My first submission ended in rejection. I polished this at a professor’s recommendation, and am pleased with the result even if I feel it to be not the type of story I wish to be known for.
I have never given my parents a birthday present and they returned the sentiment in kind, though this would make more sense reversed considering it would be difficult for me to gift them with anything other than my presence less than a year out of the womb.
My parents opened a bank account for me in high school, and I went mad with purchasing power. There was no real spark that lighted my fire to go out and get him something. It was likely just a medley of moments breaking through my fog of mundaneness. Him eating alone at the table– he hadn’t been on good terms with my mother for over a decade, and I had once told him that when he watches me eat it makes me uncomfortable. His nighttime shuffling– my father has had a few mental afflictions, one of which being insomnia, all of which destined to never see its way to a medical professional. His only moment of joy:
Drinking and gambling with his friends in our dimly lit, green garage. It will return to being blue by morning once all its instruments of joy have been swept away.
He loves playing a modified version of poker. I know how to play, but I couldn’t tell you when he had learned nor where it originated from. There was likely a point in time he tried to tell me its history and I promptly shut him down. Or worse, he did tell me and at this point I’ve forgotten about it. To me, the first option is kinder to the both of us.
My father loves telling me stories as much as I tire hearing of them. So it was unfortunate, but inevitable, that he wouldn’t be the one to tell me about where we had come from. I don’t speak of my birthplace, but where we, written the same way my middle name is written, Mình, had come from.
This journey came instead when I was accosted in the schoolyard by a veteran. To be transparent, I’m not completely certain he had partaken in any war. It’s just that the story I am soon to unravel becomes stranger if this isn’t the case. While one of our middle school teachers had been away, a substitute teacher had taken his place and spent all of class time yammering and yapping about the Vietnam War. This arrangement lasted a total of one period, though this was enough time for him to identify the only two Asian students in the class and ask them for their time during recess. Instructors are a symbol of safe haven; I am the same as every other student in there. There was no reason to dread.
All we did was talk. Other than a spiel about years and battle tactics I had forgotten within the same day, he imparted to me knowledge I have not forgotten to this day.
“Of course, some people say we lost the war. But we actually won. You wanna know why? It’s because we got the biggest prize out there.” Cue a finger pointing to our heads.
“You.”
It’s comedic to think about the dialogue this adult man was having with two prepubescent teens now, but back then we both looked blankly back at him. See, I was confused: here this man was, monologuing about how Vietnamese refugees were the greatest thing to result from the war, and I was still caught up with the fact that, for the first time in my life, there was the possibility I was not from this land; I was given to it.
I decided to give my dad a pack of cards. Every house in my family branch holds at least one five-dollar Bicycle deck of playing cards. They’re smooth and laminated between your fingers, lovely quality for how much you spend. My idea of presents came from media I’ve consumed: a higher quality version of something the recipient used often. The choice was evident after scouring online.
I bought him a sixty-dollar deck. I made the mistake of someone who had never had an allowance before in their life, thinking more expensive is better. When it arrived in the mail, I immediately unwrapped it and showed him.
“(What’s this?)”
“Your birthday present.”
“(Playing cards?)”
“Yeah, guess how much they are!” I eagerly say. When he waits in silence for my answer, I continue. “Sixty dollars.”
“(S-sixty dollars!) Trời đất ơi!”
And he laughed. At the time, I was crestfallen at his reaction. Now, I am moreso glad he didn’t erupt in anger. God knows how often he did that instead.
He thanked me after noticing how disappointed I was, but it was far too late. We moved on without saying much, and this ended up becoming one of many reasons why my resentment for my father grew.
I often think of the teenage Vietnamese-American life. Our role models cannot be our parents. They are bygones of an era long past. There seem to be only three famous Vietnamese-Americans people know: Ke Huy Quan, Keshi, and you, the joke being if you asked somebody the same question they would answer with their Vietnamese friend.
I used to find the idea of social life in my hometown of San Jose, the #1 Vietnamese-American city in the world, to be depressing.
Driving to a boba store, which used to be a different boba store in another location but temporarily closed down due to the married owners getting into a financial dispute resulting in them branching off into separate entities, at night.
Bringing someone to the “I know a spot,” a large hill near the mountains overlooking the entire city where if you walked around high enough you could look down to see a screening of the most recent film playing at a drive-in theater.
Eating In-N-Out.
Now I find it all gorgeous. It’s a competition to flaunt personal success to gain admiration from others. A dirty feeling of vanity combined with a corrupt understanding of relationships, but admiration signals welcoming. Being welcomed illustrates you have finally earned your place here.
Victory sprouts once you have survived. Desire spreads once your need to live has been fulfilled.
Was I gifted to America, or was this land gifted to us? I guess I don’t lead the score between me and my father in giving each other presents. I have given him a pack of playing cards. He has given me a limitless, now guiltless, future.
Years later, I am in the darkest stage of my life, but I am alive. I return to my parents’ house as I take a gap semester to decide on my future. I ask him what ended up happening with the deck. He tells me that he has it saved for a special occasion.
We both know he’s full of shit, that he will likely use Bicycle playing cards for the rest of his life, but I am content knowing that he has it stowed as a special memento.
Though he might be full of shit about still having it too.
