Thang Nguyen 555

US Today often publishes 10 Best Places to Live, to Retire, to See etc… but I have yet seen its 10 Best Places to Die.

But I have seen with my own eyes, however, how my grandma got buried (in Vietnam) and how my Dad got buried (in Virginia).

From experience, I’d rather die in Vietnam, surrounded by friends and families, the band and the bystanders.

But first, let me recount the most impressive funeral procession I have ever attended. It was for my Uncle-in-Law, who owned a chain of cinemas in Saigon. In fact, his residence at the time was in the back of one of the cinemas, right across from my future High-School. Prime real-estate.

When he passed away, his funeral was so lavish that it etched in my mind as if it were yesterday: led by two sets of horses and carriages (black and white), the procession stretched for miles packed with attendees in tailored-white. Families occasionally fell down onto the pavement in grief and mourning. Although chaotic to be expected, the scene ironically seemed well-choreographed, with marching bands back-to-back in a flow of foot traffic. Of course the street was completely cordoned off, while strangers looked on, many with hats off and heads bowed. People were courteous and considerate when witnessing someone’s death ( in this case, leaving behind a considerable amount of wealth: a chain of cinema, one in each district and one in our nearest beach compared to our humbler paternal grandma’

Though not as lavish yet equally impressionable was when my grandma passed away. My cousin told me to run and get a half-liter of rice alcohol (I had a lot of practice buying for my grandma the same thing, at the same place and the same amount).

The alcohol was for rubbing her still-warm body. She wore socks that lasted until decades later when her body got exhumed for cremation and re-burial in the North. I had my moment of “the Remains of the Day” at her funeral: adopted aunt, biological aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, my half-sister etc.. We laughed, we cried and we teared up recounting snippets of good times. Somehow our little abode could contain so many people and visitors who each brought a wreath and attached condolences. Everyone came with a good heart and shared humanity.

Then decades went by. It’s my Dad’s turn. He ended up being buried in Fairfax, Virginia on a cold morning with snow on the ground. Tarp and tent were set for us, a handful of mourners in black ( and six pairs of white gloves). The section was called “Serenity”. My oldest sister said “everything is now over” and she cried. As if all the years of heavy burden were finally laid to rest too: his years of struggling in the boot camp, in the Army fighting for just cause, fighting at work (he punched a guy who said something offensive to him and ended up losing his job), fighting to protect his refugee family ( read Early Memories), fighting against my bully, fighting with my mom for being rightfully jealous, and fighting to push my brother to become a pharmacist who would rather be a musician.

Where would I like to be buried? Of course, where there is music.

Where people pause and reflect on their own lives. At least, the occasion of my stop-breathing helps serve as a reminder for by-standers that every minute and moment is precious. And that somehow, magically, we are put here as stardusts to bear testimony to a life well-lived, good deeds done and relationships worth-getting involved in.

My grandma’s funeral was the best I have ever engaged in. She was my first roommate after all, a humble soul who taught me life and laughter. Someday I might as well toast a rice alcohol drink to her when I visit her re-located grave up North. She forever plays second-fiddle (re-buried to the left of my grandpa, whose first wife had been laid next to him at her rightful place on the right) yet second-to-none, since she forever occupies an important place in my throbbing heart.

I guess US Today wouldn’t venture to publish “Best Place to Die” since the subject doesn’t sell.

Valley girls used to show-off their belly buttons, wear high-heel shoes and go shopping at the Galleria together. They still do. But less. Much less.

Recent studies show a sharp decline in Mall patronage while conversely, there aren’t enough ware-house real estate for the like of Amazons.

What’s going on? Can’t wait to watch Diane Swayer’s special. She took six months to travel the US, to find out what’s going on (in the tradition of senior news-person before her): who’s “bowling alone”, dining alone, and playing MS’ Solitaire.

It’s sad just now as I was watching a clip about neo-KKK’s crashing a Jewish book reading. Everyone is entitled to an opinion and everyone is equal under the Law. Right!!! Tell that to the millions who had died before Hitler killed himself. People slant and spin, manufacture and twist their narratives all the time. What’s your tolerance for half-baked truth? What’s your shade of grey?

We live in a political, cultural and technological bubble. Yet we were told “not to rock the boat”. So no one wants to disturb the comforted and comfort the afflicted. During the Vietnam War, reports kept coming back to Washington, showing an up-tick in enemy casualty. Statistics lie. People (you and I lie). Ponzi and his disciples lie.

