The Hand Squeeze

We met the winter of my sophomore year in college. I was a newbie to everything and anything America, including taking an inter-state train and ordering a dinner on it. But there I was, alone, sitting in the dome car of an Amtrak train leaving Chicago and heading south to Florida. I was en route to an adventure, greater in scope than I could have imagined, but at the time I thought confined to seeing my aunt and cousins in Ocala.

I was sitting at a window seat. In my memories, the window was to my left. The seat next to mine was vacant. It was vacant for several hours until he showed up.

Young, tall, and thin, he came with notebooks in hand. He sat at the vacant seat next to mine. He might have said a greeting. He asked me where I was from. My answer took him aback. He did not expect “Vietnam.” Later he said he only knew Vietnam as in “The Vietnam War.” Also later he said he had traveled far and was tired that day and did not want to engage in conversations. He wanted to find a “quiet” spot to sit and was happy to find a seat next to mine as I looked like someone who would be quiet and would leave him alone. I don’t blame him for thinking so. I am petite. I wore a pair of black shoes with red socks and dressed in hand-me-down clothes with no jewelry or cosmetic. I looked like a little girl.

I was reading. The book was “The Once and Future King,” one that I had borrowed from a boyfriend whom I was willing to leave behind to go embark on a new educational opportunity. As it was only the second year of my immigrating into this country, I was weak in English. As I read, I took notes of new words. Among the unfamiliar words were “decent” and “self-serving." Those two were the ones that made into memories and written records. I asked him for help and he readily obliged.

Was it that I wanted to return a favor? Was it stupidity? Was it drunkenness? (Not caused by alcohol.) Was it fate? Whatever it was, it happened. I leaned over, seeing that he was working on math problems, to ask if he wanted help. How dreadful. How presumptuous. How unlike me, a shy and cautious person. If it happened today, I’d have buried my embarrassment elsewhere. It must have been fate. Not only was he not recoiled from it, he was charmed, he was enchanted, he was intrigued, he was lured into a spell, one that I unknowingly and innocently casted and he willingly entered. He was a graduate student in mathematics. I was a sophomore in college, majoring in biology. No, he did not need help, but if he did, I was not one to provide it, even if I knew enough math to be hired under the work study program to tutor other students.

“How old are you?” and “Could I see what an Illinois driver license looks like?” He inquired. A savvy person would have known the second question was not really small talk. It must have been stupidity. I dutifully showed him my driver license. Satisfied, he engaged in large and small talks. He was relaxed and easy to talk to. I played a trick on him, a trick I learned from Marge. Marge worked at the community college I attended, in the center where I tutored. She took me under her wing and helped me adjust to life in the United States. She once told me to put on a sweater before going out. Her son thought that would offend me. He was embarrassed when she treated me like a little kid. Little did he know I liked being taken care of. Inside I was still a little girl. Marge taught me the trick of putting down the first four counting numbers on one side of a piece of paper, showing it to someone, and asking the person to pick one number without revealing it. After he chose a number, I flipped the piece of paper over. I had written on the other side “Why 3?” I had played this trick a few times and it never failed. It did not fail that day either. He was amazed. He thought I was magic. He didn’t tell me so at the time, but I read his diary much later. I assume I was magic because of the choosing-a-number trick, but I never really confirmed it. Sometimes it’s best to let our imagination run. Besides, he might have forgotten. To keep the magic alive, I don’t play the game anymore. There are always exceptions.

He gave me a Cracker Jack box. I spilled the content, thus earned the “clumsy” label from him. I concurred with the label to play along, but did not consider myself a clumsy person. It bothered me a little bit that he thought I was clumsy, even if he was just teasing.

Maybe we talked math. Maybe we talked about my boyfriend. Maybe we talked about my coming over to America. Maybe he asked for my driver license after my dumping the Cracker Jack content. Maybe it does not matter that I do not remember what we talked about or the order of events on the train. It must have been drunkenness. I was not the shy girl I really was. And I was glad he was with me. I had no idea what I’d have done for dinner. He took me to the dining car. As I followed him around a corner, I was somewhat self-conscious of our height difference. I ordered a prime rib. His treat. It was to be my Christmas present for Christmas was just a few days away. I normally liked fatty cuts of meat, but my prime rib was too fatty, I thought. Being diplomatic I was not, I let him know. He still remembers this.

