Thang Nguyen 555

So this is what it was like: watching news of war from foreign soil in the comfort of home i.e. TV dinner between viewers and the 19-inches screen. Back then, it’s the three networks, beaming daily footage back to American homes from the rooftop of Saigon’s Caravelle Hotel.

It’s surreal, to have lived here almost 5 decades, trading places by way of naturalization, to be on the receiving end of information flow. Today, I watched Thai agricultural workers in Israel turned hostages, then released to reunite with loved ones in their home country.

If I could rewind time, it would be a younger Kissinger seen shaking hands with Le Duc Tho, then the two together shared a Nobel Peace Prize. Of course, the screen was B/W. Then and now, a lot of collateral damage. Lives destroyed, bodies maimed. Caught in a conflict.

Victims of war. Victims of birth. Victims of a shifting policy. Scars in the face and in the head. Nightmares in restless nights.

Who would come to the rescue? When you’re abandoned, left to drown at sea? Those of us who were fortunate, got “sponsored” into the four winds, by churches: Lutheran, Catholic, Baptist and in my case, a group called themselves “house church” (Penn State Profs led by an x-Unitarian minister).

So we got acquainted with a new land and a new religion. Hell was behind. The only way is up. But home is very very far away, if ever be seen again. Our president’s calls often went to voice mail, much less refugees’. So we got cut off from each other, those who stayed behind and those who must make a living in the name of self-sufficiency: a professional journey from the boiler room to the boardroom

We tossed and turned. Then throw many balls in the air, including remedial learning of the art of driving and typing (Vietnam War raged on, and we’re lucky to stay alive, pick up a foreign language and some theoretical- base learning; without the luxury of extra curriculum like baseball and basketball ; football and Prom Night).

So we learn to say “Hi”, to learn the rope and climb the totem pole. Until one day, watching the news on YouTube, hearing the sound of gun fires and bombardment from stereo speakers. Memories at once flood back. To that day of recent past, our yesterday, when we ourselves were seen on TV as those caught in a conflict, venturing out to sea to tempt fate.

Once resettled, we acquired language skills, culture skills and professional skills. But most importantly, we’ve got empathy. We know how it feels: to lose loved ones or to reunite with them. Many were held hostage for days, or months. In my case, not seeing my Dad for exactly one decade.

He brought with him our family violin. It is currently enshrined in my dinning room. Its sound is still reverberating: “Que sera sera…the future is hard to see”….But then, every other American is or evolved out of similar circumstances i.e. caught in a conflict. So the early Pilgrims, the Irish, the Hungarian, Iranian, Cuban, Vietnamese, Afghan and Iraqis. Always in between worlds and languages. Over cuisine and culture (music, art and drama) we may manage to get across our deepest hopes and fear. But mostly, we try to grow roots, to forget and to adapt.

Then the evening news comes on. We watch, from the comfort of home. This time, it’s other people’s turn to suffer, for the hope of human kind ‘s better future. But first, the pain, the punishment and the price. One lifetime, many burdens.

I now look back, having past my prime, and can clearly see patterns of conflict, shifting policies and wider perspectives. Men like Kissinger perhaps lived longer, seeing finer shades of gray. But I know beyond any doubt that little guys always caught in a conflict, no matter how tenable the solutions.

Between the screen and the viewers lays the TV dinner, mass manufactured and distasteful, like the content on the evening news itself.

In life, not everything is cut and dry e.g. Santa vs Santos, Kissinger praised, Kissinger despised.

It’s complicated. Not just in diplomacy i.e. the enemy of my enemy is my friend etc… That path, pretty soon, leaves us with no real friends. I have good friends for a good five and a half decades. Being 6th graders, we shared a desk. We even read a fictional story about a desk (personification) pleading to students not to scratch, to taint it with ink etc…( by the time we were in Middle School, we already used ballpoint pen).

We learned to trust students sitting around us, like soldiers in the trench. The bombardment in this case was Chinese letters (“khau”), French ( la bouche), English (mouth), and the assault, our Head of Security in the school with his ever-ready spanking.

Nothing was complicated then: follow the instructions, listen to the teachers. Attendance matters. School insulated us from a hot war. Simplicity inside, complication outside where there were invasion of the dollars, of ammunition and foreign goods. Black market and Black soldiers ; Mini-skirts and bell-bottom pants. ” hair to his knees…Come Together….right now…”.