I am glad nature doesn’t. Comes Spring time, I get the allergy. Prompto. On schedule. More reliable than a Swiss watch. If MBA curriculums have slightly changed after 2008 (more courses on ethics), their fruits have yet to show. We still have CEO charged with pushing drugs, x-student still killed on-campus and IS still claims credits for tourist massacre.

One recommendation for recruiting managers: two candidates of equal HR values, pick the one who is more honest, predictable. You ask him or her what time he/she is at the gym everyday. You will know who lies better. That person should be sent home to “bowl alone”. Wish I had lied enough to stay with ABC-affiliate back then ( I did not take the job offer to be its ENG photographer since I had to take care of my mom in Washington D.C.).

Liars get so used to twisting the truth that someday, they lie alone i.e. lying to themselves (cosmetic surgery, rationalizing, selective amnesia etc…..). Then people of less tolerance for lying will dissolve and disappear from their circle of “truth”. Liars will eventually turn loners and will have to live with themselves, entertaining their versions of truth and re-write their new narratives.

None of us know ourselves deeply enough, so we learn to lie even to ourselves. Until one day, like the last sentence in “Night”, we look in the mirror, and a monster looks back at us. Like the store clerk at the Mall, cleaning his/her window and sees only his/her reflection. Where are the Valley Girls? Of course, they are shopping alone. When the co-locating rack-space need more real estate, Telecom companies converted hotels into telco hotels. Now the new trend soon will be converting Mall=wareshouse. And Diane Sawyer’s wrap-up would be: since the advent of the I-phones, shoppers no longer frequented malls such as this one. Instead, the screens have replaced social scenes and increasingly, our teenagers grow up in a manufactured and virtual environment. Shopping alone is not too different from buying milk from a vending machine. At least, in the latter case, they interact with the outside world. Now, people can be literally next to each other and live in a totally different world.

“Ocean apart, day after day…”. That lyrics will need to be changed to suit our new attention-starved culture.

The 70’s brought us songs that reflect that decade’s youthful longing and loss. We inherited ” I’ll never fall in love again”, “Feelings”, “I will give everything I own”.

From the Youngbloods ( Get together) to America (Daisy Jane), we got a feeling that there are more behind those long hair and bushy beard: “we have seen the enemy, and the enemy is us” or ” we have traveled the world, and come home, knowing it for the first time”.

Blame it on Vietnam with its Five-O-Clock Follies (daily press briefing at Hotel Continental). On the 57,000 deaths and many missing.

Horror, horror.

On the one side, body count (accounting), on the other, peace and love (intangible).

The 70’s generation grew up confused and dazed. Which way to turn??? It’s truly a crisis of confidence. So we elected a President who forever regrets he did not order more helicopters to rescue American hostages in Iran.

BTW. It’s Iran, not Vietnam that has been America’s quagmire.

Vietnam ended 44 years ago. Iran oil embargo and economic sanction is still in place. Back to “in-touch”. The 70’s generation turned inward: Me, Me, Me.

If the world doesn’t respond or isn’t responsive to my need, I will have to do it myself: I elect a government of one: of me, by me and for me.

The 70’s is a hybrid between the Peace movement and the Pentagon insurgency. It grew up watching the confrontation between McNamara and the “Hell-No” folks. “How many roads must a man travel”.

The answer is still blowing in the wind, even today. Jack Ma of Alibaba deflects the blame (that China is a culprit of America’s economic woe) by saying that it’s the USA’s fault for spending trillions of dollars on warfare in the past three decades, and not China that takes away American jobs. In every situation, the tendency is to scapegoat, assign blame and deflect guilt.

The 70’s folks absorb Vietnam. The acidity of post-war guilt ate up that generation (long passing). The Vietnam Memorial Wall in D.C. reflects that. You see yourself on that shinny black marble wall, even when your name isn’t there. At times, you wish it were: to do away with the guilt, shame and self-recrimination. Have I done enough to stop the senselessness of the event? Horror, horror! It’s been 44 years that I carried this uncalled-for blame. I was just a freshman in college, trying to do good (raising money for displaced war refugees from the Central regions of Vietnam). All of a sudden, the dominoes fell, upending my world, my life and everything I held dear.

Without a home nor homeland, I overheard Wake Island Armed-Forces radio playing Diana Ross’ “Do you know, where going to, do you like the things that life’s been showing you”. I felt like Paul Mc Cartney’ s “Band on the run”. In that context, was I the one to take the blame for what happened (The Fall of Saigon), or it’s someone else? The situation? The quagmire? Or the human condition from the dawn of time i.e. self-inflicting and self-sabotage?

