioned should they decide to set sail. (Years later and gold bars behind, he did get to the US among the Boat People.)

Second hurdle!

US EMBASSY

A few blocks out, we were at the Embassy where two days before my friend and I were in line for a Visa application (the adults of my family, per superior instructions, stay put instead of being out there, in line to exacerbate city-wide panic). Yet the atmosphere turned completely chaotic anyway.

Surrounding streets might observe curfew but not at the embassy, hub and spoke of where the action lies. Thousands, mostly young, foreign and native were scaling embassy steel gate or snaking through its newly re-enforced concertina wires. Marine sentries (170 in flak jackets, helmets and bayoneted M-16s, constantly scanned and cherry-picked Press credentials and foreign Passports, all in life-and-death urgency.)

According to “Paper Soldiers”, out of resentment, someone in the crowd aimed a Carbine at those guards. Luckily, both guns and camera were confiscated. No one wanted further panic and bad press. Few who maned Press Attache Office just shrugged: case dismissed! Unlike across the ocean where White House was in deep discussions about sending marines to rescue marines, but the idea was shoved.

We spotted a familiar face: my second uncle, a chauffeur for some agency. Like Burt Reynolds in The Longest Yard, he backed out far enough for imaginary runway before scaling over people. His successful disappearance behind the 14-foot wall dashed our hope. Not with 4 kids, a 60-years-old Mom and meager luggage.

Not that our luggage counted for anything. Just mere photocopies of an USAID form letter showing US Embassy logo & letterhead: “Any help that can be rendered to …. the bearer of this letter, will be appreciated” signed by Robert B. Brougham, Acting Training Officer, USAID with my name scribbled in – last of nine. What could we pack and choose to bring in under two minutes.

Reality hit us like a brick. Cold-sweated!

Turned around? Not with barbed wires and checkpoints mushroomed behind by the hour. Rumors of some down-river option did not help. Per Tiziano Terzani, Hwy 4 was at that time blocked, while Hwy-1 Newport Bridge saw hot battle with burnt tank like a scene from A Bridge Too Far. Obtaining extra fuel from friend was just wishful thinking.

Growing up sheltered and buffered from the front, I was boxed in. The Mekong? A mystery. With no power nor connection, we were deflated and besieged. The whole city was.

Years of fighting and endless propaganda (farewell address by Thieu and subsequent tearful resignation by President Huong, Five-O-clock Follies the US press detested) reduced to our worthless currency and credentials. Our bi-lingual Larousse concealed a one-hundred-dollar bill my brother-in-law carefully concealed under its flap).

Dazed and dispirited, we leaned against the wall. Across the street, adrenalines. Waves after waves of sweat-slickered shirts kept at it. Mad-Max attack by attrition in 105% heat!

” I’m dreaming of a White Christmas…and children listened” over the radio at the time Operation Frequent Wind got underway was salt on bloody injury.

At 3PM, per one report, one of the Embassy’s groundkeepers tied a long rope around his 30 relatives for a hush hush entry to the rear gate. Quite a tough call for on-post Marine sentry among whose duties was to burn a million dollars’ worth of cash.

Suddenly echoed an ear-deafening screeching noise. An oil-dry manual 10′ shifter. An inexperienced bus driver who could not tell which of the three clutches? The likes of my chauffeur-uncle (who had walked out of his job).

As it turned out, at-risk passengers had assembled at 13 safehouses. Those buses, already full, were rounding the corner heading toward tourist district. An Embassy’s hasty plan B then since airlift was no longer an option.

Lately, I met a Special Forces translator. He was abandoned only to make it to Hong Kong years later. Apparently, he missed his Rendez-vous (short notice and shortage of drivers – themselves left the job).

Third hurdle!

Back in the car once again, we tailed the convoy. Tu Do Street (now Dong Khoi), once bustling with tourists and foreigners was then a ghost town. Over the bridge we slid onto a less-wealthy district 4 (only a mile apart, but miles apart). At maximum speed, impossible today, the lead bus skidded suddenly then made a sharp left to Pier 5. Had my brother failed to floor the over occupied car bumper-to-bumper, we would have been cut off.

Those drivers always had ready a bottle of Scotch to bribe the guards who perhaps couldn’t care less about a convoy with a car in tow. Next morning at 4:58AM, the last 11 marines tossed tear gas canisters instead of liquor down the embassy stairs to end decades-long involvement.