The yin and the yang. The warring and the anti-war. Clamming down and rebelling against (they made us boys sitting in the back of scooters – both legs on one side – traditionally female’s form – for fear we may stand up and throw a bomb. The result? we complied every time we approached a check point. But only then).

Our freedom was curtailed in the name of fighting for it. Quite an irony! Then comes “practical” Kissinger ( to preserve order as long as necessary, by any means – especially bombing – necessary). The results? Hollow skulls in mass graves and sorry names on the Wall.

Dark decade. It’s complicated. You can argue either way, as long as you have a following.

Then a handshake, shown in B/W 16mm news reel, signified the beginning of the end. ” They i.e. South Vietnam- are at your disposal, under your sphere of influence diplomatically speaking. ” China won. China built. China replaces the old Soviet as a heavy-weight contender, diplomatically speaking. Beijing firewall is the new Berlin wall.

Leaders promised each other to answer the phone, and not let it go to voice mail.

It’s complicated. School was simple. Schooling in real world diplomacy is complicated. Still the same desk. Same ink blot. Desks still cry out (in the House, Santos’ is unoccupied except for immigration aids). The plea was and still is, “and it is Christmas, Happy New Year”. Let Peace be on Earth.

As children, our world was much simpler and more exciting: the days before Christmas. Waiting for Santa. As adults , as we occupied bigger places (“to hell with this place”, says Santos about the House of Congress – after overspent his credit limits and welcome), things get more complicated.

In the words of Kissinger, “we tried to preserve order as long as necessary, by any means necessary”.

When we learn to let go our early life, perhaps we can peal layers of present complexity. I relate well to truth seekers like Norman Mailer who referred to “4 assassinations later…” as he sarcastically sums up modern history. What we don’t understand, don’t like, we eliminate. Killing is simple. Living is complicated. Now I “get it”. Glad you point that out. Glad to still be alive to “get it”.

Excuse me. I am going to call my friend who told me “the world has changed and moved on. It’s you who don’t want to change”. True. Last night, I dreamed of helping a little boy with his laundry to cram into an already heavy load. Then this morning, I remembered that refugee boy, a stuttering boy with only a dirty pair of shorts tossed and swung on a basket in S China Sea, to finally arrive at Jubilee Prison-turned-refugee detention center in Hong Kong.

May he see better days, somewhere in England, where he was immigrating to. May he learn well the Alphabet, from A to Z , stuttering but comprehensible enough to get by.

Words like “mouth”. Like “I am hungry”. What’s more complicated than hunger and simpler than the sign that homeless man held : “Happiness is a cheeseburger”.

Self-editorializing instinctively precedes self- expression.

We all are self-editors of words said and unsaid.

To err is human. To unleash uncensored unedited thoughts e.g. racist, put-down or out-of-bound/below-the-belt comments is to ask for a tit-for-tat, if not outright violent reaction.

Lately, uncensored expression under the guise of freedom of expression have been rampant and re-tweeted. The FCC and law makers have yet come up with a compromise to hold “violators” into account. (Section 230?)

All the while, a Silent Majority remain silent and stand by. What a lonely planet. The evil and the good, both with their shares of rainfall.

Common grace.

We teach our kids. Yet we forgot to re-teach ourselves those civic lessons half-learned.

Why are we here? To advance the ball? To chop wood and carry water – before and after Enlightenment.

Arts, science and technology, conspire to present us with more complexity (drones kill surgically, for instance). Does it mean morally, it’s more acceptable since we lessen the amount of collateral damage?

The Editorial department of our local papers got stripped off. We’re de facto a self-editorial department of one. Like a self check-out cashier job, we live and learn, bumping our heads, skinning our knees (for centuries, we just sit and get washed over by one-way propaganda. From a stoic mode to a spoke-person mode, it will take us another century). Curse words used to shunned. Now it’s cool to sprinkle them here and there to show we “get it”. What the f**k.

