Thang Nguyen 555

I am angry!

Unfortunately, available emoticons are now with masks while covid-19 is still under “diagnostic uncertainty”. Hence this winding rant.

Lots of uncertainty and anxiety: will I catch covid-19 if I showed up at the gym? at school? at work (if still holding a job).

Anxiety: where do my checks come from after the first wave of stimulus. Where do I go shopping (if stores are still open – albeit limited hours – after all the looting).

There is a theory called “broken windows” in community re-building i.e. if a city block could fix up its boarded windows, it will create a wave of pride, a ripple effect & send out a positive message that urban life and the American Dream is alive and well.

Not tonight. Not last night. Not tomorrow night. No herd immunity. Just herd instincts.

Facism was on the rise during the aftermath of WWI (when unemployment rose and uncertainty abode). Good men stood by and walking men walked on by.

Strong-handedness (Nazis) “law and order” (Nixon) and Trickle-down Economy (Stockman), all have failed to “rise all boats”.

Where do these spontaneous outpouring of anger come from? Seems to me it is more out of frustration and helplessness. That no matter how flowery your rhetoric, reality speaks.

Being poor and oppressed. Being yourself? Being people of colored? Good luck.

Invisible man, inaudible voice.

To “blend in”, one needs a costume and outfit to be treated as “types” i.e. ball players, police officers, judges and lawyers, mathematicians or musicians.

Subject Matter Experts. Acceptance by the color of your skills, not of your skin. Anything of value and exploitable ( like “ghost work”, fact-checking in the age of AI and fake news).

Gotta play by the rules when deep down, you know it’s rigged.

It might get better over time. But it’s time that we don’t have. We’re passing grief and grievances on to the next generation. It has become their fight now, class 2020. Commencement speeches, virtual ones, urging graduates to “make your bed” (if they get up at all, after a long night at the loot) – UT 2019 (a marked shift in tone since “stay hungry” as of Steve Jobs).

Something is wrong with you i.e. the looters- said a black demonstrator on CNN. “Being blacks is a crime”, he continues. One strange phenomenon happens during Covid-19 era: the absence of school shooting. What school? and sadly, the absence of wise men council ( those who counsel Presidents, who speak the truth long or short). Instead, at his side, we found the perpetual presence of experts, in Health and Economics. Again, SME’s that fit the mold. Another clear sign of “exploitable expertise” at work.

The inmates attempt to run the asylum.

It took a long time and coordinated efforts in Architecture. In anarchy, it takes only seconds to set a city block on fire. Raw Rage which sends a message: with all your might, you live a hollow life. And the fabrics and fantasies of your own making cannot sustain. All those veneer and souvenir, Hawain shirts and designer jeans.

Click on it! On Amazon, whose storefront couldn’t be looted. And whose AWS is always humming inside secure bunkers; whose servers serve up all your wishes and whims, fill up your virtual and not virtuous life. Keep curating inside your bubble. Then finishing off this temporal life, being buried in a ply-wood box, nailed shut. Mirror, mirror, who is the fairest of all?

We have already died, having never lived, never seen the truth hence, not set free. Imagine a world where Pink Floyd sings about George Floyd getting a CPR (instead of “I can’t breathe”, not because of covid-19, but of cops).

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 —-

“All I know was, one day I was sleeping in my bed; the next day, I ended homeless, stateless and fatherless.”

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— Historical timeline —

1945 2 million dead

1954 Geneva Accords

1968 US embassy breached

1969 540,000 US boots

1970 Cambodia bombing

1973 Paris Peace agreements – Nobel Peace Prize dual-award

March 29, 1975, Da Nang – Nha Trang – Convoy of Tears

April 17, 1975, Phnom Penh fell

April 22, 1975, President Thieu resigned

April 22, 1975, Martin ignored evacuation order

April 23, 1975, Ford at Tulane University: “Game over!” vs Johnson’s 4/1965 pledge at John Hopkins University

April 25, 1975, President Thieu left for Taiwan w/ a Scotch hang-over while Martin pulled the metal stairways out as if to unhook SVN life support – Snepp’s would coin “umbilical cord”

April 26, 1975, US-issued planes to Utapon to salvage

April 27-28, 1975, bombs and rockets rained on Tan Son Nhut airport

April 29, 1975, Big Minh, regime-change “expert” 63 and 75 – with Vu Van Mau, reconciliation “expert” 63-75, called for the US to evacuate within 24 hours.

In all, 4.6 million tons of bomb dropped, 150 billion dollars spent and 3.4 million dead. US toll: 58.220 with Charles McMahon and Darwin Judge, the last 2 marines – KIA.

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Monday night April 28 – 1975

Living by the airport, my sister, her husband with four young children saw smoke and heard explosion at the ammunition depot.

All six hurriedly packed up “to grandma”. My brother, a pharmacist captain, medic trainer, was also at that time living with us. At 4 AM a barrage of bombs (dropped from stolen aircrafts) destroyed all available runways. Casualties: 2 US marines at Gate 4 – and 8 of my sister’s neighbors.

Air traffic ceased. Hundreds more dead. DAO hangar was littered with hard-earned (15,000 USD or gold bar) flight manifest and travel bag – even burnt dollars.

A chain of events had slowly built up to this climax: clandestine World Airways C-141s sorties, ferrying 43,439 passengers over Saigon sky (per Martin report to his boss). Most ominous was the US Air Force Galaxy’s crashed during Operation Babylift. Its lower-deck deaths: 206 orphans, orphan-wannabes and their tag-along e.g. expat wife dressed up as a nun. President Marcos, US ally, took issue with the US on Vietnamese “illegal” dumping.

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

His “sliding doors” (a movie with two versions: first version, missing the metro run; the second version, the girl barely slipped through its “sliding door”, and went on to live an entirely different life).

Now my turn and what it takes to go from the University of Saigon to Penn State University.

Noon on Tuesday April 29 – 1975, corner of Ban Co – Phan Dinh Phung (renamed Nguyen Dinh Chieu St.) District 3, Ho Chi Minh city.

After a tossing-all-night on the floor, my sister and her youngest paced back and forth, waiting for her husband and brother. They had ventured out earlier that morning on a recon mission. On a curfew-imposed hence supposedly empty street, a stranger startled her:

” Do you know the way to the river?”

It dawned on her! “Thoi chet roi!” The US was leaving for good (“decent interval” from 1973 to 1975, from 3.2 billion annual aid to 722 million supplemental aid).

This curfew-violator was still with an itch and urge to flee – ignoring PM Mau’s plea and Ambassador Martin’s French back-door negotiation, then finally with Minh’s order to stand-down.

Meanwhile, my brother and brother-in-law – with job training in Denver and D.C. – frantically called on anyone and everyone, former colleagues at DOS. All dismissingly replied:” Je ne sais quoi”! Bui Diem, their top dog, himself went off-script – like everyone else – President Ford included – after VN 722-million supplemental aid got voted down.