Those precious brief seconds slipped us right through. Our “sliding doors” for the lack of equivalent expression. The boom barrier mercilessly – like a “guillotine” blade in vertical drop, slow to a stop only by its counterweight. If I had had two heads, one would have rolled – most likely – its romantic twin of that pre-med aspirant, who a day earlier, had collected donation in our SPCN Lecture Hall for Central-Region refugees – not knowing himself end up joining their exodus: “Do you know the way to the river”.

CLUB NAUTIQUE PARKING

Inside the gate, in broad daylight, shirtless bystanders were milling about, lurking and looting. Office supplies and abandoned equipment littered the ground. Even police changed to plain clothes to join in: “Finally US Aid got to us.” He meant furniture and air conditioner, luxury none of us on “dong” salary could ever afford. Even on my brother’s medic captain’s pay, his first wife couldn’t afford to stay “til death do us part”, hence, my single brother was again with us.

What had been bottled up e.g. class resentment, religious and ethnic strife, 400X Hiroshima worth of bomb – 4.6 million tons to be exact- agent Orange and agent CIA, death and destruction, divorce and dispossession – finally popped, Khmer-Rouge style: the inmates running the asylum. Its lit blew up.

My brother saw a parked car whose chauffeur slump over its steering wheel. His body was the only one on the lot that wasn’t moving. There was nothing more dangerous than young men who suddenly be in the possession of a loaded gun. Heck, even young girls too (revolutionary chic’s!).

(pg102 of Terzani’s book lists an inventory by the University of Van Hanh, whose students collected: 1,525 carbines, 2,596 M-16s, 399 M-72s 174 M-79s and three boxes full of pistols. A week before we were collecting donations for refugees in flux from DaNang; student activists always collect something as it seemed).

Private vehicles and Army Jeeps previously status symbols then turned liability (the ultimate was Ky’s handgun and jet used to court his hostess de l’air later turned spouse). After offloading passengers, the convoy U turned to continue its mission. We then became an easy mark.

At the water edge stood an imposing 10-foot static sandbag wall, partitioning the haves and have nots. This barge-turned-bunker blocked our river view. It’s an 11th-hour plan conceived by the Oval Office, the Embassy, and Can Tho outpost, a brainchild of Carmody (see Honorable Exit). Army Engineers Corp retrofit, a marked improvement from previous all-hell-broke-loosed open-air vessels: shoving, slipping in stampede proof.

Like a WWI bunker, it’s reinforced with stacked sandbags for any eventual, i.e. Storm of Steel. No wonder “all quiet on the waterfront”, calm before the storm. Thieu’s swift and sudden withdrawal from our Highland MZ caused chain-reaction (our Lion Dance lost its head).

That March lightning-fast retreat left disgruntled civilians and Army – who themselves abandoned by superiors – with no time to evacuate their immediate families. Mob hysteria could care less. Friends or foes. SVN dominoes (not the theory of the same name by the Eisenhower administration) fell one by one, folding its MR map from Central Region to Central District on Convoy of tears.

War got close to the waterfront.

Standing atop the sandbag heap – a lone gun screamed:

“Just get out of here”

Still seeing my brother-in-law linger (Xem xet tinh hinh – situation assessment).

April 29 – Late afternoon, Pier 5

Engine idling, we huddled. Having loaded and unloaded time and again, we grew hesitant. Fourth and final attempt at the water edge? (I could not imagine my mom and brother swim).

Millions of calculations. Nine little heads!

Opportunity cost, push/pull. To climb or not to.

Push comes to shove, if turned around, would the men be sent to Kham Chi Hoa – our city jail per “America in Vietnam”, 41.4 per cent of people shared this appraisal about fear of reprisal.

The jail later was wide open at the change of the guards. Or worse, as in Killing -Field chapter e.g. beheaded for wearing glasses?!? so the government does not bother with feeding and reeducating (Hue 68). Not unfounded, since I grew up with episodes of Cambodia “cap duon” (beheading). I got goose bumps every time I passed the Cambodian embassy (confirmed when I took a trip later and saw skulls-exhibit at the village of Ba Chi.) Growing up eye-witnessing a monk-burning at that same intersection was enough.

Since I barely got my first beer for passing the SAT:” Mama, life has just begun”.

What about the children and their later medical studies, given family high hopes and expectations. For others, like my other half-uncle in the Navy. to stay was to endure re-education, a price to reunite with his mom/brother – a train conductor – from up North.

Without embarkation papers at the Embassy was one thing. To leap on the barge on a civilian’s verbal get-out-of-jail card was another (Nixon’s nose grew longer in my vivid imagination).

Our stuffy Simca housed a hung jury:” Are we going or not!”. Soaking-wet – like in a Mexican stand-off. Our window of opportunity was fast closing. Chronos vs Kairos, time vs eternity.