I will leave this to historian, psychologist and warfare strategist. All I know was, in the second-half of the 70’s, kids in college were just “doing time”, knowing that the system was rigged i.e. poor kids get killed in war while rich kids protest it. And from there, we got Lionel Richie “chills” it for us in ” Easy like a Sunday morning”.

Gosh! I miss that era despite its vulnerability and helplessness. Just carry on and hope tomorrow be better. And true enough, we are still here, now.

We are here to tell our stories. What’s your ending? Are you a late-bloomer, hence, saving the best for last? Or you believe that the best has already been behind i.e. apocalypse now.

Not all is “horror, horror” as in the ending of Apocalypse Redux (the original version ends with ” we have met the enemy and the enemy is us” as the chopper came for the captain/assassin).

I often wonder if Stephen Covey had known of his ending ( he died in a biking accident) or the owner of Segway Scooter (also died while riding his own invention). Other endings intrigue us still e.g. Amelia’s.

Having a sense of an ending helps us

• reduce our inflated ego
• focus on the important, often buried among the urgent
• appreciate life and its moments which pass unnoticed till the very end

Start-up companies appreciate an audit and a pre-mortem analysis (what factors would contribute to our demise and how do we go about mitigating those risks). I would venture to carry this concept to health and family as well: what would likely be our “apocalypse”: high-blood pressure or cancer? Personality conflict or money issues?

The ending is buried in the present. It shows signs and sends signals. We are the sender and receiver at the same time. We buy insurance and avoid risks. We long to tell our stories yet none of us know the inevitable ending to our stories. Some will fall and some will lie down. Last breath and last rite. To have an inkling of how the story ends is comforting and stress-reducing. It motivates us to do our best and to believe the best is yet ahead even beyond the grave. I for once tend to believe it.

What’s your ending? and while at it, go hug a child and do smell the flowers. It’s what life has to offer, to the richest and poorest among us. Worry not about death and tomorrow. Solomon and all his wisdom couldn’t even be compared with the beauty of Spring-time Lillies. And there are plenty of those this time of the year, albeit not long-lasting. No wonder Emperors of the past had an assistant at his side, to remind him that “today you will die”. Keep at it since it’s the one prophecy that is the truest.

While sitting among Julie and friends – all 1st graders, I remembered my Ecole L’Aurore early years.

Yes, I walked to school with Pierre. Pierre was a French bastard (100 years of French colonial rule – naturellement – produced a bunch to be expected).

He would discuss Kennedy’s assassination. Then all of a sudden, he turned around and turned off the intersection control box. My oh my. Traffic was jammed up in one direction for miles (the police must have walked away for bathroom or coffee break).

One night, I woke up to the sound of break-in. The thief was in the process of “fishing” out my mom’s purse (laid carelessly in the middle of our dinner table) with his long pole commonly seen in flea market with which the shop vendor can unhook a dangling dress on high.

I was scared witless. Then all of a sudden, my shinning knight came to the rescue: my Dad emerged from the back of the house, throwing a knife which flew right by where my divan was (I slept alone on the first floor). Needless to say, the pole was tossed, and the thief ran away fast and furious.

The same Dad who threw his knife when trespassed would roll down the steps when he missed his footing on one occasion. I thought with that stiff angle, he would be paralyzed for life. I screamed really loud “Daddddd” just to find him roll with the punch and emerged unscathed.

Growing up in war-time refugee shanty town helped me appreciate the love and lust for life. People sing and dance, at times, uninvited. Knowing that death was nearby, everyone seemed to ignore it and go about the business of living. I heard more music in my times than the sound of artillery. Yet on that last month in Saigon, I could not ignore the sounds fleeing C-130’s that carried those privileged visa-holders to Guam, then, our sanctuary island.

Temporary shelters and tents were erected. Nobody complained about the arrangement. Once again, we went about the business of living and hoping. And hope we did, until this day, and onto the next generation(s). I guess you can call us dreamers and doers. Both. Once in a while, while lunching with next-gen 1st-graders, I recall those early moments, some of which unpleasant, while others unclassifiable. Like Pierre and his prank, like the thief’s tool that ended up in our house. I am in possession of those memories for as long as I live free: breathe free and think free until death comes “like the thief in the night”.