We went back to the dome car after dinner. Now my memories have him sitting next to the window and me at the aisle, on the right side of the train. We must have spent the whole day together. He leaned back and closed his eyes. I thought he was forward when he told me to put my head on his shoulders. He must not have behaved his usual ways either because I don’t really think of him as a forward person. I wanted to be with him then, but I was not about to put my head on a stranger’s shoulders. I felt awkward and did not want to go to sleep next to him, with or without my head on his shoulders. As he fell asleep, I slunk back to my assigned seat.

We got back to each other the next day. At some point we were at the area of my assigned seat. The lady who sat next to me referred to him as my boyfriend. I tried to correct her to no avail. She offered her seat to him.

He gave me his address. It was not a time of cell phones, emails, or instant messages. To correspond, we’d have to write and send letters by putting stamps on envelopes. It was I who would have to write first if I wanted to maintain our friendship. I was about to transfer to a university and I did not have an address.

He was going to Tampa to spend Christmas with his maternal grandmother. I was going to Ocala to see my aunt and cousins. Our train split. I was the one who had to get off. As I was getting off, I gave him a hand squeeze. Touch is in my nature.

As I stood on the platform, he took a photo of me.

I stood and watched the train that carried him leave, craving for him to turn his head once more my way.

I was the one who wrote first. He said in his first letter that he’d be “honored” to be my boyfriend. It was flattering. But my then-boyfriend followed me to the university. And I was still self-conscious about our height difference. But my heart leapt whenever I got a letter from him. For Valentine’s Day, he sent me a stamped, unwrapped baseball. He wrote on it in pink letters “Be my valentine.” He put a 28-cent stamp on it and the post office delivered. I still have it.

It was several months before I parted with my then-boyfriend. It was not because of him. But my heart was free and open.

I finally gave him the “honor” he asked for.

Three years later, we tied the knots. He said our fate was sealed with the hand squeeze three years earlier. But perhaps our fate was sealed when I had to take the chemistry final at the end of the first half of my sophomore year. For you see, my cousin drove his roommate and my sister to Ocala to spend Christmas with his family. I wanted very badly to go with them, but I had to stay behind to take the chemistry final. If I had been a better student, I probably could have taken the final early and be done with it.

And as fate had it, I was not a better student.

My Head Had Spoken

My father passed away seven years ago this month. I spoke these words at his funeral. I miss him and wish he had a chance to meet his first great-grandson. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There lay my father, asleep or resting, on the hospital ICU bed.  The doctor spoke.  She wanted to know our wishes if his heart ever would fail to beat.  The doctor at the previous hospital prior to his transfer here had asked my brother the same question.  The doctor phrased it in the way such that we knew what she thought we should do, based on her medical expertise, as a doctor to the family of a patient.  My sister thought her speech was slanted.  My older brother who is a medical doctor himself told us that the doctor spoke with statistics and experience.  The odds stacked up against my father, heavily.

My father had suffered a prolonged period of reduced blood flow to his vital organs.  His aneurysm ruptured the day before.  We were warned about all possible complications and consequences, and it was too early to tell the extent of any damages.  

We were told my father’s only chance of survival that day was an operation to relieve the pressure that had built up and interfered with his bodily functions.  We consented.  My mother was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and had delegated the decision making on the five of us.  The operation lasted under two hours.  My father pulled through.  He was stable enough that my mother went home to rest.  His conditions remained stable throughout the evening and the night.