Fool’s errand! My brothers finished their saved portion of lunch and about to doze off.

“He ain’t heavy he’s my brother”.

The weight and wages of war! (All adult male: father, uncles, cousins, father-in-law etc. were drafted. I myself received a civil-service notice: “You’re up next!”. Draft deferment was restricted to college students more so to medical school, factory of fresh medics).

“After all, what could possibly happen!” my father assured no one but himself: “one was with DOS, the other, a medic Captain – both non-combatants. Re-education camp, if it came to that, would be lenient. Besides, don’t you all know, there is an enforced curfew out there!”.

“If people could roam, so can we”. My sister retorted.

“There must be a way out!”,

And “out” she acted. That stranger/seeker ignited my sister’s instincts. A force to be reckoned with, my sister lived her buffalo sign (“vi thuong yeu anh, nen ngay tro ve, co con TRAU xanh het long giup do” – “upon return from war, there was a buffalo, out of love, pulls the heavy weight”). A Vietnamese career woman, she embodied my mom’s dedication and dad’s Cary-Grant posture. The most underreported story at that time was how women stepped up to the plate (in the absence of male figures to the front) and juggled their multiple roles as bread-earner, domestic leader and widow, increased in number e.g. a cousin of mine never got news of her MIA husband after the collapse of central VN – his photo on the altar or not. The agonizing wait of war.

Unrehearsed and unprepared, the nine of us sardine-packed into a Simca, French mini. My mom’s teacher salary and saving – soon-worthless – had been equally divided (should we be separated – not unusual given their 1954 North-South evacuation).

As I re-read my mom’s hand-written last testament, in her mis-80’s residing in assisted living, with dementia, she hallucinated. The house we left behind that day, later and long ago had been confiscated, first the upstairs where I used to sleep- then the entire house – in exchange for my dad’s passage and papers to America. Yet, she instructed my sister to split the sales. What sales?

In pajamas, my father wished us luck: “I am too old to worry about what/ifs”. He, my part-time dad, French artillery discharged (his two brothers fought in earlier war – albeit on opposite side), then worked for Air-Vietnam corporate account. 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, like LBJ (to bomb or not to bomb, Great Society or stopping Communist aggression), he was to spend his next decade on his Moby-Lette back and forth between two residences to raise my half-sister.

His sliding door!

Ban Co, where we lived, was an evacuee’s enclave. Walls got eyes. One would not find tranquility there. Perhaps during siesta. Moving about in a serpentine alley, residents seemed passive but silently observant. They were captive audience of our live music and loud quarrel. “Bac Ky gion, an ca ro cay” (extra tolerance for Northern transplant).

For fear of rousing up and rattling neighbors (per Ken Burns, 1/3 of Saigon residents were indifferent to the nation’s change of the guards), we avoided eye contact and rhetorial questions; “Where are you going!”

Over Tet 68, with trembling and fear, I saw outside our balcony, plainclothes police hunt down and shot a fast-running VC in sandals and black pajamas on the tin roof. Our apprehension wasn’t baseless (not to mention dire prediction in Stars and Stripes about 1 million in bloodbath as previewed in Cambodia. We were “not without well-founded fear”).

To be safe, I called in a few markers. Out of nowhere appeared our next-door “homie” (Nhan Dan Tu Ve – neighborhood self-defense force) in black-clad and Carbine N-1. Thai escorted us out then stood by while I pulled away the barbed wires for our car to back out.

His silent “wink” – an emoticon – concealed our tacit understanding – “we’re even!” (That day, I cashed out my social currency e.g. “hey, let me light that cigarette” just as my mom with her life saving.) Had we stayed, I would end up taking over the night shift, guarding that same spot where my sister had been half-an-hour earlier.

First hurdle!

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TAN SON NHUT AIRPORT

Naturally, the first stop for us was the airport. Around 5,000 evacuees were trapped inside. Like a cordon sealing off a crime scene, SVN airborne troopers fired M16s “pop pop pop” incessantly in the air (my hot-war soundtrack ranged from flares, choppers, F-15’s, B-52’s, AK-47’s, M-16’s, Colt-45’s and hardly Carbine N1s, then of late C-141’s cargo planes).

“Stay out!”

The airport property was condemned – per Ambassador Martin’s in-person assessment. With the runways inoperable, Freedom Birds evac was also not an option.

Circling the roundabout, one perimeter guard after another, we headed into the center of town, driving right by my friend’s house.

Second hurdle

Fear of running a dead end, I signaled for a time-out. Not all my social deposit was cashed out just yet. My pre-text? We needed extra fuel, didn’t we, should our aimless ride drift down to the Mekong region. Actually, it’s more for me to say goodbye. Emptying his jerry can, my type-C personality friend, hardly chit chat, but this one time, made small talks: “Where are you heading!” the question we had avoided all day.

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 loot Thai’s house. Empathically, I did not want to see a repeat (just in case). His dad was way qualified to set sail (years later and gold bars behind, he did get to Southern California.) His sliding door.

US EMBASSY

A few blocks out saw the embassy where Phong and I had stood in line for a visa application (the adults of my family, per order, stayed home). The authority went on Channel 9: “see here? my wife, dog and furniture are all here – unlike your president” – who had fled the week before) then a deliberate follow-up with asking for a Saudi 1 billion investment into the fertile Mekong region.

Despite all the efforts to calm, chaos prevailed anyway. With embassy tamarind tree got chopped down (just on the back side so Martin couldn’t see from his window), with generals retreated to recuperate and with DAO off-site visa processing center frantically extended its hours, only fools would stay calm.

The city could no longer hold.

Surrounding streets might obey curfew but not in front of the embassy. Saigon always knew where to go e.g. Noel gathering in front of Notre Dame Cathedral, Catholics and non-Catholics alike, flower market before Tet and temple on New Years.

Barely turned the corner, we spotted a crowd, perhaps in the hundreds. Mostly young, foreign and domestic, scaling and snaking through concertina wires atop a steel gate.

Highest on top were marine sentries, 170-strong in flak jackets, helmets and bayoneted M-16s, constantly scanned and cherry-picked press credentials and foreign passports.

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.

Across the ocean White House Press Secretary Nessen was in discussion: “Should we send marines to rescue marines”, an idea that was immediately shoved, replaced with a team to salvage warships and planes.

We spotted a familiar face: uncle Chuc, our second uncle, a chauffeur by trade. Like in The Longest Yard, he backed out, counting his steps, far enough for an imaginary runway before charging over people.

His Hail-Mary scale catapulted him over the seemingly insurmountable wall. We certainly would not dare, not with 4 kids, a 60-years-old mom and luggage.

Not that our luggage was worth mentioning. Uprooted in 1954 at least they had 300 days not 2 minutes. Only “giay to tuy than”, 2 set of clothes in a hand-carry with e.g. photocopies of an USAID form letter showing an US Embassy logo & letterhead:

“Any help that can be rendered to …. the bearer of this letter, will be appreciated”

signed- Robert B. Brougham, Acting Training Officer, USAID

My name hand-scribbled in – last of nine – the way surviving relatives got mentioned in “Cao Pho” obituary.