Stop the world, I want to get off. Too dizzy a ride. Too many Nike choices. Can’t “Just Do It” when material and moral options flood our simple mind. They preached Monotheistic theme in a pluralistic society. In other words, the more aggressive their approach (Christian Nationalism, for one) the more likely we enter another World War between Christian, Muslim and Jews. “We are right ,You are wrong. Zero-sum society.” Oil and water don’t mix. Kill Kennedy. Murder MLK.

Homogeneity is a concept that doesn’t exist outside of the marketing department i.e. market segmentation. Meanwhile, Santa continues to come knocking on every kid’s door. The month before, every kids knock on every door. It’s a numbers game. It works. The more the merrier. We optimize our choices and hedge our bets with diverse choices. Let the winner emerge.

It’s not a Lonely Planet, unless we wanted it too. Just stay home. Close the blinds and put on “All by myself”. Only in death should we do it alone. In life, we do it with others. Then, with every expression, every utterance, self-editorialized. Words that build up, not tear down.

We need to overcome that natural tendency to rise and scavenge on dead bodies (from hunter-gatherer days). To feel superior over others by putting them down. A local homeless man put up a sign which says “Happiness is a cheeseburger”. There is no further need for self-editorializing. Simple and straightforward. He got my vote and my dollar.

People are clustered and bunched up via personal preferences. All due to the accident at birth.

Village people look up to the Chief. Urban the mayor and in a Democratic society the President.

Individual freedom vs Internet freedom. A scary thing. We have at our finger tips all the knowledge in the world (including bias, unverified news and rewritten history).

Meanwhile, people of different cultures who immigrated here can have it both ways: earning and living on the dollars while entertaining themselves with news and bias from home across the world. Let the winner emerge. Let the truth show itself. Out of the many, One.

Or will it ever be? Each group self-project by clicking on subjects they are most comfortable with. Personal preferences once again. Individual freedom (of expression and perception). Village chief, medicine man, snake oil salesman and witchcraft.

So we have a situation where algorithm pushes more content of reinforced taste and bias. Theme from A Summer Place, Theme from Mahogany etc.. The older generation gets older, fading into the background. The young keeps asserting themselves i.e. driving faster, being less patient and creating their own code words.

The internet, once thought of as the greatest unifying invention (no central node, no way to take down etc…) now turns multi-nodes into mini-babels with milli-meter waves and two-way 6G fast upload. All stove pipes, if you asked me.

Parental control? Government control? Tipper Gore PG-initiatives? Good luck. The Genie is way out of the bottle. The individuals (and instinct) are set free to roam, to search, to Google and to Xerox.

Warning: The content might include offensive materials….(that is the trigger for more curiosity and extra attention).

And so it goes. Those with bias tends to turn on and view content that suits their taste. Those who love theme from this and from that would turn to the “good old days” and rock the rocking chair.

Voila. The twain shall never meet. This time, it’s not geography-relevant. Not generational gap. It’s taste (pre-conditioned per accident at birth) relevant.

And out of many, MANY. Enabled by the Internet freedom, for the Individual freedom. Everybody gets to say, to watch and to hear as much as one could. Prejudge until you drop. Instead of shedding some light into darkness, we’re offered a wide variety of flash lights, from dimmable to flood. To the point that darkness turns secondary problem. It’s the myriads of solution (SEO) that blind us. Like a driver passing Death Valley into dazzling Las Vegas at night.

Now that I have offered my humble opinion, let me sit back, relax, and turn on my Theme from a Summer Place (to forget about the cold outside, the harm done to people in the hospital where surgeons themselves ended up lying on the operating table due to misguided bombs.)

P.S. It will take another generation or two, before we learn how to cope with the deluge of info on the internet, how to develop Internet-era survival mechanism via acquired net-sabbatical habits.

I meant for it (the title) to set the tone. A right one. Non-judgmental. Just in plain gratitude.

However, what I want to say is, for the “children of the dust” ( or worse, ” cho muc i.e. black dog ” as Vietnam era Amerasian were coined in private), Homecoming Act could only help so much (with legal immigration for the roughly 20,000 in early 90’s). Meanwhile, for the Black Amerasian who are now full-grown, 12 per cent of the 3 per cent who got back in touch with their G.I.’s fathers, Fathers Day is hardly celebrated each year.