In the morning, the doctor called.  We consented to a dialysis and hurried to the hospital.  Then we were told the blood pressure had gone down between the doctor’s call and our arrival and the dialysis could not be performed.  My medical brother looked at the monitor and thought my father would have about twenty minutes before his heart would stop.  This time, we had to make the hard decision of what to do in the event of a heart failure.  There was no time to waste.  My brother explained to us that we could only resuscitate the heart a few times, but in the end the heart would not come back.  My cousin in Arlington had miraculously arrived at the same moment.  We sent my husband out to get my niece.  We were there, crying together, while trying to figure what would be best for my father.  My sister was not quite ready to let go, but she went with the decision to let my father go in peace.  I definitely thought it was the reasonable thing to do, since we had been warned over and over about brain, liver, and kidney damages even if he was to survive.  But as if being comforted by an unexpected reunion with his wife, his five children, his son-in-law, his niece, and his nephew around him; my father refused to go.  His heart rate became steady, albeit weak, and his blood pressure steadily rose from the low 70’s to the mid 90’s.  At one point, it was 105, the minimum pressure required for dialysis.  With my father’s condition stabilized, some of us went home to rest.

Before we had a chance to come back to the hospital, my father’s condition worsened.  His heart rate became irregular again.  As soon as we heard that the EKG chart went flat, we piled into the cars and hurried to the hospital.  I thought we were too late to be there with him when he left our world, but he was the one with the last word.  I dropped my mother and two brothers off as I went to park.  As soon as my mother walked into the room, my father’s heart danced and the monitor picked up movements.  Then as I walked into the room a few minutes later, the same thing happened.  My sister and my husband were the last two to arrive before my father said goodbye for good.  There is no doubt in our minds that he waited for all of us to arrive.  He went peacefully, surrounded by loved ones. 

It has been six days since we said goodbye.  My head had spoken.  It was best for my father to go.  Then why is my heart so heavy?  I’m more in a daze now than when he was in the hospital.  His image appears frequently in my mind.  It was just three weeks ago that we celebrated Tet together and just two weeks ago that we gathered at my brother’s place for dinner.  My cousin was there at Tet celebration.  He and my father recounted their days in the North of Viet Nam where they were born.  I see my father now with his remembering how many “cay bang” at the village gate.  I could only imagine what it looked like.  Then I see him being somewhat unsteady with his steps, but taking the effort to come to my brother’s place in Falls Church.  I recall the phone calls with him when he thought the pharmacist had given him the wrong medicines, despite me telling him otherwise.  When he finally cleared everything with the pharmacist, he told me “You win,” with a chuckle, his way of saying “You were right.”  I thought he was silly of thinking of that as “winning” or “losing.”  But now his words sound so charming and loving, and I want to hear “You win” from him again.  Lately he didn’t give advice, but sometimes sought it.  I want to receive a phone call from him one more time.  He’d begin with “Ba co cai nay muon noi voi Tran,” which means “There is something I want to talk with you about.”  I would then say “Talk to me.  I have all the time in the world.” 

I’d like to thank all of you for taking time to be with us today.  I wish you all the time in the world to spend with your father, mother, and other family members.  

Aplet

I am holding on to the last piece of aplet

Yearning for time to freeze

Time is cruelly marching by

And will be gone as surely as the last piece of aplet of mine

So how is my very own grandson

The smart strong and good-looking dragon boy

I can imagine him so fresh in my mind

His figure's the same as at the moment I saw him last

I know that is not true at all

For he is growing as boys always do

I need a magic carpet of my own

To sneak a peek at him to satisfy my longing so

To hold him tight and to kiss his cheeks tenderly

To coo when he cries and to laugh when he smiles

To tell him over and over how much he is loved

To watch him grow and be there each day he changes

As far as I know magic carpets don’t fly

Over the lands of Texas or of Virginia

Holding his hands each day is an impossible dream

Seeing his face however yet I may be

Nhỏ Con Rồng it’s his name that I call

Giving me so much joy I’ve never even known

I would feel as he made his first appearance

Into my world when the stars start dancing about

His sweet smile generates much sunshine

His innocent eyes drive through the winter blues

His soft pink skin warms the heart and soul

His wiggling toes make the world go ‘round

So call me each day on Skype if you please

Let me gaze into his beautiful face

Let me hear the gurgling sounds he’s making

I want to say hello to the aplet of my eyes

Feb 11, 2013

Poem for Grandson

This poem is dedicated to Nhỏ Con Rồng, the name I call my grandson, who was born January 19, 2013 in Austin, Texas. The first stanza refers to the night of his birth when I returned to his parents' house while he stayed at the hospital. When I got home to Virginia, the amaryllis my friend Judy gave me had bloomed three large beautiful red flowers. I took it as the sign of welcoming my grandson into the world.