Of late, I found an actual Obituary of South Vietnam printed on WSJ issue of May 2, 1975.

Reality hit us like a brick.

Cold-sweated in 105-degree weather.

Turn around? Not with barbed wires and checkpoints. Rumors of down-river options did not help. Per Tiziano Terzani (Giai Phong), Hwy 4 was blocked, Hwy-1 Newport Bridge were still in hot battle with burnt tank.

Buffered from the front (150 billion bought us sometime during puberty), I was geographically boxed in. The Mekong? A mystery.

Years of fighting and associated propaganda (farewell address by Thieu and subsequent tearful resignation by President Huong, Five-O-clock Follies and televised interview) left us holding a bag of credentials and currency about to expire. No power no connection.

“How does it feel? to be on your own, a complete unknown”, per Dylan. Except for a one-hundred-dollar bill concealed in a dictionary flap, we were “white-handed” (as my brother-in-law would put up his empty hands high in the air, like a card dealer at shift change).

In all my 18 years, I had never seen such desperation. Sure, we had had better times e.g. my brother was courting his first wife, daughter of our ambassador-to-Switzerland, strolling the festival before Tet. Same district 1, same Sportif but Saigon heard no tennis ball back and forth and no traffic.

Out of steam, backs against the wall, we became spectator of last resort. Waves after waves of sweat-slickered shirts tirelessly made an assault on the precinct. Babies and barbed wires didn’t seem to mix, yet it happened. So were rolled-up document, use it or lose it (burnt the next day as in my father-in-law case). On a transistor radio, one would hear:

” I’m dreaming of a White Christmas…and …children listened” signaling Operation Frequent Wind. Our reality was hot, humid and apocalyptic. On the radio, an alternate reality with earmuffs and sleigh in the snow.

At 3PM, one of the embassy’s groundkeepers tied a long rope around his 30 relatives (like wealthy Chinese group tour to France) begging: “mercy! -please” at the rear gate. Quite a tough call for those on post who were busy enough with a million dollars in cash to burn per SOC order.

Then we heard a screeching 10′ clutch noise. A newly recruited bus driver. Underground evac planners had done some dry run. Perhaps my chauffeur-uncle had left behind his job opening. Those new “chauffeurs” made frequent stops, enriched themselves with wads of USD shoved to their hand in lieu of bus token (my brother’s lawyer friend “Chi” or my nephew’s uncle who dropped his bike on moment notice). Per one account, a driver even stole the Jeep at the rear of the convoy.

In normal times, a bus occupancy is 50 max. Assembled at 13 safehouses – all pre-arranged with code words, passengers were just glad to be squeezed in, like at a Japan metro (sliding door again). The convoy, however, was heading in the opposite direction and not DAO at the airport.

Lately, I met a Special Forces interpreter. He was left stranded only to get to Hong Kong, then Houston.

Third hurdle!

We tailed the convoy. Snaking onto Freedom Street, now Dong Khoi, we saw no foreign press and third-country nationals, beggars and bar girls, gum peddlers and cone-hat rickshaws as had seen previously.

Then over the empty bridge toward a less-wealthy district. A mile apart, but miles apart. At speed possible during curfew, the lead bus was speeding then skidded to make a sharp left.

Bus drivers always had ready a bottle of Scotch to bribe those Pier-5 guards. They paused, bantered discounting an unofficial car in tow (with no flapping flag of any kind).

The boom barrier, before dropping back in place, slowed a bit, a split second for us to slip through. Our vertical sliding door!

If I had had two, one head would have rolled – more likely – the romantic college student who had collected donation on previous week for Central-region refugees.

Fourth hurdle

CLUB NAUTIQUE PARKING

As soon as we parked, a band of looters obviously finished with office supplies and equipment, came for us. By one account, 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” could afford.

The White-House had been spot-on when doubting local police and ARVN soldiers would stand guard for the last American and at-risk Vietnamese to leave interfered.

Class resentment, religious and ethnic strife, 400X Hiroshima worth of bomb – 4.6 million tons – agent Orange and agent CIA, righteous kill and friendly fire or massacre, divorce and dispossession – coup after coup, long speeches and teary farewells, furniture and ammo (they, us, them, which side was which), husbands let wives be whores, taxi only picked up expat to “keep the change”, what bottled up finally blown up.

“Hoi cua cho bo ghet”! (might as well, not letting good wine go to waste).

The inmates finally run the asylum.

My brother saw a parked car whose chauffeur slump over the steering wheel. His was the only body that wasn’t moving on that lot.

Nothing is more dangerous than young men who suddenly be in the possession of a loaded gun (even revolutionary chicks struck a pose with a mini-Uzi on the side in “Giai Phong”, Terzani’s. Pg. 102 lists an inventory of the University of Van Hanh: 1,525 carbines, 2,596 M-16s, 399 M-72s 174 M-79s and three boxes full of pistols. In contrast, at the University of Saigon, we were collecting donation for refugees from central region.

The buses made a U-turn to haul their next load. Their mission: 5 tugboats, 2 hours to execute. We stuck out amidst hundreds of zombies like a scene from the Night of the Living Dead. Private vehicle and army Jeep once status symbol now a liability (the mother of them was VP Ky’s commandeered a jet to escort and court his hostess de l’air-later-turned spouse).

At the water edge stood an imposing 10-foot-tall sandbag wall, a partition between those in the know vs those who weren’t. Since airport and Newport bridge options were both out, riverine evac came into play, complete and fully equipped with boats, barges and sandbags.

Thieu’s swift and sudden withdrawal from our Highland MZ created a chain-reaction. The order left disgruntled civilians and army who themselves abandoned by superiors – with no time to evacuate their families.

Mob hysteria collapsed SVN dominoes (not the theory concocted by the Eisenhower and subsequent administration) from Central Region to Central District. Jail-freed inmates served as added fuel into the fire.

War arrived at the waterfront.

Standing atop the heap – a lone gun (M16) in un-tugged short sleeves pacing back and forth shouted:

“Just get out of here”

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

April 29 – Late afternoon, Pier 5

Engine idling, we huddled.

Having loaded and unloaded time and time again, we grew weary. Fifth and final attempt?

Nine little heads! Millions of mini calculations.

Opportunity cost, push/pull. A tug of war within ourselves. To climb or not to climb.

What’s behind the sand wall? In my younger days, we risked swimming in that river, filled with tanker oil and God-knows-what-else. Somehow, I could not envision my mom and brother swim in that water.

Push comes to shove, should we turn around, would the men be arrested and sent to Kham Chi Hoa – our city jail. Per “America in Vietnam”, 41.4 per cent of people shared this fear of reprisal.

Or worse, priority-beheading for intellectuals with glasses?!? (the government no longer bother feeding and reeducating its population – even back in Hue 68 saw only mass grave).

