Mom's With Us

This is from my best friend Tâm Thành. I called her mom Má. Now she calls my mom Mom. 

I have known Trân and her mom, Ms. Kim Tước, since I was eleven or twelve years old. Trân and I went to high school together from 6th to 12th grade and we always sat next to each other in the front row of the classroom because we were both …short. I used to go to her house, which was a very nice bookstore. I bet her mom read every book in there because she was so intelligent. Trân used to come to my house, too. We cooked together, played together, and she called my mom "Má." So today, I would like to call your mom "Mom." Is that okay?

I left South Vietnam by plane just a few days before the communists took over in 1975, and Trân and her family left a few days later by boat. Like a miracle, we reunited months later in a refugee camp in Arkansas. From that time on, we have stayed in touch. I have seen Trân, her mom, and her family several times over the years. Last year, I went to Austin and met her mom. Every time she saw me, she would recite Sino-Vietnamese poems. Although she and I were never Facebook friends, she often jumped into my conversations with my friends to leave comments—showing just how sharp she was.

Today, Trân wants to celebrate the life of her mom. I know she is feeling very sad right now, and Mom would like me to read this poem especially for you.

Đừng đứng khóc bên nấm mồ của mẹ
Mẹ không ở trong mồ; mẹ có ngủ đâu con.
Mẹ là cả một ngàn cơn gió nhẹ,
Là những óng ánh kim cương trên tuyết trong
Mẹ là mặt trời trên lúa vàng chín mọng,
Mẹ là cơn mưa thu thân thương.
Lúc con thức vào buổi mai êm ả
Mẹ là lời thúc giục gọi đàn chim
Khi chúng đang vòng vòng bay thư thả.
Mẹ là ánh sao mềm rọi sáng suốt ban đêm.
Đừng đứng khóc bên nấm mồ của mẹ
Mẹ không ở trong mồ; mẹ có chết đâu con

DO NOT STAND AT MY GRAVE AND WEEP
Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
l am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.

Cụ

This is what George said about my mom, whom his children called Cụ, which means great-grandmother.

I’ll start with a thought that I had when I was sitting by Cụ in her last moments. I wondered to myself what a little Cụ, about 7 years old or so in a northern Vietnamese village, would think if someone told her that in her last moments, there’d be a giant, round-eyed Texan crying at her bedside. What a strange world.

While we’re all reflecting on Cụ, let me share a few things I learned while the two of us lived together.  

She was the worst at mowing the lawn. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t really know what her lawn-mowing skills were like because she always refused to mow. Annoying.

Now, her ice cream-eating skills were the stuff of legend. It didn’t matter what time of day or what flavor. This includes the nightmare concoction of pickle chamoy. If you put a bowl of ice cream in front of Cu, she’d eat it. A common conversation would be:

Me-Would you like some more dinner?

Cụ- I’m full.

Me- Would you like a massive bowl of ice cream?

Cu- Có.

There was no need for a security system with Cụ around. She made sure to perform her rounds every 5 minutes looking out of the windows. Her reports were frequent and consisted of telling me there was a package at the door; there was a new car in the driveway; and there were no communists outside. The major problem with the Cụ security system is that it only worked when she was awake. So that means you had about 2-3 hours of protection during the day and a good 10 hours at night.

Like me, she loved stupid comedies. There were many times I would look over and think she’d fallen asleep. Then something ridiculous would happen in the movie, and she’d burst out with a “xạo!” I typically laughed more at her expression than whatever was happening on the screen.  

She was my favorite co-pilot on drives. We had a silent agreement - the fact that neither one of us understood the other wouldn’t keep us from having a conversation. Cụ would say something in Vietnamese with a lot of enthusiasm, and I would reply, with equal enthusiasm, “of course, I checked the tire pressure before we left,” or “I thought you were supposed to get the milk,”  or “I don’t know who the pitcher is for tonight’s game. I don’t watch baseball,” or “The same thing we do every night, Cụ. Try to take over the world.”  Without fail, she would always give me a look that made me suspect that I just might have responded to her correctly. I guess I’ll never know.

I was fortunate to have spent around 4 percent of Cụ’s life with her. On one of our drives together, it was raining, and Cụ must have been impressed by the storm, because she said one of her patented “wows.” I had to agree, but I’m biased because I love rainstorms. I love watching them roll in and always feel calm with the water pouring overhead. Cụ reminds me of a good rainstorm. One thing I learned from talking to her oldest daughter was that Cụ rarely, if at all, ever expressed her feelings - her love for her children - with the actual words, “I love you.” But she did love them. Like rain can reshape mountains and valleys, like it can test the limits of the strongest of our creations, Cụ’s love for her children molded them so that they could survive and thrive in a hard world. And so they have. Now, Cụ told her grandkids and great-grandkids that she loved them. She played with them and hugged them. The rain can be nurturing, too.  