A PA “All-Aboard” kept reverberating, percolating to tip the undecisive scale.

Suddenly, a unanimous decision made itself, like a poker last draw. My brother-in-law tossed the car key to a bystander, the shirtless one who had made several passes (canh me) while we were frightened and frustrated with indecision.

To this day, no one knows where the car is …

in that” Eternity in an hour”.

and over the course of those 24 hours, not just key to the car, but key to the country got changed hands (2:30PM) “Infinity in the – empty – palm of your hand”. Our decent reached its bottom before rising.

We filed out leaving behind decades-long of “beaucoup dien cai dau”, a line often used throughout my upbringing (later aptly delivered by our de facto actress in exile Kieu Chinh in Hamburger Hill). Between Operation Homecoming and Vietnamization of the war, we should have been warned. The day before, when RVN Congress convened to confirm Big Minh, only 136 out of 219 were present. Even our Chief of Staff Cao Van Vien had fled right after Thieu.

No more time. The whole city was like a wet sponge that soaked up sweat and sulfur, blood and tears. Catholic paratroopers shot each other to avoid the doctrinally forbidden sin of suicide. Last say was cut short by the sound of self-inflicted shots.

Apprehension and anticipation, anxiety and anger all imploded (what had God wrought!). Like my friend, out of self-preservation, who jumped – we hopped (Thoa, this is for you in San Diego. Who could see the future.)

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Knapsacks and my mom over first followed by kids then adults. We climbed the sand wall in cramp legs and under watchful eyes, yet miraculously unscathed and hassle-free. Only situated over the other side on cold steel floor of the barge that we could then breathe in fresh air.

Growing up, I kept hearing about Operation Passage to Freedom. As Gordon Lightfoot put it: “Just like an old-time movie…the ending is just too hard to take”” If you could read my mind”. It’s my turn, in a digitally mastered version of that old-Black-and-White 16-mm or super 8 footage. What I had imagined i.e. famine and future; family and fortune, took on real experiential meaning e.g. would I be allowed to scribble some post-cards to my dad, as previously sent from the North.

1954 intra-country evacuation footage showed old folks in cargo net, craned up and swung over before gently dropped aboard US-assisted French Southward ships, with fanfare and banners e.g. “To join the exodus is to keep your dignity” (Di cu de giu gin pham gia con nguoi) on “tau ha mom” (WWII cargo ships). Suddenly it’s our turn which began in Danang (3/75) – with World Airways chaotic evac to repeat outside of Con Son Island with refugees as cargo in net once again.

30 days’ worth of retrofitting the barge (3/75-4/75) vs 300 days to pack (54) for the adults. Years later, veterans of war were legally and orderly processed for departure under bi=lateral agreement. What screwed up in war finally was rectified in peace.

Instead of a grain of sand, we found a wall-full, a buffer between barge and bystanders (East and West, the twain shall never meet). Melody began to fade in as if to hasten our departure. Songs of my family – given huge generation gap, I previously couldn’t relate to. Cry, my beloved country. “Ben cau bien gioi…” (By the Bridge over Ben Hai). The weight of war – once oral vignettes over late dinner, then became mine to take personal ownership.

My brother – a divorcee – while catching his breath after the half-hearted climb – noticed some weeping girls. With them only a few violins as carry-on and not a single embarkation pass.

We didn’t need form letters or fuel tank after all.

It was unusual since barges were intended for cargo transport.

Then, more folks joined in, among them my math teachers. It struck me as odd that they had on slick tailored white shirts, for A/C air trip (all day we saw only soak-wet shirts) The genius twins looked so out of place, against the backdrop of blood-stained barge. Since I had never seen them outside of school setting, their squatting among us commoners – mandarin among the mass – signified a reversal of social order. A reality reset.

Oh, how society would remarkably improve if everyone behaved as fellow species on an inter-galactic travel i.e. long-haul civility (win/win) vs short-term cannibalism (zero sum).

Our teachers – also northerner – were perhaps pondering:

Will this river-barge be sea-worthy?

How much does it have on fuel?

How long would it take to get to destination X from Pier 5, wherever X was?

And most of all, how much and with what currency exchange/interest rates are we going to live on?

Luckily for them, math was math, wherever one goes.

Suddenly jerked forward, we stopped daydreaming. The future had reached back like a thousand-years-old sleeping giant after its afternoon nap. Our self-initiated Operation Passage officially began.

Paris of the Orient, Hotel Majestic and sister’s bank grew smaller then eventually out of sight.