I grew up with “cap duon” (beheading) which caused a feverish nightmare. Goose bumps I felt with each passing by the Cambodian embassy (that fear was confirmed years later on a tour at the village of Ba Chi skulls-exhibit.) Atrocities and inhumanity no doubt have been around since Cain and Abel onto Auschwitz. Only this time, it’s our turn to play victim.

Our high-school class bookended with Tet 1968 and April 1975. In between we tried to learn, cram in conjugation and formula, lessons in French and lessons in English amidst skyrocketed inflation. My brother couldn’t afford his classy marriage. I couldn’t afford to see my first date to fruition – “Can I have a 20 to take her to the movie?” (the only time I visited my sister at work). Sorry Bich! Later in Indiantown Gap, PA – I ran into your/her dad a major in the army. Both looked away and at the bulletin board of missing relatives to avoid embarrassment.

Barely passed the SAT:” Mama, life has just begun”.

What about the children and their future e.g. medical studies. It’s established that high aspiration among first immigrant generation often turned self-fulfilling prophecy. With an arduous journey that unburdens and unstraps all legacy, one can start over from scratch, reinventing oneself with rare eagerness and energy.

For my half-uncle in the Navy, to stay means to put up with re-education before reuniting with his mom/brother, a train conductor – from up North.

Without embarkation papers to show at the embassy was one thing. To leap on the barge on a stranger’s shout was another (Nixon’s nose grew longer after his China card, then even longer during Watergate). Should we believe in and bank everything on America’s promise/dream?

During the long pause, no one thought of cranking down the windows. A stuffy “jury” debate, turned quiet all of a sudden. Very unusual for a loud family.” Are we going or not!” I blurted out – my “are we there yet”. Selfishly I was soaking-wet – like in a Mexican stand-off.

Our window of opportunity was surely closing (we did not know at the time, there were 5 barges in total and perhaps we were given a chance with the one before last).

Per “Honorable Exit”, many stopped at the water edge, paused then returned home, thinking they could do it again any time. Ryder, in Honorable Exit, pg. 308, recalled seeing a grandmother and a child fallen between the pier and the barge.

An imaginary “All-Aboard” would help hasten decision. In fact, on pg. 308, Mr. Clarke mentioned a bullhorn-blast announcing fifth barge’s last call right around 5PM at Khanh Hoi wharf.

” Eternity in an hour”.

Suddenly, a unanimous decision made itself, like a “fold” in a poker game.

My brother-in-law tossed the car key as if it were his last chip – a high-roller tip – to a passerby in green “xa lon’ (male sleepwear-shorts). This shirtless local was seen back and forth by the car (canh me).

To this day, no one knows where the car is

Over the course of those 24 hours, not just key to the car, but key to the country also got changed hands (2:30PM) “Infinity in the palm of your hand”.

Knapsacks over shoulders, we left behind a lot of craziness “beaucoup dien cai dau” – a line by our Kieu Chinh in Hamburger Hill. Caught up in a dollarized frenzy, the city was like a frog in slow-boiled water, with groupthink prevailed in and outside of the hall of power.

When RVN Congress convened the previous day to confirm Big Minh, only 136 out of 219 were present. Even our Chief of Staff Cao Van Vien had fled right behind Thieu who followed behind his furniture to Taiwan. As we speak, our Chief of Armed Forces himself was on that stairway to the helicopter lift at 22 Gia Long Street.

No more time. The whole city was soaked with sweat and sulfur, blood and tears. Catholic paratroopers shot each other to bypass doctrinally forbidden sin (of suicide). No one had the last say, and no one shouldered the blame.

Apprehension and anxiety reached its climax. Like my friend who jumped we hopped. ______________________________________

First my mom then our young, one sure step at a time, on ropes seen in bootcamp.

On the other side, we tried to take in strange surrounding like early birds at a Vietnamese wedding. In months previous, Alaska Barge & Transport got contracted for cargo and ammunition transport. On that day, cargo = people.

Catching his breath, my brother noticed some weeping girls. Next to them was their father with violin for luggage.

Soon the barge was maxed out. That’s when I caught sight of my math teachers. It struck me as odd! From their slick tailored white shirts, I could tell they were prepped ahead of time for an A/C airlift.

Standing on that blood-stained barge, the pair of brothers (like Siamese twins) did not seem belong. Since we had never seen each other outside of the classroom, seeing them squat – mandarin among the mass – I thought to myself, never again would we see each other in or outside of a classroom.

Our teachers – northerner – were perhaps pondering:

Will this river-barge be sea-worthy?

What capacity does this towboat have e.g. fuel and horsepower?

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

And most of all, what currency exchange/interest rates are we going to live on when/if all get “there”?

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

1954 inter-regional evacuation footage showed old folks in cargo net, craned up and swung over before gently lowered aboard an US-assisted French southward ship. Just like On the Beach, the orchestrated fanfare showed banners e.g. “To join the exodus is to keep your dignity” Di cu de giu gin pham gia con nguoi.

Again, this time, US-assisted barge! History tends to repeat itself i.e. World Airways chaotic evac soon see its repeated mishap outside Con Son Island again with refugees in cargo net.

30 days’ worth of retrofitting (3/75-4/75) vs 300 days’ worth of packing (8/54). Years later, veterans of war were legally and orderly processed for departure during Clinton.

I tried to inch toward the rear for a good view. Last view. Melody faded in: “Toi xa Hanoi..” I left Hanoi when I turned 18″, only “Toi xa Saigon” when turned 18 I left Saigon.

Wartime vignettes e.g. Japanese soldier beheaded a starving thief. Blood spilled onto my brother-in-law’s face, drama I once “bo ngoai tai” (had not been given much attention to) now fresh on my mind for keepsakes.

Suddenly jerked forward, I stopped daydreaming. The future had reached back like a thousand-years-old giant stretching and yawning after his long afternoon nap. Our self-initiated Operation Passage officially began.

Once known as Paris of the Orient with its charming Hotel Majestic – albeit its upper floor hit by rockets- put more distance between.

Tears welled up my eyes. Instinctively, I knew.

Allez sans retour.

Even for a second time, leaving did not get easier for the adult. Mine? the first draft of wander lust “like a rolling stone”.

I tried to commit the last of home to memory: 18-years of 3 pupils to a desk, books wrapped as gifts for students in honor roll, first date and first beer, all-nighter exam-crunch inter-laced with all-nighter neighborhood watch (one carbine N1 for every two NDTV).

“And Phai Song” …No, you must live (to raise the children, please let go of me). I would have gladly taken the least desirable option i.e. stay home (coi nha) and let my dad have a seat in the car.

”Mot con ngua dau ca tau khong an co”. All for one, one for all. 100 years of French lit e.g. Les Trois Mousquetaires, in school, or by osmosis, we were drilled with being a team player (in the fox hole or out on the street – hats off when a hearse passes by.)