When a cell stops growing, it starts dying. When a society starts killing each other for one reason or another, it dies in full circle. Those who committed mass-killing should remain nameless, not glamorized nor immortalized. They should cease to exist, on or off-line. Forgotten and deleted. On the other hand, innocent victims’ are and should remain known forever.

I am ready to take a bullet any time, to fight “in the shade” (to re-use a line in “300”) for similar victims, same way as the Muslim-mosque usher in New Zealand. He did not simply say: “Welcome my brother” like a Walmart greeter. He gave all he had, namely his own body, to be shield so others can fight “in the shade”.

In my Vietnam days, I could still name a few who gave their body- parts or the whole- after being enlisted: Cuong, my classmate; Phuoc, my next-door neighbor; Uncle Ban – my flesh and blood relative and cousin Ba whose face got deformed.

War is ugly. Killing is ugly. Dying is inevitable but we would prefer for death to come naturally, not by force. When a society stops growing, it eats itself. Wait until the machine wages war. Its payload – as in any war, 4 out of 1 are dedicated to supporting combat troops – will be huge. So will its toll: where else could machine look to do damage besides the environment and us who created them.

This may sound like being on the verge of insanity. But you and I have both spent our money on movies like The Terminator (whose principal actor insanely turned Governor.) Let’s face it! We are all guilty of complicity: by being silent when Hitler slammed on the map (Europe) or when his cohorts and co-conspirators hit the Mosques and churches all over America and New Zealand.

“Welcome brother” to a world of peace. Let’s “bed-in” (in reference to John and Yoko – 50 years ago). Let’s “imagine”. Let’s” think different”. In the absence of wise men and courageous women, insanity rules. By then, it will be too late for many whose deaths are quite preventable.

You will spot those marks when you came across them. You’ll find them in people not easily played yet still opened to having a grand time. In business, mature professionals can be found in thriving organizations: talents who are unassuming, who can tell facts from fantasies, cause from co-relation, who are willing to take risks after having exhausted due diligence, who can sleep soundly after having done well and good for after all they have struggled and conquered.

These are people who have shaken hands with and looked the enemies in the eyes. People who know life is short and are mindful that they are living at the intersection of  kairos (eternity) and karma, hence not controlled by the ticking clock (chronos – as in chronology) analog or atomic. They cry too! On occasion. Especially when they have to re-learn lessons that should have come second- nature: “don’t bite more than you can chew”, “he who hesitates is lost”, “pride comes before the fall”. Mature people cherish relationships, knowing they can’t be bought.

They too eat dirt when it’s called for, caviar at other times, since they know about seasons: a time to die and a time to live, a deal to say Yes to and a deal to say No to (given full and exhaustive disclosure). Mature professionals understand the terms of the agreement and make sure those are legally biding (and enforceable). When needed, mature people stand their ground, draw the line in the sand: “Screw it, let’s not do it”.

Mature people understand the axis of evil (” the children of darkness are wiser.” ) Mature people ask W’s first to understand (7 habits), to shed light on a muddy situation, to seek clarity in confusion, to arrive at more certainty in doubt and confidence in fear.

The marks of maturity are the marks found in great leaders. And great leaders are hard to find. Fake leaders, like fake news are in abundance. In our post-modern 5-G digital era, when the computer gets speeded up to cache information faster, we get not what we need, but what we want to see and hear inside of our miscellaneous-focus bubble. Want to find the marks of maturity, you will have to look hard outside of your filter – 30,000 feet 360% in 4-dimensions to locate great men and mature women whose thoughts and discoveries are still relevant.  In other words, throw yet the baby (analog) out with the bathwater (digital).

Pay the price (of unlearning and re-learning) and pay forward.

See you at the mark.

Ability to press “re-set” after a serious setback. Ability to call “hell” home. My mom was certainly resilient. I grew up watching her multi-task, day and night. And from hearing stories that now turned legends, I look up to her even more. I want to emulate and follow her footsteps.

She was raised in a French orphanage, obtained her teaching credentials and turned refugee twice in her sorry life. Her cousins, however, were stinky rich, owning tea plantations in Northern Vietnam. Mom had to flee the safety of family to find work ( in today’s terms, it would be to travel to Odessa oil field to find work). I remember her older students taking their kids – then new students- to our house to pay respect on the third day of Tet.