The struggle from backwaters Mississippi to non-violent Selma, to “nuke them gooks” in the jungle of Vietnam, resulted at best in children in temporary holding camps in Palawan, Philippines late 80’s onto Bolsa/Bellaire Boulevard of the Vietnamese-American enclaves in the US.

Double-discrimination: Black faces, Vietnamese names. Tell that to the barista at Starbucks.

Out of the many mothers who accompanies their Homecoming children to America, there were, per WarBabies.org statistic, 17 per cent were fake relatives. The Black enlist men fathered those unwanted, expunged and expelled by their government to finally be admitted by ours.

Those adults, few of whom made it in Vietnamese show-biz, turned around and adopted many orphan children e.g. Phi Nhung who died of covid recently.

Others, like a gentleman I had a privilege to interview and offer him a job at MCI (he subsequently changed his mind), never grow out of their hybrid identity and perhaps insecurity, even with the obvious advantage of the “right” skin tone.

The war forced people to come into brush with many unpleasant elements. Out of survival. Out of necessity.

Its aftermath was even uglier, due to compassion fatigue and media ill attention.

A stamp of visa never is an admission ticket to the American establishment. Au contraire.

Just file in, take a number, wait your turn and wait for the trickle-down economy..

Keep waiting. You carry two bloodlines. Immigrated from one country to the next.

But you’re neither here nor there. Never fully taken roots. Drifted and self-enclaved into precedent ethnic ghettos: Chinatown, Little Italy, Little Tokyo and of course, now Little Saigon.

Bring the native seed. Plant a fruit tree. Contribute to the ever-widening Rainbow cuisine of America.

If you (Black Amerasian children) ever are folded into your father’s clan, then Soul Foods and Southern Foods.

On VA pension. Wearing second-hand clothing and hearing over and over about the good old days.

Those good old days could have been better had it not for that war that your Dads got drafted into. Its Commander in Chief once rested on the long conference table, exhausted and self-deflated.

Torn between two lovers. The Great Society on the one hand, and Vietnam on the other.

Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon and Ford. All drained. One war. Lost war. Lost cause.

Now the children come home to roost. To remind and ridicule us of our utter failure.

Decent interval. ” I shall not seek re-election ….”.

Of all the glorified war movies, NAM is at the far end of the spectrum.

Guess who is coming to dinner? Our flesh and blood. From afar. From Cu Chi, from Cho Lon. From the ethnic enclaves of former Saigon – which BTW, reestablished their norms and prejudice, thanks in part to the availability of influx of migration, student visas, spousal green cards and ethnic content on YouTube ( never out of the strong grip of country origin’s propaganda, supported by American Ads dollars).

Let’s give thanks to the Almighty on this Thanksgiving Day. That the children are safe and sound.

Their acceptance is an admission of guilt. But that’s for the Friday after Thanksgiving.

So the unpleasant surprise keeps staring at us, in the face. Two bloodlines, one Nation under God.

P.S. It would be so ironic for the children of the KKK’s to harass the Children of the Dust (imported from Vietnam). They ‘ve got plenty of practice at being invisible and living “underground”. This time to stay and not to have to emigrate to France for better racial acceptance. We congratulate the 12 per cent of the 3 per cent who reunited with Daddies. May they celebrate their Fathers’ Day in joy unspeakable and non-judgmental gratitude for the mixed-blessing.

You have to say it with a Southern drawl….” Just stuccccck”.

Can’t go far without destroying the transmission. Kevin Kelly said “technology wants to be free”…flow and fluidity.

Yet both people and technology often times are just stuck. No flow, no fluidity. In Beijing, where millions of cars clogged up the highways, one can call a bike (two service men) to come and help unstuck you (one would take your place, while the other gives you a scooter ride home for supper).

We’re boxed in: incubators at birth (in Gaza City, it’s a dilemma whether electricity should be cut off to deny the enemy the “flow and fluidity” of technology), then ventilators in death.

While we are all out for childhood vaccination, we then vote for weapons to kill “the others” in mass extinction might it be called World War numero Uno, Dos, etc… Einstein once said WWIV would be carried out by sticks and stone. In other words, WWIII is the end of everything. The Great Reset. Starting over. Unstuck.