”Nhieu dieu phu lay gia guong”….(love our fellow human as ourselves)! Of late, I learned that my mom’s clan own the commodity distribution rights in the highland. Our patriarch empowered and endowed each branch of the extended family with partnership and agent contracts to “rise all boats”: cousin taking care of cousin.

Yet when it’s my turn, I saw shifting shadows and a world turned upside down. As Faulkner says, “between suffering and nothing, I chose suffering” (the Wild Palms).

Guardrails and grammar, conjugation and composition, all wiped out. Places: roundabouts and cop traffic booths, wet markets and shaded boulevard – only reside in my head. A nation on its death bed. From then on, all short-term thinking. And it’s quite justifiable this side of betrayal.

No turning back. I began to miss Ban Co, my Brooklyn, with large-hearted adult who without being told, assumed neighborhood watcher role. People screamed so loud (perhaps partial deaf from B-52 sorties) that the only time the alley was quiet was when we left. I shouldn’t be telling you this but finally I got a break from daily chores: floor-mopping, water-hauling and broken glasses sweeping (from parental frequent fights over my family dad’s attention and priority). Later, when in sales, I could empathize with standing in front of the mirror each morning, psyching myself up for rejection and renumeration.

All 17 million busybodies on scooter joined in to form an ensemble with horn blowing and top-of-the-lung cursing “la het inh oi” at God-knows-what. Since birth, the Saigon symphony only played songs in war and in want. This, we were not alone. Correspondent Jacques Leslie later put it:

“Having the mark meant being addicted to Vietnam, being used to intrigue and pumping adrenaline and layer after layer of lie, truth, lie, truth, until the two were indistinguishable; the mark was the perverse and frightened expression of our love. People with the mark shared a yearning they suspected Vietnam of being able to satifsy, and while they hated the war (for wars are meant to be hated), they loved it even more, and hated themselves for loving it.” ——————–

Fifth hurdle

Ebb and flow. No lights no warnings. What at first seemed easy then turned difficult. No check-ins no updates. Bait and switch? Twice, unhooked we were left to fend for ourselves in pitch black. Without a tugboat, the barge was just a floating hearse. “Beo troi song”, stoic shit flowed downstream.

Betrayal begets betrayal.

Our fate. Nine lives – band on the run- at the mercy of shooters and looters. Occasional flashing flares and ear-deafening rockets jolted us. Standing room packed.

Grazing bullets could have buried in those sandbags given a few times we almost touched the riverbank. Children? Sensing primal fear, they too were scared.

Aimless drift wrenched us throat dry. It seemed the initial luck had run out. North-South migration was it. Exodus 2.0? Not a chance. Not enough deposit in the pool of Karma.

Overnight, I turned gray. One cannot take off, leave everything and everyone behind, then demand the future to be served on a plate.

Shielded and semi-soundproof, we missed the action in the city. On split screen, one would find heart-wrenching mass suicide, mass strip tease, looting and shooting, “coming out” and hiding out. Only with more research that I could fathom the bottomless depth of misery and mishap befallen our nation.

Inside the embassy, groups of 45-50 evacuees staged for Heli-lift. To ease tension, they commandeered an official limo – even an embassy fire truck – for a sideshow turning “America” into Arcade. After all, in the green zone, it’s R&R on luau night (the last one was right after Thieu’s three-hours radio farewell address). Only this time, flares and burned dollars. Gregory Peck would be proud (a marine major described it as a scene from On the Beach): “There is still time brother” as the banner says.

At 7:51 AM the last eleven marines after assuring the anxious crowd “I will not leave you behind” – obeyed “Swift 22” signaling it’s time to retreat (on the pretext of QT quick stop at the john “mac dai”.)

Eyes scanned, flags (of our fathers) folded – no time for Iwo-Jima’s full-fledged ceremony. Moral police (Ministry of Virtues and Vice) would quickly chuckle: Gosh! their sin finally caught up i.e. “war lost in whorehouse, and not in the battlefield” (Masked and Anonymous).

Intended mostly for our US ambassador and his crew, Operation Talon Wise, at 4:58AM, pulled anchor. Tiger, Tiger, Tiger boarded next-to-last CH- 46 Lazy Ace 09 flanked by a larger CH-53. whose pilot radio ship-to-shore could be heard: ” The South Vietnamese have broken into the embassy; they are rummaging around… no hostile acts noticed”. Far-Eastern Economic Review reported “plain dainty Jane” looted embassy couch (ghe salon), once seated dignitaries and diplomats – from Lodge to LBJ. A few slightly burned dollars later resurfaced in Guam.

A still photo showed Martin in crumpled suit and bloodshot eyes consistent with what Ralph White saw him cough blood in the sink. On the USS Blue Ridge, he briefly realized: “Oh, I thought we had a shot at it” (via French Southern ambassadorial back channel e.g. “bet you we’ll be here for a long time”). Diplomacy or deception? TBD once declassified.

Eventually and unfortunately, 420 – including hung-over South Korean – “missed the boat” (and had to straighten out those paper “airplanes” to buy some breakfast) – italics mine.

Rain and tears, both naturally and artificially induced by smoke gas canisters which rolled down those 18 steps to a full stop. Likewise, decades of US involvement.

Peter Arnett’s last filing AFTER the AP wires were cut off:

“In my 13 years of covering the Vietnam War, I never dreamed it would end as it did today,” he remembers writing. “A total surrender following a few hours later with a cordial meeting in the AP bureau with an armed and battle-garbed North Vietnamese officer with his aide over warm Coke and pastries? That is how the Vietnamese war ended for me today.” https://www.khaosodenglish.com/news/asean/2025/04/29/as-communist-troops-streamed-into-saigon-a-few-remaining-reporters-kept-photos-and-stories-flowing/

Meanwhile, the Architect of War, first announced “It’s over” (Kissinger still with his evening-out tuxedo giving a high-five in the Oval Office). before self-correcting at next day Press Conference: “Sorry! we were eleven-marines short”.

That exit closed out US decades-long campaign, from Eisenhower military aid to the French (more than 2/3 of war budget) to Johnson’s War Power Act (like grandma’s sleep shirt, it covers everything) to Nixon and his China card (to Thieu after the Paris Accords “Ask not…what American can do for you”).

Incidentally, while a congress man, both LBJ and Nixon had had strong stand and speech against what they themselves eventually reneged when in power.

Had we made inside the embassy we might have gone in circles. Phong said he watched ARVN troop drop uniforms, helmets and bayonets in front of his house.

With luck we floated out with the current right under the noses of danger. “Mother wants you to call home”? “Mom, it’s me, Whiskey Joe” overheard over DAO two-way radio: “What are we going to do with the (last) 2 (US killed)?” Reply: “Take them to the Seventh Day Adventist Hospital” nearest to the airport. One of the two KIA helmets got a bullet hole.

Wednesday APRIL 30, 1975, OPEN SEA

Dawn broke. Loud cheers erupted. Apparently, commissioned to tug at least five loads, the tugboats were low on diesel. Everything that moved e.g. those overworked 75 marines’ choppers, moved.