The day that Cụ left us, the sun was out, the temperature had dropped, and the skies were clear. There’s no question it was a beautiful day. I was sitting there wondering if maybe Cụ did that for us. Or maybe that’s how she wanted to make her exit. But as for me, I will always love the rain.

Ninety-Nine Years Blessed

My cousin Nguyễn Lê Hùng wrote a poem for my mom after her passing. I read it at her memorial service.

To Bác Hoạt, a Beloved Vietnamese Mother, Ninety-Nine Years Blessed

Today I offer my last wish of honor,
With gratitude, remembrance, and love,
For a Vietnamese mother blessed with ninety-nine full years,
Now gently resting in the heaven peace above.

I remember in the summer of 1975,
When we crossed the sea to a new homeland;
You and your children shared the same condominium,
Beside my family and nephews, hand in hand.
In the early days, we built our immigrant homes from hope,
And your presence made that new beginning kind.

You were a Vietnamese mother of enduring grace,
Tireless in labor, selfless in every care;
Through weary days, you comforted your children,
Giving without measure, always there.
Your love reached far beyond the family doorway,
Across the vast ocean, steadfast and deep;
Even the wind, the waves, and distant shorelines
Seemed to grow still when your memories spoke.

We celebrate your blessed and enriching journey—
A life rewarding, fulfilled, and complete;
Ninety-nine years of family, faith, and giving,
A harvest of love both abundant and sweet.

Though you have gently left this earthly home,
You remain forever in our hearts and stories.
May heaven welcome you among your loved ones and friends,
Where radiant landscapes shine in endless glory.
Dance lightly upon the rainbows, dear Vietnamese Mother,
In joy, in beauty, and in peace evermore.

With Love and Cherished Memories,

Cháu Hùng

I'm So Sorry For Your Loss

Lan's poem for her grandma

That’s very nice of you.

But you don’t understand my loss.
Some grandmas grew up in a nice church family.
Some could turn a house into a home.
Some might have, on occasion, made a jello salad for a potluck.

Mine ran her own business and left it all behind.
Mine brought her family to this country at the end of the Vietnam War.
Mine took college classes in her second language.
Mine could beat you at chess.

My grandma lived with me for the last three and a half years.
She had dementia, and it only continued to progress.
Dad doesn’t want her memory to be reduced to how she was at the end.
But that’s what I know best.

That’s what I’ve grown to love, and it’s what I miss.

I miss her wearing her stupid pink jacket when it was too hot outside.
I miss her telling Mom that she had been brushing her teeth for two whole minutes.
I miss waking up because she was sneaking around in the middle of the night.
I miss her stealing the cookies that were meant for my clients.
I miss seeing her rifle through the mail.
I miss having her push the shopping cart with her sunglasses on.
I miss seeing her pretend to box with Drakeson.
I miss hearing her laugh at Lucille Ball eating too many chocolates.
I miss braiding her hair.
I miss her recitations of Vietnamese poetry.
I miss noticing that it was beautiful outside, but only because she had told me so.
I miss that every outing was a field trip.

Every outing was a field trip.

Dad remembers an elegant, classy, and determined lady.
I remember the one who made every outing a field trip.
At age 48, she got onto that boat.
At age 99, she changed her little shoes and sat patiently on her little table.
She was too busy that day to not go push that cart.

But here's the thing.
It's all the same.
Her strength never wavered.
For the ladies who make the jello salads don’t steal the cookies.
They don’t pack their bags for secret trips.
They don't scale the balcony.
They don’t win at cards.
Or put their money where their mouth is.
They hardly ever make it to 99,
They lose at chess,
And they never, ever make every outing a field trip.

I want you by my side for every field trip.
Sit with me in the car again and laugh at the traffic.
Push the cart. I promise not to walk too far ahead.
I'll help you get buckled.
I'll hold your hand in the parking lot so we don't get lost.
And you'll hold my hand.
I'll need you to, because you've always been, and always will be
Braver and stronger than I am.
And together, we'll see all there is to see.

My Mother-in-Law

This was what Tom said at my mom's memorial service.