I hold in my hand, with solemn reverence, Poetry of the First World War. Ernst Junger’s Storm of Steel triggered my curiosity, with bodies blown up, trenches unearthed and holidays recalled until the soldiers were maimed. There were no “Joyeux Noel” as romantically depicted in the movies of that title. Perhaps once, along the trenches, two sides decided on an impromptu cease-fire.

Humanity. Dignity. All that it’s entailed: the feeding frenzy, the putting out fire with fire, education and re-education (concentration camps, forced labor and outright prisons of war).

How many Jungers and poets have we wasted in the battle fields? Or we only know there was a Junger because of war and destruction. It’s a privilege, to stay alive to retell the horror tales.

To get unstuck during PTSD. Dreaming once again of Hamas tunnel, Cu Chi tunnel and what not.

I saw a PBS clip about a “tunnel rat” during Vietnam. Only the upper body can be stuck inside the tiny tunnel. Rest of the GI’s body remained outside. Often their heads got shot up. Stuck.

Back home in a box. Southern drawl or Northern Virginia (Arlington cemetery). Then names on the Wall. The reflecting pool. The inscription “All men were created equal…”. May God still oversee His creation, in it, us included. A little lower than angels, and a little “higher” than animals. A mix of saints and sinners, killers and healers. We injure others and ourselves get injured. PTSD and resolve (never again). Then we forget. Stuck again. In 1st or 2nd gear. World War II…and then what?

Technology wants to be free. So do we, human. Artificial intelligence, machine learning. We too want the flow and fluidity now afford to technology. It seems to me, technology progress has outpaced human one. Just look at the refugees fleeing war zones, seeking safety and signals (for her I phone). Once, they cut off all connections, before turning it on again. On that day, in Gaza, both technology and people were stuck. Just stucccck. Like we in our daily drudgery and struggle to survive.

In looking around there at the gym, I must be the oldest. Of course I don’t have the latest and greatest gym wear. Nor do I bring all the gadgets like bluetooth and Apple watch. But I showed up. Like clockwork. Like I have always been there and forever I will be. Gym fees are automatically withdrawn also like clockwork.

As if on cue, every time I approach a certain machine, someone has just wiped it down. After Covid, this has been more of a routine. Folks came with large carry-on bottles, most refilled at the water fountain.

The abs area always seems to be available. It’s the most painful of all the exercises.

Thighs (sitting down) makes for a good multitasking chair i.e chatting away in between sets.

People pigeon the machines, hogging them or just standing around, looking around, checking out the chics.

Most got into a routine, for I can i.d. most of the familiar faces on that shift (before 9am).

Some machines broke down and no one reported to management. Hence, the gym capacity was not quite put to maximum use.

That tiny steam room is always occupied by a certain group of individuals. They practically “own” it.

So I avoid the turf, the territory. Locker rooms are OK, no incidents and no need for a pad lock.

Long ago, I used to bring my own, but of late, I just put on gym clothes each morning and be ready at it. In and Out.

One can take one’s health for granted. Only up to the day when the weather changes, when you have to go to Walgreens to visit the Cold/Flu section.

Winter sinus. Spring allergies. High Cholesterol, high-blood pressures. People are urged to check for lung cancer, whether they once were a smoker then quit.

Breathe in breathe out. Cardio and muscle toning. Health and no wealth. Mind and body. Self-destruction and self-preservation. For how long. For what?

I have noticed people prolong themselves relying on the system and process.

Work the system, I was told. Consume, consume, consume. Student loan, mortgage lending and mortuary pre-paid.

From cradle to the grave, we go through the motion, work the system, attend school and listen to lectures. Some of them make sense. Others, just passing the time.

Had it been earth-changing, we would have remembered, challenged and changed. Au contraire, they fed us the same dose of unreality, in the hope that some day, when we graduate into the “real” world, we can make an impact. To bend the world into one’s will. To play God and “save” it, and in the process, self-proclaim as little saviors.

At the gym, one accept the physical reality: a set of 3, 10 lifts at a time. Weight preset per body limits . A lie we tell our bodies: “you’re alright”. Good boy, good girl. Now go out and change the world. Weight scales never lie.

The world that sends its bills, demands its pay. It might give an extension but never gives us recognition and reward. Just ask the under-privileged, the under-paid and underserved. Ask the homeless who sleeps under the AMC sign (read also Breakfast at AMC).