Tears welled up my eyes. Instinctively, I knew.

An “allez sans retour”, a one-way odyssey. Deja vu for the adult but first for us, I tried to commit the last of home to memory. 18-years of hot and crowded boyhood e.g. 3 pupils to a desk, with books as graduation gifts.

“And Phai Song” …No, you must live (to raise up the children, let me die)

”Mot con ngua dau ca tau khong an co” (when one suffers, all suffer)

”Nhieu dieu phu lay gia guong”….(love one another)!…then Bang!

Like Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon I was surrounded by shifting shadows. Noticing my emotional drift, one of my nieces asked if I miss my dad – while in fact – I missed my friend who we had just seen a few hours and a few miles out. Since I was no longer safe in my cocoon, with guardrails and grammar, conjugation and composition, I realized this would be a cold cut. Even with the best denial, I could hardly come up with excuses for what had just transpired: a sudden, unplanned act of betrayal – in my brother’s case, AWOL pre-maturely on the eve of nation on its last leg. Be Run Be.

No turning back.

Ebb and flow. No lights and no warnings. What at first seemed easy turned difficult. No check-ins hence no updates. Bait and switch. Twice, unhooked, we were left to float and fend for ourselves without the two head, seeking cover of the dark of night, full of doubt, fear, and uncertainty.

Betrayal begets betrayal.

Our fate and future were unknown, with no father nor friend. Nine lives – Band on the Run- at the mercy of shooters and looters. Occasional flashing flares and ear-deafening rockets jolted us. Standing room only. No sleeping, only pounding hearts.

We certainly made for easy targets. Grazing bullets could have buried inside those sandbags since we were at a hopping distance from the closest riverbank. Children were too scared to cry. Aimlessness wrenched us throat dry.

Overnight, I turned gray.

Since shielded and sound-proofed, we missed out on all anxiety and action in the city.

That same night, South Korean diplomats as Third-Country nationals, like Iranian and Polish, were hunkering down waiting for evac. They helped themselves to the embassy bar. Around the pool, some even tossed paper airplanes made out of real money. Others, in groups of 45-50, staged for Heli-lift. In one account (Honorable Exit), they commandeered official limos – even a fire truck – to amuse themselves, turning “America” into Arcade.

Eventually and unfortunately, 420 – including hung-over South Korean – were left behind (and had to straighten out those paper “airplanes” to buy some breakfast) – italics were mine. Far Eastern Economic Review journalist reported that “plain dainty Jane” carrying Embassy couch, once seated dignitaries and diplomats from Lodge to LBJ. Slightly burned dollars not sure from DAO or the Embassy later resurfaced in Guam.

Had we made over the wall of the Embassy, we might have moved in full circles.

Intended mostly for our US Ambassador and his crew, Operation Talon Wise, at 4:58AM, pulled anchor, with (Tiger, Tiger, Tiger) boarded next-to-last Chinook- 46 Lazy Ace 09. A still photo showed Martin in crumpled suit and bloodshot eyes aboard the USS Blue Ridge giving interviews.

At 7:50 AM the last eleven marines (having told the remaining crowd that “I will not leave you behind” (Marines’ mantra) except for retreating to the john “mac dai”, then tossing gas grenades pooof! their own ex-filtration – eyes alert, flags (of our fathers) folded – in contrast to Iwo Jima’s military ceremony.

The Architect of War was too hasty by announcing “Peace is at hand”. Then “It’s over” (still with tuxedo giving a high-five in the Oval Office); then next day, at Press Conference, Kissinger retracted: “Sorry! we were eleven-marines short”. That exit closed out US decades- long campaign against what once perceived as Communist aggression and expansion.

By pure luck we evaporated on the slowest and most unseaworthy vessel (twice at zero mph) under the noses of danger. “Mother wants you to call home”? “Mom, it’s me, Whiskey Joe” overheard on DAO two-way “What are we going to do with the 2 (last US) bodies?” Reply: “Take them to the Seventh Day Adventist Hospital”.

Fourth hurdle

Wednesday APRIL 30, 1975, OPEN SEA

Loud cheers abruptly spread as we got moving again. Apparently, contracted to tow as many barges as possible, the towboat was running – with engine-light on. Everything that moved, especially overworked 75 Marines choppers, moved.

Out of all floating objects, we were the slowest but glad to be moving at all.

A 40-miles trip took us all night.