Hard times did not get her down: 2 million died of starvation in 1945, the country’s partition in 1954 (when she migrated South) and the last day of Vietnam (War). Mom kept going, kept learning (Vietnamese, French and English). I found her reading outside a Winchester nursing home in Spring time, or dragging a gallon of milk back to her assisted living apt near Seven Corners, VA where I once took a nap, the best nap I have ever had.

She taught me to respect all things, creatures big and small. To agree to disagree but doing so politely. And above all, save up for upcoming hard times. She wrote to my older siblings, pleading for my case. Although she never walked me to school (she had a conflict of schedule, teaching at another Elementary out of the way), she did not miss my graduate-school graduation 12-hour drive away. Her life can be summed up in one word: resilience. When her hip gave ways and she was buried in Fairfax, VA, the tombstone showed an opened book, half-way read.

I realize it’s a tough act to follow. I will have to finish those chapters, that book. I will have to bounce back after serious setbacks. I will have to allow her to live through me. To give to others, to impart the knowledge and experience life journey have taught both of us. That journey tastes more bitter than sweet and has more thorns than roses. Nevertheless, it plays right into her place, our place in the universe: she was and still is a force for good. Myriads of setbacks from orphanage to old home and in between only served to strengthen her resilience. A character trait that only shows, not in the absence of setback , but in the face of and in spite of it.

I did not see or hear from my Dad for 10 years.

Before that, at least he showed up daily for supper, albeit late (after a stop, not at the pub, but at the other lady whom I was forced to call Auntie Lang).

When he did get home, it was a bit late for a restless young-man: my stomach couldn’t wait up. So I got an idea: I distracted myself by really really got into the zone by lashing out at my guitar with songs from an illegal Hit Parade reprint. Besides, “the stage” (our living room) would be reserved for my Dad and occasionally, my brother, right after supper.

So off I sang, like the guy you saw doing an opening act for a corporate event: you can sing but you can’t touch the hors d’oeuvres. At least, back then, I played for time: one more song perhaps would see my Dad appear at the door. Between 1975-1985, when not a single piece of mail was exchanged between us: one in Vietnam, and the other traversed the world, I stopped the silly mind-game. Instead, I set out and sort out about learning, life, love, loss and liberty, on my own.

In short, by the time my Dad and I saw each other again, it was like two grown men battling for supremacy (not necessarily the space and schedule after dinner) – two strangers in post-Vietnam era sharing the same roof in a country where no one wanted to hear about damn Vietnam “where you call hell I call home”. The Cosby Show was on prime time and late night would be M*A*S*H on TV ( America could barely put Korea behind, much less Nam). I fantasized about living another life, anything but a college-and-corporate reject life on the couch. I thought about giving up on life, about seminary.

And that’s where I went, to get through a rough patch of life, catching a glimpse of Donald Trump’s Art of the Deal at the bookstore. I admired my older brother who grew up with my Dad BEFORE he took on another wife and kid. They apparently were in conversational terms: the exodus from the North, their love for music, clothing and I bet, girls. I, on the other hand, had been born at the wrong time just to find myself “born again” “You ‘ve got to serve somebody, yes indeed” and ended up along the Northeastern corridor with no prospect for a family. No wonder I kept praying like St Augustin to “Our Heavenly Father” – my decade-long substitute and surrogate Dad).

Today, you would get caught dead reading a hard-bound book on the plane much less Cosby’s Fatherhood, or The Art of the Deal. Times have changed. Tell that to Hanoi Jane. BTW back in 1973, a plane load of exchanged POW’s were in the air returning from Vietnam. I would love to juxtapose the two images of the napalm girl running naked toward Nick Ut’s camera, and the girl in the sweater running toward her POW’s father. Same decade, different drums.

OK. I was a 19-year-old Vietnam refugee separated from my part-time Dad for a decade and my Mom for 4 years ( while in college). In between, I managed to cope with homelessness, statelessness, joblessness, culture shock (city boy and cow college), future shock (Three-Mile Island) inter-religious conflict, loneliness, survivor’s guilt, exile and sexile.

Life has funny twists though. My speed adulthood (without proper guidance from my Dad throughout) qualifies me for three-time fatherhood. I learned all the curved balls of a vulnerable life without the benefits of foresights and hindsights. I made all the mistakes, often times, twice. Yet I have grown to become the very man I did not see for years, without assigning blames.

I am more American than most of my peers: I was, by the force of circumstances, to make a clean break with the past: no good luck or goodbye. I guess, on that count, you can say, I experience quite an ordinary childhood.