Of all objects at sea, we were the slowest.

A trip of 40 miles took us all night.

D-Day? Only in reverse – screen right to screen left. Away from Cap St Jacque – Hueys, Chinooks and Sea-Stallions zipped and buzzed overhead. Death of a Nation in surround sound. Central casting would have “Charlon Heston” in wide-spread arms, summoning apocalyptic plague e.g. locust of single-piloted choppers, dotting and darkening our dooming sky:

“Let my people go!!”, his shepherd staff high up against Pharaoh advancing army.

By the river of Babylon, we wept.

Leaf-like boats battered and beaten. swung up and down. Under the watching eyes of ship captains and world press, a full fishing boat (carrying our own Chu Tu – Song Editor) was hit. Huge geysers could be seen for miles. On split screen, NBC footage ran a stand-up next to a burnt press car. Even Canadian flag no longer flapped.

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

We drained rain waters from a poncho to drink. A single bag of uncooked instant noodle appeared (my niece’s loot on her way out). Like a scene from Polanski’s Pianist whereby the dad cut his meager brown sugar cube by a pocketknife, we broke bread and drown out our sorrow with each squeeze of the rain.

20 miles later, we spotted 40+ ships, all spread out along the contour of the earth. Their protruded canons looked like sun rays on an overcast morning.

Apparently, they were ordered to stand down for evac assist. Not to intervene even when random rocket launcher seen active on the hill. Largely a land-air-and-pacification program i.e. DOW-defoliate, search-and-destroy, genocide and ecocide – administration one after another, Sec after Sec, general after general all asked themselves, when is it enough. Game over!

Mere flesh and bare hands, we’re no match for soviet-supplied ammo (and tanks).

At snail pace, inch-by-inch, we slid towards the nearest ship.

Technically, when transferred to a battleship (USS Blue Ridge Mid-way) it was as good as setting foot on US soil. ur Ellis-Island moment.

At the far end of a swinging gangway, a lone navy sentry was busy inspecting all carry-on n oil-drum filled with freshly confiscated guns and knives.

Leaning to peak over the person ahead in line, the giraffe in me saw a sardine-packed Samsonite briefcase filled with gold bars (glistening like “les poisons doré– in the Au Marche poem” I learned at French school).

Not everyone made their escape as hastily.

From another account, Premier Nguyen Cao Ky also landed on USS Midway where he reluctantly handed over his handgun gift from John Wayne.

Passing the Security checkpoint was no cause for celebration.

All empty surfaces had been taken (helicopters one after another pushed out to sea). A Huey so desperate that it vertically touched down on the barge. The chopper skid got through, but blades swiped the wall. Hair-raising high-pitch steel-against-steel sound echoed – like in a metal shop I passed by on my way to school. Embers and loosened blade coming fast at us.

Faces froze against wet floor. Except for my medic brother who had hitched rides on leave from Qui Nhon where he stationed, none of us had ever been near a military chopper, much less brushing against it. All day, people prayed for a chopper. When it finally came

Pulling off that spectacular stunt i.e. repurposing a barge into a helipad – without regard for public safety, the pilot, out of mercy, got a provision of water and an inflated raft to seek shelter elsewhere. He might very well be our first Boat People.

In all, seven thousand shore-to-ship Frequent-Wind evacuees made stee sunk to the bottom of the South China Sea, and by extension, the American collective consciousness.

Sixth hurdle!

May 4, 1975, Subic Bay

Per 1954 Geneva Accord, 1 million northerners, the majority of whom Catholic flew or boarded “tau ha mom” (US-assist ship). In contrast, with only two-minutes packing, and one-second hopping, my “escape” was more sudden.

We chain-linked step-by-step down to the ammunition dungeon. From Saigon to Subic Bay, we were like Jonah – in the belly of the beast – incubated but unconsolable.

Starved and seasick, in a blur, I mentally blocked out the diesel-stench (nothing to throw up) trip which per my sister’s recall, s a leper-looking neighbor in the dungeon. Except for one chow call: an orange = courtesy of officer’s mess, I was so grateful and fearful (of starvation), that I ate both peels and pulp.

For fresh air, I climbed up to ship upper deck, only to see real paper money tossed in the wind. A guy with a thousand-yard stare, in no hurry, let go Tran Hung Dao orange bills (Ben Franklin equivalent) a handful at a time (back at the embassy, it took 8 hours to torch a million dollars cash, as ordered by the Secretary of Commerce).

Dust to dust.

No Sirens.

If any, it would be a silent rendition of Auld Lang Syne to end a set which started out with Bing Crosby’s White Christmas on Armed Forces Radio. “Mother wants you to call home”.

Even in the thick of the night, a welcome party, white-robed priest, handed us a coke (then a sandwich from Filippino canteen). Shoulders stooped, knees-deep, we waded in single file to strange shores.

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 maritime and transport law. Those rusty ships were later donated to the Philippines and Thai Land, courtesy of the US of Great A.

Grown men cried.

The national anthem played.

The flag lowered.

Not the Liberation of Paris nor D-V Day

Only subdued and disrobed RVNN’s – in newly issued white T’s and blue jeans that I saw. Apparently, flags and vessels, uniforms and insignias all confiscated.

The big reset.

Not as in 1965, when “Ask-not” US marines/advisors would energetically and enthusiastically charge out of their amphibious boats in opposite direction to SVN welcoming arms and Ao Dai on China Beach.

Failure is an orphan.

And orphan I started. Pitching our worthless piastre on Subic: “In the future, it will be valuable souvenir and antique” selling the dream, sizzle not steak. Not unlike war-time shoeshine boys, only I possessed a bit more English than their limited “number 1” and “number 10.” or “OK Salem”.

Seventh hurdle!

Summer 1975

After three days of vetting at the Bay (a Toan, an upper classmate, and I, sat speechless looking in the direction home) then on cramped seatless C130 floor, we arrived at Wake Island (Guam was full) in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Those same charter planes had for days flown our troubled sky, carrying orphans and nuns, bar girls and bellhops, civilians and deserters. Per Woodward’s Shadow, it was then that DoD Secretary ignored and disobeyed a Presidential (Ford) order:” Bring as many aircraft as possible to bear”.

Stateless, we, “asylum seekers”, were issued an A – alien – number. For the 130,810 and 3300 orphans, our paroles granted by DOJ (Senate Judiciary Committee and the Indochina Migration and Refugees Resettlement Assistance Act). For context, between 1933 and 1945 approximately 125,000 German, mostly Jewish “unwanted”, emigrated to the United States. This time, we met a less enthusiastic reception previously afforded Hungarian. Certainly not from Senator George McGovern or his Democrat colleagues (Jerry Brown was reluctant to open Pendleton boot camp for a refugee camp).