It was like D-Day only in reverse – screen right to screen left: Hueys, Chinooks and Sea-Stallions all zipped overhead and away from Cap St Jacque. Death of a Nation. Digitally remastered on Blu-Ray with surround sound, depicting a “Charlon Heston” type with wide-spread arms in Apocalyptic plague of single-piloted choppers dotting the sky.

Leaf-like boats battered and beaten swung up and down, sideway but slowly out of bazooka range. Under the watching eyes of world opinion and world press, a single-engine was hit causing huge splashes against an already bleak Vung-Tau sky. NBC footage showed what was transpiring that day (Last Days of Vietnam).

What started out with a boating incident (Tonkin) closed out with a boating incident (Vung Tau).

We wrenched rain waters from the “hole” of our poncho (first and last camping trip by our entire family, with adults holding each corner of the tent) to drink and passed around a single bag of instant noodle. 9 people like a scene from Polanski’s the Pianist (cutting a brown-sugar cube with a pocketknife). When danger passed hunger emerged.

20 miles out, before GPS, we spotted the 7th Fleet 40+ war ships far on the horizon evenly spread out in battle-arc shape. They were staging with protruded canons looked just like sun rays (Here comes the Sun) on an overcast morning. Apparently, the 7th fleet could have taken out those rocket launchers but were ordered top stand down, showing some restraint. That long war was largely a land-and-air (Heli and B52’s) war. At the bitter end, we saw only chopper’s retreat and flares overhead.

Soft flesh and snail’s pace, we’re no match against the force of nature (vast ocean) and man-made military hardware.

Technically, when you got transferred to a battleship (USS Blue Ridge?). it was as good as setting foot on US soil, our Ellis-Island moment.

Unsteady on a swaying gangway. we were however not greeted by any Statue of Liberty. Our TSA checkpoint started with an oil-drum filled with freshly confiscated guns and knives. A navy sentry eyeballed all carry-on. Leaning to peak over the person ahead of the line, I saw an open Samsonite sardine-pack with gold bars (glistening like les poisons doré– in the Au Marche poem I learned in French school).

Not everyone made their escape as hastily.

From one other account, Premier Nguyen Cao Ky also landed on USS Midway where he reluctantly handed over his handgun (purportedly a personal gift from John Wayne).

Passing the Security checkpoint was no cause for premature celebration.

Every hard surface e.g. ship deck had been taken. A Huey vertically touched down onto the bucket-opening of our barge just behind us. The force-landing made contact, steel-against-steel, with sandbag walls. Embers of fire from the steel sharpening and a loosed blade were coming fast at us.

Faces flat against wet floor. All activities froze. Except for my medic brother who hitched rides on occasional leaves from Qui Nhon where he last stationed, none of us had ever been near a chopper, much less brushing with its death-causing blade.

Pulling off that spectacular stunt i.e. repurposing abandoned barge into a Huey Helipad – without regard for safety, the pilot, out of mercy, got a provision of water and an inflated raft to look elsewhere. He might very well be our first Boat People. But seven thousand passengers were heli-lifted to offshore ships thanks to Frequent Wind operation.

That day saw helicopters pushed off ship-decks, especially on USS Kirk. Tons of steel – sunk to the bottom of South China Sea and by extension the American collective consciousness.

Fifth hurdle!

May 1- 4, 1975 Subic Bay

Per 1954 Geneva Convention, close to 1 million Northerners, a majority of whom Catholics elected to go South. Among whom Mom, Pop and siblings. Then history repeats itself. Joining Exodus 2.0 were me and my sister’s kids.

We chain-linked down two flights below deck to be situated in an ammunition dungeon. That entire trip to the Philippines, we were Jonahs – in the belly of the beast – incubated but unconsolable.

Starved and seasick, in a blur, I mentally blocked out those diesel-stench days (nothing to throw up). Once, I was interrupted by a dinner call: an orange = courtesy of officer’s mess. So grateful and fearful (of starvation), I ate all, peels and pulp. For fresh air, I climbed to the open deck, only in time to see a gentleman sitting toward the far end. A duffle bag full of cash next to him. Like ash from an urn, he took his time, tossing our “Ben Franklin’s” – Tran Hung Dao bills, one handful at a time. Blood money or unpaid army payroll – no answers, and if there were, there were blowing in the wind (unlike at the Embassy, it took 8 hours to burn a million dollars of payroll, an official order from Sec of Commerce).

Dust to dust. No Sirens.

Only a silent rendition of Auld Lang Syne to end a set that had started out with Bing Crosby’s White Christmas on Armed Forces Radio. “Mother wants you to call home” (since the song already was on the radio every two hours).