Gym as metaphor. Metaphor for showing up, checking in with one’s self. To self-assure that we’re still OK, kicking and breathing. Until some day, one day, for sure, we no longer show up. As a regular or irregular. Ever.

The oldest at the gym. High maintenance. With bags under the eyes. Being left alone. Unsocialized. In a world that is always in a hurry to go someplace and be somebody. Greed is good. He who dies with the most toys wins.

The demographics of the gym, shows a huge bell-shape curve, with lots of young folks in the middle, and a dwindling population at its far-end. First the gym, then the coffee, senior coffee at McDonald’s. Then lunch at la Madeleine before a quick nap at the library. Work the system. Prolong the process. On the road, always. The journey is itself a reward. God knows to where, for the endpoint is not geographical. It is chronological and has no end. It’s our own expiration date that’s at stake. It’s prolong extension largely depends on and due to our health consciousness and gratitude exhibited each day, staring at the gym.

Any first-year student of Advertising knows this. The idea that if we can tie the unknown to a well-known, then chances are, the unknown will get bought. For instance, Brady endorses FTX.

Over time, we forgot that today’s well-known was yesterday’s unknown. For instance, student Co-Op. It was once a novel concept to cut down the cost of groceries (bring your own bags, which itself had been popularized by BYOB – bring your own booze to student party.)

Today, all the big chains co-opted this CO-OP concept, increase profits at our own expenses (time, energy, aggravation of being forced from being a consumer to a pro-sumer – a Toffler’s coined term).

We pair-associate everything. That’s how learning works. How the brain processes Unidentified Objects (to prove that you’re not a robot, please identify which way this animal looks up).

Before long, we never suspected Santos as a fraud: that which quacks like a duck, walks like one, must be one. After all, he had the right looks, costume, glasses and sweater (Mr. Roger knew this very well). On the way out of court, he wore Red Sneakers, supposedly a signal of defiance, i.e. “What are you gonna do about it” (like Sharon Stone “What! You’re gonna charge me with smoking?”.

With pair-association, we file new observations away into a set mental compartment. Never to be pulled out, unless challenged and required. George Clooney’s Tequila, Paul Newman’s salad dressing and Picasso’s canvas.

We stereotype things, people and places. Refugees? Wait at the border. Relief workers? good luck with reverse border-crossing. Bowling alley workers? secure job, but of late not so secure a job site even in Maine.

This Pavlovian experiment has gone too far. It was an experiment in dog’s salivation. Now, it’s all in for human. A trickle-down economy ( “where’s the beef”). A pragmatic society (the most people with the least of means). A Mechanical Turk uses recommendation software to pair our already uncertain choice to a totally foreign one, just to upsell. “Perhaps you might like to combine your purchase with these other items” e.g. selling a tie to a customer at the cash register (less chance to get rejected).

As long as we move forward, greasing the wheel. Never look back. Heck with grandparents. Heck with tradition (history is always being rewritten anyway).

So every year, at Thanksgiving, we sit around the bird, carve it, pass it around. May I have the cranberry sauce please.

Yam is good. Planted by the native American. To be served up once a year. New arrivals pair-associate what’s proper and acceptable by observing “authorities” in the established community.

(in their mind, “if they eat this bird once a year, it must be very rare and sacred”).

So new comers also want to have a piece of the action: white meat and white folks. Snow White and stark white shirt.

Pair association. Santos and we know this. So we walk and dress like a “duck”. In the hope that one day, some day, we just “naturalize” our way into the House of Congress. Quacking like a duck.

Only to be served up at the altar, to appease justice. America is an experiment, very much Pavlovian. Just throw it all on the Picasso canvas. See what sticks. Buy us some time. Make up as we go along. Let the process run its course. Due process. Until the bills come due. With interests of course. Money, money, money.

Any first-year Advertising student knows pair-association: tie the unknown to the known. The sizzle, not the steak. Sell them. Book them. Build the brand however parasitic it may be at first. Count on the public short memory. Co-Op them. First lure them in – puppy-dog sell. Then cram in more stuff, high-margin stuff to make up for loss-leaders.

“Sorry, the car you saw advertised has been sold. How about this one! ” Gotcha!