She was my mother-in-law for nearly 47 years.  I don’t think she was that happy about it at first. She had just uprooted her family from her home country, and her beautiful daughter was marrying a big dumb American who didn’t speak Vietnamese.

For almost all of those 47 years, we lived fairly close to each other and saw each other quite often. She always impressed me as a very strong, very classy individual. She was certainly dealt a pretty tough hand to play. Forced to flee her home country in her late 40s, she escaped with her family to a strange cold country where nobody spoke her language, and with very little money. But with unending energy and determination, she played that hand beautifully, learning the language, getting a job, and buying a house before moving to Virginia in 1989 to be closer to us.

Until 2022, we lived close to each other in Virginia, and we got together many times. I got the feeling that she grew to like me or at least to be happy that I was on the scene. She was always kind to my parents, and I think they grew to respect each other and enjoy each other’s company. I’m sure that our marriage was not what either set of parents had imagined, but I know that my parents grew to be very proud of their daughter-in-law and her parents. When my mother could no longer travel, my mother-in-law always told me that she missed my parents. It seems to me that both my own parents and my in-laws grew from tolerance or acceptance, to something close to pride and love for their in-laws and their in-laws’ parents.

My mother-in-law reached her 90^th birthday before she slowed down and even then, she was in no mood to sit around. She was always very energetic and ready for an outing, and this is one of the biggest of many things about her that I will miss. Even when dementia robbed her of so much, so much of her spirit was still evident and her abundant energy showed through until the last few days. She was a dynamic woman and one of the joys in my life was to know her.

Mom's Celebration of Life

I had planned Mom's 99th birthday to be on a bat watching sunset cruise on Lady Bird Lake. In October. Even though her real birthday was in January. Because her paper birthday was in October.

Mom had a different plan. She left us three weeks prior to the party.

To borrow my dear friend Jane’s words, my mom left this life peacefully on the wings of angels. What a lovely transport supporting her. My mom left at 2:17pm on Tuesday October 6th. Lan said my mom left at that time so she could attend the Mad Hatter/Alice Party that evening. But I think also because that’s when all people who were living with her were with her at her bedside (and that window was so tight), plus my sister and brother from out of town. Mom’s 99th Birthday party became a Celebration of Life party. We paid tribute to my mom and shared stories about her. We raised our glasses in her honor and threw flowers into the river to give her a big sendoff. We laughed and cried and hugged each other. We took pictures for her memory book.

We celebrated the life of a remarkable woman who took her five children out of Vietnam at the end of the Vietnam War to the land of opportunity. I owe my existing life to her. The following was what I shared about my mom.

Hello everyone,

This was supposed to be Mom’s 99th birthday party. The angels came to take her on a trip away from this world three weeks ago on a Tuesday. I had prepared this speech before her passing, not knowing I’d have to change many present tenses to past tenses.

My mom turned 99 on January 13th. My friend said my mom was already 100 years old, because in Vietnam, we are 1 year old at birth and gain a year of age at each Lunar New Year. But my mom was actually already 101 because she was born on Dec 10, 1926 (lunar calendar). She was 1 year old on the day she was born and turned 2 on Jan 1, 1927 (Lunar New Year) when she had been in the world for a mere 20 days.

Thank you for being here to celebrate my mom’s life, a remarkable life that began in Ninh Tảo Village in northern Vietnam, wound its way south to Đà Lạt and Saigon, crossed the Pacific Ocean to Arkansas, Illinois, Virginia, and ended in the heart of the Texas Hill Country.

I’d like to share a few things about my mom.

•      My mom loved to learn and loved to travel.

She came to the US when she was 48 years old, starting out working in a factory. She took ESOL classes and attended community colleges where she earned straight A’s and obtained a degree that landed her desk jobs at a publishing company and at a doctor’s office.

She had whitewater rafted, cruised the ocean, hiked on steep or snowy mountain trails, posed with buffalos and elk and wild horses, gone to Europe, survived wars, and more.

•      My mom had a sense of humor.

When George told her that it was her turn to mow the lawn, she retorted “That’s a man’s job.” Then he said, “You should cook and clean,” she replied “That’s also a man’s job.”

•      My mom loved poetry and literature

She read and recited poems. She memorized poems from famous poets as well as folk poems. She had her own poems and essays published in Vietnamese magazines. She used to sit at her computer each day to read the Vietnamese websites, correspond with people through emails, and make comments on FB posts.  

•       My mom had a sweet tooth.

When I asked if she wanted more food after a meal, she would say “No, I’m already very full.” Then I asked “Do you want ice cream?” She would laugh “Yes.” She was known to consume a whole box of chocolates in a single day.