 

Golden Silk Thread

I had not yet gotten home

At the street corner I just turned

And yet I began to miss you so

I’ve loved you since before your birth

Oh the big bright eyes of yours

Are as blue as the dreamy lake’s water

And from your sweet tender red lips

Of young milk the fragrance’s still strong

Sweet dreams tonight my dear little one

Together we will be in the morn’

A magical day was thus spent

A day full of glory we were blessed

As the night lulled me to sleep

I saw your face and innocent smile

My heart’s so filled with love and awe

Could have I been in heaven or not yet?

The day I left you came

To see me off at Austin airport

Now I can’t help but think of you

My love for you is overflowing day by day

On my desk the amaryllis

Has bloomed its large red flowers

I am so sure it is stretching high

To welcome you to this world of ours

Here my love to you I send

As a piece of golden silk thread

I will weave it into a poem

And  your name Nhỏ Con Rồng it dances  

The Angels of December

Here, there are many creeks that meander around town; they spring from the edge of the woods or next to wetlands where houses cannot be built. The small town roads often traverse these two areas. In the spring, traffic may stop for a deer or two that nonchalantly emerge from the woods. People enjoy stopping their cars to watch the deer cross the roads. Cars can easily avoid hitting the deer if they go slowly because deer are tall and large, unlike quails and ducks. Deer often get hit when they cross the freeway where cars go fast. On the small roads, one often sees Mother Quail or Mother Duck taking sweet time leading her brood of five or six chicks/ducklings across. A trail walker or jogger would run to the middle of the road to stop traffic with outstretched arms to allow the flock of birds to pass. In this manner, the flock always arrives safely at the other side of the road.

The quail chicks who are as little as tangerines and the ducklings who are as small as lemons sometimes get lost in the fog; only by seeing the mother and hearing the hoarse sound she makes to call her young does one know that a flock of birds is crossing the road. One may have to strain her eyes to see them: little ones clumping together, pattering along to get to the grass field or the brook on the other side of the road in search of food. Their mother turns her head after each step to make sure the little ones are together. Watching  these tiny living things twitter behind their mother, one dreads the possibility that a tomcat would suddenly surface from somewhere to snatch one away, or that a speedy car would accidently crush the tiny bodies under its enormous tire – a tire that is a hundred times as large as the bodies – and the driver would not even be aware of it.

These wild animals are really fortunate here. In developing countries in Asia, they would no doubt be snatched up by somebody and then either get fattened up before being dropped into a cooking pot, or be sold at once at the open market. No one would be standing in the middle of the road to protect them and help them cross it. In America, even wild living things are lovingly protected.

December. It is really cold this year. Cold but beautiful. Streets are decorated and illuminated with blue and red lights from morning till night, or in commercial districts, they are illuminated for the entire 24 hours. Christmas lights of all forms and colors twinkle on every residential rooftop, fake reindeer covered with lights and stars are prominently displayed on front lawns, while Santa Claus modestly stands somewhat hidden behind some bush. People celebrate the holidays, bidding farewell to the “old” year that is about to end, and welcoming the new year. They heap on each other wishes of hopes and dreams. Children are remembered most, above all. Adults may not buy gifts for each other, but they buy gifts for children. The children have the promise of getting the gifts they wanted if they were good girls and boys.

December. In a certain town. There were twenty families in which parents could no longer fulfill the wish lists they already obtained from their children or else they no longer had the opportunity to hand their children presents already wrapped. The little ones, unlike the chicks and ducklings, had no one protecting them. They were ripped from the embraces of their parents in the most cruel way, even more brutally than deaths of ducklings under a car tire in a traffic accident. The parents took their children to school early that morning, kissed them on both cheeks, told them to be good and to listen to their teachers. Who could have known those were the last kisses given to one’s child? The country is at peace, isn’t it? How can children be mass-killed in a hail of gunfire?

