My family is first generation immigrants, I’m writing a memoir on our family history but , I don’t know Vietnamese people might find my work offensive. I know we hold our parents very dear and taught to respect them but I thought if I could just speak the truth, I don’t have to paint everyone as perfect because we’re not. Still I’d like the opinions from those who know Vietnamese readers well, do you think this material is offensive or let me know if I crossed the line with anything in there and the Vietnamese culture). PS. I have passages in my memoir about loving moments of my overprotective mother as well. She is the not the villain all the time.
She talked endlessly about people looking down on us, yet she was always the first to
dissect every little flaw in everyone around her. She never let a single grievance go
unaccounted for.
It took one person to show me that happiness didn’t have to be about money at all.
My father had a best friend named Loc. We called him Chú (Uncle) Loc. He was
always wonderful to my dad’s kids. Sometimes he would take us on outings without our
parents, taking us to eat at places my parents could never afford, or buying us toys my
parents would never dare spend money on. He wasn’t rich or well-established—though he
did speak better English than most of our other uncles—and he wasn’t irresponsible either.
He just knew how to take in special moments with people he felt mattered.
He was the person who introduced us to Toys “R” Us for the very first time. It was
there that he bought me my very first Barbie doll, marking one of the grandest moments of
my childhood. I remember feeling ecstatic for days, holding that Barbie to sleep every night
and carefully brushing her hair every morning.Then, one day, we were all at the grocery store. As my mother was paying at the
register, my dad asked Uncle Loc if he wanted anything and told him to throw it onto our
tab. So, my uncle grabbed a couple of beers and some candy.
That was how it always went after he left.
My mom was sitting at the kitchen table with one arm around her right leg, bent and up
on the stool, looking at a newspaper article and flipping the pages with the other hand, the
same side foot flat on the floor.
My brother used to call it the Asian woman squat, where the Vietnamese woman
always sits with one leg bent up no matter where she sits — on the sofa, in the car. One leg
was always propped up and bent beside her.
And then he would distinguish it from the traditional Asian squat, the one most
Vietnamese men could do, standing and squatting very low with their knees close to their
chest. He’d say he could tell if they were a true Vietnamese at heart just by how long they
could stay bent over like that.
He argued it was because that’s how men in Vietnam went to
the bathroom, but I never wanted to know if that was true, and I’m still not interested in
finding out.
“I still think he’s a cheapskate,” my mother said in Vietnamese to my dad, as she
nonchalantly flipped the newspaper.
My dad, a little tipsy from a gathering with his friends, was trying to sober up by
cutting a jackfruit.
“Mmmh… why… is this hard… to cut…” He was still trying to stab the knife through
it.
“You know that’s like the third time already. You know that, Your Dad?”
“Huh, what… hmmppz. Come on. Why so hard, just one piece. Damn spikes…”
“That’s the third time today. He never pitches in! Does he expect us to pay all the time?
And he’s the one always coming up with the ideas. Oh, let’s get together, oh, let’s get
together! But he never pays for the drinks, he never pays for the food. I don’t know why
you always let him do that. You say he’s a good person. Do you think a good person always
makes his friends pay for everything, Your Dad?”
“Are you listening to me, Your Dad?”
My dad was smacking his lips now, getting mad at the tough exterior of the jackfruit,
but not going down without a fight.
“We went to the lake with him back in February, remember? When we were in the
liquor and paid for him and wife's soda and chips? As soon as he saw I was paying for them he swicthes the small size chips for the big family size bag"
Noticing that my dad wasn’t putting up a wall or resisting, she continued.
“What a shady cheapskate! And then the last time was when he wanted to throw a party at his house,
and you just had to call him and had to tell him we were at the store, and what did he say, huh?...He
asked us to pick up a twenty-four pack of Heineken! Do you remember how much that cost?
He never even pay us back! He keep asking us to buy beer for him at the market, Your Dad.
Not crabs, not a potato, not a piece of pork! Do you think food stamps cover imported beer Your
Dad? ....Your Dad!”
My dad was standing over the kitchen counter with the big jackfruit in front of him,
holding his choice of cutlery, half awake and half drifting off, still trying to cut it. He wasn’t sober
enough to realize his strategy was futile.
“And then finally today, it’s the third time! We’re at the grocery store and you had to
open your big mouth at the checkout lane! And again he thought we were offering a big
hand of charity to buy the whole bar! Not just the bag of chips, not just the gum — he even
walks to the beverage section to grab a six pack! What does that tell you? That cheapskate
was waiting the whole time for you to say something! You’re so dumb, you old man! How
come you don’t see it when people use you?”
My dad’s eyes finally snapped open, and he pretended he’d been listening the whole
time.
“Yeah, sure, I know, I get it, I get it, I do. We’ll continue talking about it tomorrow. I
had a long day.”
He threw the butter knife into the sink and started to make his way to the bedroom, not
walking in a straight line.
My mom’s eyes followed him the whole way, mad-dogging him. “Stupid… stupid
man.” She shook her head.
My mother caught my eyes fixed on them, and realized I was listening the whole time. She pointed in the direction
my dad had walked. “You see how stupid your dad is? Always letting people use him! Be wise in choosing your friends!"
I remembered just looking at her and thinking, "Oh, put a sock in it Mother."
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