An angered Ford (but not without compassion and moral leadership – as shown in a stock photo, holding a bi-racial Babylift survivor at San Francisco airport. Ford in one account, emptying his pocket change to Kennerly, WH photographer who asked to join an assessment team to Saigon just a week before its fell) bypassed Congress to appeal directly to VOLAGs and church groups to assist in mass resettlement. Congressional brainstorm record list an Amish-like self-sustained hectares in Pennsylvania or an industrial city off the coast of Virginia, per Dr. Tien Hung’s book.

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

Fish sticks and French fries, Fruit-of-the-loom, and Head-and-Shoulders, consumerism reached us on the Island ahead of Mainland. Then things settled down into a routine: familiar sound of worn-out tennis balls back and forth, like that of Big-Minh in Sportif who in turn modeled after French Riveria 60’s movie.

In contrast, we had no inclination to spend a “vacation” at the expense of the American taxpayers. Giay rach phai giu lay le = starved but hold on to your last dignity e.g. Xoi com chua? Da roi! Eaten yet? Yes, sir! Already ate). Out of the 4 military installation-turned-processing camps (Ft Eglin, Ft Chaffee, Camp Pendleton, and Ft Indiantown Gap), we ended up with Pennsylvania.

My first impressions: a truck driver obeyed reflexively a STOP sign even in heavy downpour on a slope even with no one in sight. Rules-based reflex in a mono-chronist society, first comes first served. Wow!

Eventually state-side, we split and scattered to four zip codes. Tearful goodbye aside, we agreed on Crofton, Maryland, a cousin address, for future reference. Even taking into account exchange students and expat wives, Vietnamese in America at the time were just a handful since Asian immigration quota was around 100 per year.

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

Many shot-gun weddings were officiated by a camp chaplain, as hastily as those songs I recorded in our barrack’s bathroom. We all fret the unknown! “Ben cau bien gioi, ta lang nghe ong doi tu tu troi” – by the bridge of demarcation, time floats.

To his credits, my brother-in-law walked the pavement until his shoes flapped to land a law firm job. My brother hopped behind the hospital pharmacy counter on day 2 . I myself mopped the same campus floor I walked on during daytime.

September 1975, State College, Pennsylvania

Armed with 300 bucks, disbursed and distributed via the IRC (International Rescue Committee)- I grabbed Penn State by the horns like “holding Infinity in the palm of my hand”.

Humbly yet eagerly, I held on to my growing luggage: birth certificate and straight A’s transcript on Red-Cross stationary. A job Letter of Recommendation from the Bureau of Child Welfare – where I volunteered as an interpreter – came in handy along with accompanied College Dictionary.

In looking back, I had to overcome social-economic, linguistic and logistics challenges: barbed wires, boom-barrier, sand wall, raining rockets and flying blades.

My itinerary was multimodal: climbing wall, wading waters, barge battleship, planes, bus and car. I was flanked by Carbine and Canons, M-16’s and rockets. Finally, a few miles to State College, hold it … my house-church-designated rep, a divorced Unitarian minister with time in his hand (he took up Cello 101 at the university), wanted to show some class by scooping up a hitchhiker, a Woodie-Guthrie lookalike on Hwy 322. “How do you do!” right straight out of English for Today, lesson one.

Only then my liberal arts education could officially commence – one peck on the manual typewriter at a time (sounded more like gunshots on my first day).

Having missed “Move-In” date, I played catch-up: from night shifts on campus to a job offer at WNEP-TV56.

Ninth hurdle.

To my surprise, Happy Valley itself lagged behind counterculture movement. Penn State not Kent State. Months-long hair and bell-bottom blue helped blend me in. Autumn foliage reminded me no longer did I live in a 2-seasons 2-wheels country, nor a We but a I culture, 3 computers country to a 2 computers campus, from Central District to Central Pennsylvania,

After a long, cold and lonely winter, I sat on the grass (while others smoked “grass”,) just chilled seeing “smiles returning to the faces” at Spring break (my Woodstock). I hummed along, I’d say” it’s alright”. The British Invasion arrived via Armed Forces Radio. Consequently, we, “Come together” embracing rock and roll (See Vietnamizing Woodstock) to quelch war-weary propaganda (“Tung canh chim tim ve to am” – SVN attempt at stretching and furthering decade-old drama).

Music and mourning aside, I am forever indebted to 58,220 whose names displayed on Washington marble. On his way to the airport, Frank Snepp noticed President Thieu look away from: “The noble sacrifice of the Allied soldiers will never be forgotten” inscription. (Thieu’s predecessor, Diem, wasn’t as lucky! Both driven and escorted, one shot and the other, with a shot of Scotch hangover).

A TK – teacher’s kid- I am ingrained “Uong nuoc phai nho lay nguon” Never forget the hand that feeds you – or bought you time, whe Black from Mississippi and White from Pennsylvania, carried 40-lbs in the mud before dying.

P.S. Last week, I met a son of a G.I. Immediate kindred spirit. His dad returned from “over there” and stayed silent since.

________________________________________

It’s been years:

• since that tamarind tree was cut down to make room for a helipad,
• since Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” – going home – not fleeing from it
• since an NVN T-54 charged and crashed the gate
• now, trade and travel finally re-established, with GDP surpasses that of Marcos who protested us.

But something kept nagging,

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

What made us let go the endearing for the estranged? Wanderlust? If so, the body might be transported multi-modally, but the morale, attitude and emotion remain reside inside. Who are you, tuh tuh tuh! We’re all on split-screen, like Woodstock the movie, only we couldn’t see it.

Was it my brother’s hyper-anxiety? My sister’s motherly instincts? My brother-in-law’s nostalgia (for that cherry-blossoms parade whose slides he once brought home with him)? Or it’s I who just wanted out, being stir-crazy and suffocated in the back – my mom and four of my sister’s children in tow. After all, it’smonsoon afternoon with car-window up.

Did we even once have our father in our calculation? (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 hush-hush evacuation – Thai
• jumped in then out of a plane – Thoa
• got off a helicopter but still in uniform (AWOL?) – Cang
• was with means yet ended up a Boat People – Phong

At the edge of the dock, our only hope was the known past would serve as guide; somehow, somewhere, we would find kind hearts and firm ground to start over.

Start-over I did, amidst 9% unemployment, with a slim 36% for us vs 54% against per Gallup poll. Like a knife cutting through hot butter, I was on my own (my mom and her Ao Dai got left behind in that northeast cold camp without a sponsor which made her journey the longest, from April 29 through Sept 13, 1975).

Living out of a rented basement of that Unitarian (sponsor/landlord), I juggled a janitorial shift by night and a speech class by day! our sole field trip was to the Udall’s presidential campaign on campus.

One has to put the least strain on the system. Culture shock abated, I invited fellow exile to cake and music. White Christmas was on for the second time, only this time with real snow.

We needed a haircut. Obvious, ut “tattoo” and scar? not so. Like Remarque’s Ravic, in Shadows of Paradise e.g. emigre surgeon operated for cash under the table, only after his Parisien patients had been anaesthetized unconscious by a licensed surgeon).