Later I met a former RVNN officer. His fleet was escorted from Phu Quoc to the Philippines by the USS Kirk. Their ship’s serial numbers got painted over, old-regime flags down, insignia off – per International-law. Those rusty ships were later donated to the Philippines and Thai Land, courtesy of the US of Great A.

If you want to see old men cry over an anthem, this was it, the last vestige of SVN.

No tears of joy. Not the Liberation of Paris nor D-V Day. Weeping sailors. No kissing sailor in iconic Times Square with nurse still in uniform.

Indeed, on Subic Bay, I spotted a line of subdued and disrobed RVNN’s – in newly issued white T’s and blue jeans. Apparently, not just flags but uniforms, insignias, all-stripped.

Failure is an orphan.

In the middle of the night, a dedicated welcome party – handed us a sandwich and a coke. Shoulders stooped, knees-deep in water, we – in single file – waded to strange shores. A decade before, Wayne-like marines eagerly and energetically splashed waters upon landing onto China Beach in opposite direction, into welcoming leis and arms of Ao-Dai.

Sixth hurdle!

Summer 1975

After three days of vetting, then a cramped seat on a C-130 floor, we flew to Wake Island. Those same charter planes might have for days flown our troubled sky, carrying orphans and nuns, bar girls and bellhops, civilians and deserters. Per Woodward’s Shadow, it was when DoD Secretary ignored and disobeyed a Presidential (Ford) order:” bring as many aircraft as possible to bear” in rescue attempt. Ron Nessen, Press Secretary mentioned the 129 Marines still un-evacuated in the rear detailed to protect 34 overworked helicopters.

Stateless, we were officially “Asylum seekers” (for an A – alien – number). For the 130,810 of us, 3300 orphans included, our wishes were granted (Senate Judiciary Committee and the Indochina Migration and Refugees Resettlement Assistance Act).

Nevertheless, with funding request denied, an angered Ford (but not without compassion and moral leadership – shown in a stock photo, holding a bi-racial Babylift survivor at SF Airport) bypassed Congress and appealed directly to the VOLAGs and church groups for help with mass resettlement.

That summer – in the middle of nowhere – clear sky clean water, we processed our grief while the US government processed our papers. Remarque (All Quiet on the Western Front) remarks:” NYC, and by extension, the US, was not all walls made of steel, but of papers”.

We had no desire nor inclination to spend a “vacation” at the expense of the American public. The adults bore the brunt of worry.

Seventh hurdle.

From May to July, fish sticks and French fries, Fruit-of-the-loom, and Head-and-Shoulders. Consumerism reached us on the Island before we even set foot on Mainland. Out of the 4 military installation-turned-processing camps (Ft Eglin, Ft Chaffee, Camp Pendleton, and Ft Indiantown Gap), we ended up with the last.

Without being told, we scattered and resettled in four zip codes. At tearful goodbye, we agreed on Crofton, Maryland, our cousin address, for future references (if you were to add foreign exchange students and expat wives, Vietnamese in America were just a handful at the time). Earlier Congressional brainstorm list ranged from an Amish-like self-sustained hectares in Pennsylvania to an industrial city off the coast of Virginia, per Dr. Hung’s book.

To us, Mainland, Maryland (Agnew land) or Disneyland was just as good as any.

Many shot-gun weddings were officiated by the camp Chaplain, mix and match just as I hastily recorded songs from home at night in barrack’s bathroom. We all fret separation and extinction.

Eighth hurdle!

September 1975, State College, PA

From Central District to Central Pennsylvania, I had to overcome social-economic, linguistic and logistics challenges: barbed wires, boom-barrier, sand wall, raining rockets and flying blades.

My itinerary and ETA were on multi-pages: climbing wall, wading waters, car and cargo planes, barge, bus and battleship. I was flanked by Carbine and Canons, M-16’s and rockets. Finally, a few miles to State College, almost there… hold it … My house-church-designated rep, a divorced Unitarian minister, took his time to show some class: we stopped and scooped up a Woodie-Guthrie-hat-wearing hitchhiker on Hwy 322. Only then that my liberal arts education could finally commence – one peck on college typewriter at a time.

Armed with 300 bucks- an increase from what was in the French dictionary we brought with us – 1975 fiscal left-over, disbursed and distributed via the IRC (International Rescue Committee)- I grabbed Penn State by the horns – “holding Infinity in the palm of my hand”. Humbly and eagerly, I held on to my meager high-school transcript printed on Red-Cross stationary and a Letter of Recommendation from the Bureau of Child Welfare – where I volunteered as an interpreter.