December. In this town. Someone was driving on a small road by the side of the woods. When he stopped the car suddenly, cars behind him and from the opposite direction also stopped. A flock of about twenty ducklings advanced in single file, like students in line to enter a classroom. The ducklings twittered in excitement, but stayed in order. Six mother ducks – some walking alongside the ducklings, some following behind – emitted sounds every so often, as though reminding the little ones to stay in line. From time to time, the mothers looked to the right and then to the left to make sure no ducklings stray away. People held their breaths. They had never seen such a large and beautiful flock of birds. Six mothers and twenty or so ducklings made it safely to the other side of the road. Even after they had disappeared into the woods, people still gazed at their path. Where have they taken each other?

December. Six teachers knocked at the Gate of Heaven. Saint Peter opened the Gate. Six teachers presented twenty of their little pupils to God. God took them in His arms, gave to each teacher, a laurel – and to each child, a pair of angel wings.

Translated from:

Những Thiên Thần của tháng Mười Hai

Ở nơi đây có rất nhiều con suối nhỏ (creeks) len lỏi trong thành phố, những con suối này chạy ra từ bìa rừng hay sát một vùng đất ẩm ướt (wet land) người ta không xây nhà được. Những con đường giao thông nhỏ trong thành phố thường hay băng qua hai khu này.Vào mùa xuân, thỉnh thoảng xe cộ đang đi phải ngưng lại cho một hay hai con nai từ trong bìa rừng lững thững đi ra. Cái cảnh ngưng xe lại để ngắm nai qua đường thường là một hình ảnh đẹp và thích thú. Con nai không nhỏ quá, chân lại cao, cho nên nếu xe đi không nhanh quá thì có thể tránh dễ dàng không giống như chim cút và vịt. Nai thường chỉ bị tai nạn khi nó băng qua xa lộ, xe không tránh được vì đang đi nhanh. Cũng trên những con đường nhỏ này, thường gặp bà mẹ cút, hoặc bà mẹ vịt mang một đàn con năm sáu đứa đủng đỉnh sang đường. Có khi khách bộ hành hay người đang chạy bộ thể thao buổi sáng quanh đấy nhìn thấy chúng vội vàng chạy ngay ra giữ đường đứng giang tay chặn xe cộ lưu thông lại cho đàn vịt, đàn cút, đi qua. Những bà mẹ này bao giờ cũng mang con sang đường rất an toàn.

Những con chim cút bé xíu chỉ bằng quả quất, hay những con vịt chỉ bằng quả chanh, có khi chúng lẫn vào sương không nhìn thấy,chỉ nhìn thấy mẹ chúng và cái tiếng khan khan của mẹ vịt gọi con mới biết là có cả đàn đang sang đường. Nhìn kỹ thì thấy chúng: bé quá, ríu rít chụm chúm vào nhau băng qua đường để sang bờ cỏ bên kia hay con suối bên kia tìm thức ăn. Mẹ chúng đi một bước lại ngoái đầu quay lại xem đàn con có đứa nào lạc ra khỏi đàn hay không? Mỗi lần ngắm cái sinh vật bé tí kêu chim chíp theo sau mẹ nó, ai cũng hồi hộp chỉ sợ có con mèo hoang nào ở đâu đó chạy ra vồ một miếng, hay cái xe nào đi nhanh quá không nhìn xuống mặt đường kịp,thế nào cũng cán phải chúng mà không cảm nhận được, vì chúng tan ngay dưới cái bánh xe to bằng cả trăm lần chúng.

Mấy sinh vật hoang dã này, ở đây sướng thật! Ở các nước Á Châu chậm tiến có thể cả mẹ cả con sẽ bị ai đó bắt luôn cả bầy, nuôi cho lớn một chút rồi cho vào nồi hay mang ra chợ bán ngay. Làm gì có ai đứng ra bảo vệ cho mẹ con dắt nhau sang đường như thế này. Ở Mỹ sinh vật hoang dã cũng được yêu thương bảo vệ.