Joining the huddle mass, we lived in quiet desperation. Our American Dream has been what we made of it hidden behind its on-the-surface selective version.

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

My sister, a Director of the Agriculture Development Bank, rebuilt her credentials – earning a CPA of Commonwealth Virginia. Her 80th-birthday saw all four children intact! She – strong, sincere, straightforward – thrived on challenges in finding a way out, just like millions who had made that crossing at Ben Hai River (each side planted a different flag).

Just like early settlers who crossed from Ellis Island to Staten Island, we were luckier than most, who had to toss babies (like basketballs), fly-on-empty or climb over embassy wall or Berlin Wall.

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

My brother still is in prolong shock. He once thought we just “drove around” or best case, “to be stationed” on Wake Island like counterpart 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 “Mexi….co” became Colora… He reminisced that “tasty” sandwich on Subic Bay, our only food after five seafaring days. Out of ingrained gratitude (from our mom),he zelled his Howard-Hospital paychecks to disable veteran and orphan.

A decade later, my P/T dad finally joined us, violin in hand not unlike those weeping girls on the barge, befitting an Air Vietnam corporate account executive (par avion). Feeling guilty for taking my dad’s more-deserving place, God knows I have,” I read so I won’t be alone”. “All I know was, one day, I was sleeping in my bed. The next day, I was homeless, stateless and fatherless” at least for a decade.

Years later my brother-in-law was laid to rest. His car key once again tossed. This time to a granddaughter. His marker: “Life passes like a blink of an eye”. A Simca on its last leg had preceded its driver. He had repeatedly recounted vignettes of war in the North.

On reflection, I let go things not under my control. At times, triggered by unknown algorithm, old songs sneak up: “When I was young, I listened to the radio, waiting for my favorite song.” My sandbox once played “Your Song”; now “Bell Bottom Blues” (“give me one more day, I don’t want to fade away”).

Me 1.0 pure Vietnamese.

Me 2.0 do or die “banana” American.

Me 3.0 Finally, out of the blue, for the first time, I live.

“In my end, my beginning”.

________________________________________

April 30, 1975, was like a bookend. The other bookend -April 1981- found me in a graduate-school library, flipping through the pages of Newsweek. “Cay muon yen, gio chang ngung!” (“Just as I thought….they pull me right back in”….per Michael Corleon).

My people ventured by boat as small as an autumn leaf seen from fly-by, in their vulnerable most, encountering repeated rape by Thai pirates. Most were abandoned to certain death – unless resorting to fellow passengers’ dead meat.

Never did I envision a trip back so soon.

“He who is no fool to lose that which he cannot keep while gaining that which he cannot lose”, a quote by Jim Elliot, a fellow Wheaton alumnus, was still fresh on my mind.

After all, other head already rolled nine hurdles under my belt, I might as well round it up, courting disaster addicted to harm (a class in Surviving in the wilderness proves this point).

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 soliciting donation (I learned the power of micro-donations from running half=marathon at PSU for the American Heart Association).

In Hongkong, I offered: relief supplies, ESL classes, entertainment eventschurch-sitting (on my second tour). Hong Kong Island lock-ins were also fed up with camp foods e.g. sardines, as we earlier with fish-sticks.

My micro-fund raised from domestic stamps was converted into international stamps. Those par-avion letters, thicker pile by the day as camp’s rumor spread that I volunteer as mailman, and door dasher who delivered chili for sardine. I would never forget that lone shirtless and stuttered half-Chinese boy.

After 2 tours as a steward of blessing– while I was distributing needed supplies to near-death fellow countrymen, suddenly it came to me: I myself was on the receiving end of a Coke and a sandwich on Subic Bay.

What else could a communication major do to give counsel to – as an example – 2 raped and forced-by-circumstances cannibalism survivors – besides being there – upstairs of that Jubilee prison for a show of support. Reverse culture shock and catharsis aside, I learned that in giving there is healing.

Instead of improving my IQ, I ended up with better EQ.

Like that currency-as-confetti man, I found myself, on a day off, hiking at the peak of Hong Kong New Territories, also with a thousand-yard-stare, look back and long for home which by summer of 1981, still off limits.

Our Father in Heaven, our father in homeland…:

In each long journey into the night, it’s in our seeker’s genes to reach for” 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”.

— THE END —

Credits rolled up for Crisis and Luck, the movie version 🙂

Homie w/ carbine N1: Thai, neighbor

Father: Nguyen Duc Tien

Mother: Ngac Thi THo

Sister: Nguyen thi Bich Thu – Trung Vuong alumnus

Brother-in-law: Hoang Dinh Tuynh – Buoi alumnus

Brother: Nguyen Duc Thuy – CVA alumnus

Myself: Nguyen Duc Thang – CVA alumnus

Niece I: Hoang T Thu Tam – Catholic relief in Cambodia

Niece II: Hoang T Thu Nga – Dentist

Nephew I: Hoang Dinh Chien

Nephew II: Hoang Dinh My – MD

Friend I : Trinh van Thoa (San Diego) CVA

Friend II: Nguyen Dang Phong (S. California) CVA

Friend III: Do Thanh Thai (S California) CVA

Friend IV: Cang (pilot) ARVN neighbor

Cousin: Dao – husband, Hy, MIA or KIA (Convoy of Tears)

Uncle Truc – driver – diver (over people) his Longest Yard

Child Welfare Bureau at Indiantown Gap – Thank you for throwing a birthday party

Sponsor: Rev Ernest Hawk, rep of Sycamore house-church

Sponsor: Dr Rustum Roy (Founder of Material Research Lab at Penn State University)

the Dennis and Kate Waslunds of Weis Supermarket, State College

—————Works cited———————————

Honorable Exit – Thurston Clarke

America in Vietnam – Guenter Lewy

Shadow – Bob Woodward

Giai Phong – Tiziano Terzani

Masked and Anonymous – Larry Charles

Khi Dong Minh Thao Chay – Dr Nguyen Tien Hung

Paper Soldiers – Clarence Wyatt

Making the news, Taking the news – Ron Nessen –

Decent Interval – Frank Snepp

No Peace No Honor – Larry Bergman

Khat vong chua thanh – Hoang Duc Nha w/ Dinh Quang Anh Thai

The Vietnam War – Ken Burns

The Pianist – Polanski

The Fall of Saigon = David Butler

Last days in Vietnam – DVD by Rory Kennedy

Last Men Out – Bob Drury and Tom Clavin

Getting out of Saigon – Ralph White

Peter Arnett – internet photo

Embassy line of visa applicants (Phong & Thang were there)

The Mark – Jacques Leslie

The Wild Palms – William Faulkner

Shadow Paradise – Remarque

All Quiet on the Front – Remarque

They Are All My Family = John Riordan

He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother – the hollies

Theme from Mahogany – Diana Ross

Sliding Doors – the movie (French/American)