•     My mom prided herself as a good walker.

She used to walk from one village to another to buy and sell cloth in her youth. When she was 90 years old, we had a family reunion in Outer Banks. While visiting the Wright Brothers National Memorial, I asked my mom where she’d like to explore next. There was a group of us (mostly adult males) heading to one location. I asked my mom if she wanted to follow them or to explore another part of the park. She told me to go to another part, because “those people walk too slowly.”

•     My mom loved her independence.

She balked at being transported in a wheelchair. She told her home health caregivers not to come the next day because she could take care of herself.

A nurse came to assess my mom to see what she needed help with. My mom told the nurse “Thank you very much, but I am fine. I do not need help.” My mom spoke in Vietnamese and I didn’t translate “I do not need help” to the nurse.

•     My mom loved to go on car rides.

She would ask Tom “Where are you going?” and it didn’t matter where he was going, she’d say “Take me with you.” Once when Tom was going swimming, she told him that she would sit and watch him swim.

•     My mom loved the game of tam cúc, a Vietnamese card game – even more than car rides

We were playing one day and Lan was leaving to pick up her children from school. I asked my mom if she wanted to go with Lan. Normally she jumped at the chance, but that day she said “No, I’m playing tam cúc.” The same thing happened other times when Tom or George headed out and invited her to go with them while she was playing tam cùc. We played with pennies, dimes, and nickles. I kept a box full of them. After each game, my mom didn’t want to put “her money” back into the box. She’d put the coins in her pocket for safe keeping.

I had planned to ask people to take pictures with my mom. Mom is not here, but please do allow Drakeson to take pictures of you or take selfies tonight and send them to me. I’d like to put them in a memory book for my mom. Let’s celebrate and honor this woman who had earned the respect and admiration of the people who met her.

Mom Has Gone Home

My mom has gone home. She has “về nhà.” She went home on the wings of angels. 

The day before she left us, her granddaughter Lan wrote “[She] is remarkably beautiful and strong through all of this. Her skin is so soft, her hair is so gorgeous, and she doesn’t have the ‘ugly dying person’ face. She’s so perfectly adorable; you would have to be here to believe it. She’s a legend.”

I hope my siblings and others can attest with their own stories about this legendary woman. As for me, I would just like to share my feelings of missing her, even before the angels came.

It’s often too late
When one changes annoyance to love
I miss your Tùy Con
And Con ăn gì Mẹ ăn cái ấy
I was not happy
You made me choose
It is so much easier
To be told what to do
Instead of having to think
And act on what you think is best
But now I want to decide for you
Whatever you don’t care to do on your own
I want to see you
Sit across from me
At our kitchenette table
Just you and me
You’d ask me
If bác Đệ is still alive
Or if bác Đệ has ever visited us here
Or if I knew bác Đệ at all
You’d ask me
If Ông Bà are still alive
And if they died here or in Vietnam
And tell me how you missed them
You’d ask me
How Ba died
Was he afraid of someone or something
And why did he die so young
I already miss
Our time together
As you sleep peacefully
On the bed next to mine
I already miss
Your stubborness and your grit
Your determination
Your resourcefulness
Your strength
You were a woman on the go
And I take after you
I am happy
To be a woman on the go
Just like you

At the end of my mom’s life, she wanted to go home to Ninh Tảo, the village where she was born. 

Tomorrow when I go home to Ninh Tảo 
By myself – she won’t be my guide
I will not be able to imagine accurately
Everything that’s in her memories
I will burst out crying
Regrets will fill me for I have lost
Something I’ve never had before
I have never held it
In the little hands of mine
I have never caressed it
As I caressed the doll with eyes that could open and close
I have never kissed it
As I kissed my mom’s cheeks
I have never stroked it
As I stroked my mom’s skinny hands
I have never lain next to it
As I lay next to my mom this morning
It was already dawn
And yet the house was so quiet
Time seemed to have stopped
So I could enjoy
This moment with just my mom and me
I thought of the previous days
When my mom was still with sparks in her eyes
She exclaimed The sun is so beautfiful
She asked me the questions
She asked each day
I miss those days
I want those days to come back
As a person coming back from an illness
And I wish
I could take my mom home to Ninh Tảo
How fabulous it would be
But I know
That will never happen
I miss so much
The Ninh Tảo I never have had

My dear friend Jane says strength lies in the deep suffering of our hearts. I hope to carry strength throughout my life, even though the price of strength is suffering.