Tháng mười hai, lạnh quá. Lạnh nhưng mà đẹp, vì đường phố đèn hoa chăng khắp nơi, những ngọn đèn hoa xanh đỏ thắp từ sáng cho đến đêm, thắp luôn 24 tiếng ở các khu thương mại; và ở trên hầu hết các mái nhà tư nhân thì đèn giáng sinh chăng lấp lánh đủ mầu, đủ kiểu, những con nai giả phủ kín đèn sao được bầy trên thảm cỏ trước nhà, ông già no-en đứng lấp ló trong bụi cây. Người ta ăn mừng lễ hội và ăn tiễn một năm cũ sắp qua, một năm mới đang tới. Bao hy vọng, ước nguyện được hào sảng tặng cho nhau. Trẻ con là những phần tử được nhớ đến nhiều hơn ai hết. Người lớn có thể không mua quà cho nhau, nhưng ai ai cũng mua quà cho trẻ con. Chúng được ông bà, cha mẹ hứa hẹn cho những món quà chúng thích nếu chúng ngoan ngoãn.

Tháng mười hai, ở một thành phố kia có hai mươi gia đình đã mang theo trong người cái danh sách mua quà Giáng Sinh cho con rồi nhưng không còn thực hiện được nữa, hoặc có cha mẹ đã gói sẵn rồi nhưng không có dịp trao cho con mình. Những đứa bé như con chim cút, như con vịt tí hon kia không được ai bảo vệ chúng. Chúng bị lấy ra khỏi vòng tay cha mẹ một cách tàn bạo nhất, tàn bạo hơn cả một tai nạn lưu thông giữa cái bánh xe và đàn vịt. Cha mẹ buổi sáng đưa con đến trường, hôn con lên hai bên má, dặn con học ngoan, vâng lời cô giáo. Làm sao biết được đó là những nụ hôn cuối cùng cho con mình. Đất nước đang thanh bình mà, trẻ thơ làm sao lại chết tập thể bằng súng đạn được!

Tháng mười hai có người lái xe trên con đường nhỏ, con đường bên cạnh cánh rừng, bỗng phải ngưng lại, tất cả các xe đang chạy hai chiều cũng phải ngưng lại theo. Một đàn vịt có đến hai mươi con bé tí xíu, xếp hàng một, như học sinh xếp hàng vào lớp, theo sau và bên cạnh chúng là sáu con vịt mẹ. Chúng đi ríu rít nhưng nghiêm chỉnh, các bà mẹ chúng thỉnh thoảng lại cất tiếng kêu lên, như nhắc nhở chúng giữ hàng, thỉnh thoảng lại quay sang phải, sang trái xem có mất đứa con nào không. Mọi người bên đường như nín thở, chưa bao giờ được ngắm một đàn vịt đông và đẹp như thế. Cả đàn vịt sáu bà mẹ và hai mươi đứa con mang nhau bình an sang được con đường phía bên kia. Đàn vịt đã đi khuất vào bụi cây của cánh rừng nhỏ, mọi người còn dõi mắt trông theo. Chúng mang nhau đi về đâu?

Tháng mười hai, có sáu cô giáo đến gõ cửa thiên đàng. Thánh Peter ra mở cửa, sáu cô giáo mang theo hai mươi em học trò bé nhỏ vào gặp Chúa. Chúa ôm những đứa bé vào lòng, trao cho mỗi cô giáo một vòng nguyệt quế và mỗi em bé một cặp cánh thiên thần.

Trần Mộng Tú

Tháng 12/2012

Veteran's Day

Veteran’s Day comes once a year

To let us pause and think of you,

Of those who fought and served for all,

Of those whose lives forever did change,

Of those who sacrificed your own

Freedom to assure freedom for all.

We are here to salute you,

Peace be with you throughout the year.

Happy Veteran’s Day to you,

To all the veterans on our land.

Land of peace and opportunities,

Land of love, precious land where we live.

Halloween Night When Strange Things Happen

BREAKING NEWS -- In a bold move, the Witchita School District (WSD) tapped into a resource that no other school system has: They hired witches to fill vacancies created by a shortage of teachers. WSD superintendent predicts that other school districts will follow suit. After centuries of being misunderstood, the Association of Good Witches is eager to show that their members are productive citizens who have skills to contribute to society.