Having missed “Move-In” date, I played catch-up. From night shifts on campus to graduating with a job offer at WNEP-TV 16.

Ninth hurdle!

To my surprise, Happy Valley itself was lagging behind Counterculture movement. Penn State not Kent State. Months-long hair and jeans helped me blend in. Seeing autumn foliage, I realized it’s a 2-seasons 2-wheels country, not a We but an I culture (in LA, it’s I-drive) . My first impressions: a driver obeyed a STOP sign amid heavy downpour in the camp slope. Internalized rules-based reflex in a mono-chronist society, first comes first served.

After a long and lonely winter, I sat on the grass (while others smoked “grass”) and heard “Here Comes the Sun”, Spring break (my Woodstock) opening number. I hummed along, knowing for sure” “it’s alright”. (The British Invasion arrived via Armed Forces Radio). Consequently, we, “Come together” at least those early adopters of Rock and Roll. (See Vietnamizing Woodstock)

Music and mourning aside, I am forever indebted to the 58,220 whose names were on dark marble Memorial in Washington. On his way to the airport, Frank Snepp noticed President Thieu looking away from: “The noble sacrifice of the Allied Soldiers will never be forgotten.” (Thieu’s predecessor, Diem, wasn’t lucky. He was shot by his designated driver in 1963).

A TK – teacher’s kid- I was more influenced by my mom. She always was grateful to her guardian-mother. A semi-orphan live-in at Hanoi French pedagogy boarding school, she would later celebrate each anniversary of “grandma’s” passing. Our annual reminder of roots and respect. I could do no less i.e. remember and reflect on the sacrifice of both Blacks from Mississippi and Whites from Pennsylvania. P.S. Last week, I met a son of a G.I. Immediate kindred spirit struck. He said his dad had returned from over there utterly in silence ever since.

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It’s been years:

• since that tamarind tree of the US Embassy was cut down to make room for helipad,
• since Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” – about going home – not fleeing from it
• since an NVN T-54 charged and crashed the Independence-Palace gate (no GPS)
• and since trade and travel finally re-established.

But something kept nagging,

“Do you know where you’re going to, do you like the things that life is showing you…” heard over the radio that Wake Island summer.

What made us let go of the endearing for the estranged? Wanderlust?

Was it my brother’s hyper-anxiety? My sister’s protective instincts? My brother-in-law’s nostalgia for that Cherry-blossoms Parade (he showed us those travel slides after his DOS training trip)? Or I just wanted out, being stir-crazy and suffocated in the back – my mom and four of my sister’s kids in tow?

Did we even once think about our father? (We could have just climbed back over the wall or swam back – as 1000 petitioners did on Truong Son, a return ship from Guam). Or during our frenzy fleeing, we reached the point of no return.

A Black-Swan phenomenon.

Among peers, I had friends who:

• left on planned evacuation – Thai
• jumped in then out of plane – Thoa
• got off a helicopter but still in uniform (AWOL?) – Cang
• was with means yet ended up a Boat People – Phong

At Pier 5, our only hope was the known past would serve as guide for the unknown future; somehow, somewhere, we would find kind hearts and firm ground to start over.

Start-over I did, amidst 9% unemployment and a slim 36% of public opinion for us (vs 54% against per Gallup). Like a knife cutting through hot butter, I was on my own (my mom and her Ao Dai left behind in that cold camp without a sponsor; hers, oldest, took the longest from April 29 through Sept 13, 1975).

Living out of a rented basement, I juggled a janitorial shift by night and a Speech class by day! (my Speech class field trip was at an Udall’s presidential campaign on campus).

One has to put the least strain on the system. Culture shock aside, that first Winter, I invited fellow exiled students like me to cake and music. White Christmas was on the radio, its second time that year, but with real snow. Fellow sufferers of fate, like our Remarque’s Ravic, in Shadows of Paradise (under the table emigrant surgeon, operated for cash, only after patients got anaesthetized by licensed and legit surgeon).

Joining the huddle mass, we lived in quiet desperation. Our American/California Dream has been what we made of it since “all the leaves are brown…and I pretend to pray….”

This story could otherwise be told from the P.O.V. of my sister’s protective instincts or my brother’s fear of reprisal.

My sister, a Director of the Agriculture Development Bank, rebuilt her credentials – hard earning a CPA of Commonwealth Virginia. Her 80th-birthday saw all four children intact! She – strong, sincere, straightforward – thrived on challenges e.g. find a way out, just like other adults crossing earlier River of Ben Hai.

Just like early settlers crossing the last few miles from Ellis Island to Staten Island, we waited anxiously from Wake Island looking to Ellis Island, luckier than most e.g. tossing babies (like basketballs), flying-on-empty or climbing over embassy wall or Berlin Wall.

May God rest her soul (a year shy of her migration 2.0. 50th Anniversary.)

My Medic Captain brother at times couldn’t believe we pull it off. He thought we were to “station” for good out of a Wake Island barrack, like Captain Hawk Eye – in fact our distinguished senator from Rhode Island had suggested just that, Borneo (like that last lepers’ colony in Louisiana) to save taxpayers some money.

To my brother, Maryland is Promised Land. His signature French refrain no longer is “Mexi….co” but Colora…do where he had previously spent a year getting Medic modern equipment training courtesy of the US of A DOD. Out of gratitude, he has donated back a large chunk of change from his Howard-Hospital paychecks to disable Veterans and Orphans of War. Often, he marveled at that “tasty” sandwich on Subic Bay, our first bite after five starving days.

A decade later, my P/T dad joined us, with violin in hand (not unlike those weeping girls). That lost decade – being fatherless, aimless, feeling guilty as Hell, God knows, I was. Being on my own, unknown and semi-orphaned,” I read so I won’t be alone”. No college-orientation nor graduation.

Years later my brother-in-law was laid to rest. His car key once again tossed. This time to his granddaughter. His marker: “Life passes like a blink of an eye” (or a Simca on its last leg).

For me, just a cross between my Vietnam past and our dawn in America, I let go things not under my control. That’s said, at times, the past creeps up, like vinyl in our AI age, trying to make a comeback: “When I was young, I listened to the radio, waiting for my favorite song” between “Your Song” and “Here Comes the Sun”, between self-deprecation and self-delusion.

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April 30, 1975, was like a bookend. The other bookend -April 1981- found me comfortably settling in a graduate-school library, flipping through the pages of Newsweek, a break from “the Medium is the Message” by Marshall McLuhan.

Its Asia section caught my attention. My people ventured to sea with a 50:50 chance of survival.

An aerial shot showed tiny boats small as autumn leaves, like one that got hit on my own journey six years earlier; women and children were on their vulnerable most without the 7th-fleet. Repeatedly raped and robbed by Thai pirates then abandoned to certain death – unless they took the last option to survive on fellow passengers’ dead meat.

Never did I envision a trip back that soon, even with self-recrimination or survivor’s guilt (PTSD).

“He who is no fool to lose that which he cannot keep while gaining that which he cannot lose”, by Jim Elliot, a fellow Wheaton alumnus, fresh on my mind and I owe him ever since (perhaps on Todd Beamer’s, another alum, when terrorists commandeered United Airlines Flight 93) for little chance to die.

After all, my other head already rolled – the other side of Pier 5. What’s left to lose. Having jumped through 9 hoops and hurdles, I might as well make it an even 10. ” A Chance to Die” a little.

Back to those prison-turned-makeshift camps. Slamming doors vs Sliding doors (“When you look behind there was no open door”). At the time, I barely got my US Passport – and my “GoFundMe” (for youngsters who could only relate to crowdsourcing) were typed letters and licked stamps to all in my address book.

In Hongkong, I offered any help I could: relief supplies, ESL classes, entertainment events and church-sitting (on my second tour). Hong Kong Island lock-ins were fed up with camp foods e.g. sardines just as we fish-sticks back on Wake Island. My multiple collections got good exchange rates into HK dollars, which then be spent on international stamps (I sneaked those par-avion letters in my shoes end of each day (out) and hot chili (in) for them. I would never forget that lone shirtless survivor – a half-Chinese boy who stuttered.

After 2 tours of student-loan deferral for relief services, like a short-sleeves Mormon, – while distributing needed supplies – I remembered being on the receiving end of a Coke and a sandwich on Subic Bay by a nun and a priest (what else could a communication major do to counsel – as an example – 2 raped and forced-by-circumstances cannibalism survivors – besides being there – upstairs of Jubilee prison for a show of support).

Back then, I faced culture shock in reverse and eventual catharsis. In giving there is healing.

Instead of improving my IQ in school, I end up with better EQ in life.

Like that currency-as-confetti man, I found myself, on day off, at the peak of Hong Kong New Territories look back and long for home, which, in the summer of 1981, was off limits.

Our Father in Heaven, our father in homeland…:

Back then, in our long journey into the night, we faced the Unknown not knowing it’s in our seeker’s DNA to constantly grab” Infinity in the palm of our hand” – a truth that hit home to me as it once did my sister:

“Do you know the way to the river”.