Part II: 'Celebrating' Empire's 250th With My Family's Refugee Story

I didn't expect to take so long to share this story. I thought I'd done enough processing for it to just flow out of my fingers but even writing Part I was a lot. Add to that the constant interruptions one gets as a mom, who's trying to exist and create while struggling with invisible disabilities, means that nothing seems to get accomplished within a 'normal' span of time. But that's ok, I try to remind myself that manufactured urgency is a colonizer construct. I spent the last couple of months being overwhelmed as usual, with an ER visit add-on, but was fortunate to write and self-record three new songs that I'm just so fucking proud of. That's my happy place, 2nd to playing shows with my bandmates. So there's that. Then I had this fear that I will not do this story justice. And then I remembered perfectionism is yet another colonizer construct. My wonderful therapist, who is also of the Viet diaspora, gave me homework - to remind myself daily that I'm enough. Ok. I'm enough.

Disclaimer: this is my family's experience as it was told to me, it does not represent all of the Viet diaspora. The views expressed in my blogs are all mine, no one else's.

Why Leave Vietnam?

After the 'American War', the new Vietnamese government had to find a way to recoup the losses and rebuild. Yes, the North Vietnamese won but the war lasted 20+ years with heavy human and economic cost on all sides, and this was on top of all the fuckery from France and Japan. I remember visiting Saigon and Bien Hoa a few times throughout early elementary school, in the late 80s, vividly remembering the stab of confused grief for every kid I saw on the streets, many around my age or younger with missing limbs, begging. There was never any conversation in my family about how that happened, just that my brothers and I had to remind ourselves not to ask for too much because look how lucky we were. No matter how much I complained about my ill fitting clothes or not having any toys, at least I had all my limbs and lived safely in 'America.' I could sense the survivor's guilt in my Mom even though I didn't understand it, especially when yes...we were lucky Americans now but not well-to-do enough to give to everyone who begged.

As part of the South Vietnamese Air Force aka the US side, my Dad was in the US for training some time prior to the end of the war, but defected while he was here and was granted asylum. Mom's side of the family did not have it so easy.

The new communist government imposed an income cap, no one was allowed to keep more than a certain amount per month, and everything in excess of that cap was to be handed over. Mom's parents owned a wholesale fabric shop in Saigon and made enough money to have saved plenty in gold, much of which my Grandmother buried underground on their property. Many families in South Vietnam were not so fortunate. People starved and could not get proper care, many died of illness or malnutrition. Many died from stepping on hidden landmines. People who were known or suspected of having colluded with the US were sent to reeducation or prison camps, often for an undetermined amount of time, where they were forced to learn about communism and work in the fields, often without adequate food or medical care. Many died in these camps. Mom's older brother, Cau 3, was at one of these camps. He never came back. I never met him. If you were suspected of being capitalist or aligning with capitalism, you were not safe. There was no due process for determining this, either.

It's too easy to romanticize with the side that beat Empire, but we have to learn dialectical thinking - to understand multiple truths at the same time. On the flip side you also have folks blaming either Communism or the false idea that people who were not white did not know how to govern themselves in a 'civilized' way. No, this internal division and violence is the result of manufactured scarcity and collective trauma (which does not excuse it!). This is what happens to human beings when Empire extracts and erases. Look at the aftermath of every US intervention. That violent disruption by the powerful foreign country is the common denominator.

Who Gets To Leave?

My Mom was the 4th out of 12 children in the family. To protect their privacy, I'll refer to her siblings - my aunts and uncles - by their birth order + 1, which is how I address them in real life anyhow. The reason for the 'plus 1' is due to Viet and Chinese tradition, the belief was that the first born is most coveted by demons, so you address the eldest as #2 to keep them safe.

My grandfather had multiple wives so his time was split between multiple families. I think I heard he had three. Thus, my grandmother was the one to make important family decisions, such as which children to put on a boat to find a better life due to post-war hardship. She never spoke of how she chose the way she did, because half stayed in Vietnam. My auntie 8 thinks Mom was picked because she had a love interest. Because Vietnam had been at war for so long, Mom and her sisters were not allowed to marry because Vietnamese men either died in war or were shamed into hiding in order to avoid fighting, and in the aftermath, there was a fear that he'd be taken away by the new authorities. The chosen ones were also highly educated - Mom was a middle school literature teacher who loved to tell stories to her younger siblings. Aunties 6, 8, and 9 were also highly educated in the fields of science - geopolitics, military studies, and biochemistry. Their skillsets and tenacity saved them multiple times on the journey.

It was illegal to escape Vietnam, so the exit had to be done in secret.

In the middle of the night, Mom, who was in her late 20s, along with seven of her younger siblings - my Aunties 6, 8, and 9 with Uncles 7 and Uc (the youngest, who wasn't even a teenager at the time) - each wearing a long French poncho with hidden pockets that carried the bare essentials, were shuffled to their boat.

Ba Ngoai painstakingly and thoughtfully prepped each poncho for each of her children - 10 ounces of gold, their favorite food, plus anything else meaningful or potentially useful. I think about how hard my brain works when I pack my kids' school lunch because of her neurodivergence, and I compare with what Ba Ngoai must have gone through as she packed these, and my heart just wants to collapse. Mom was 'the beauty queen' in the family, so under her poncho she wore gold jewelry, pieces she could use to pay for survival. I wish I'd written down all the little details but was too busy aching and processing as I listened, and now I don't remember.

Earlier that evening, the family enjoyed their last big meal together in preparation. I forgot to ask as the story was told to me - what were they told about their impending journey? Did they know the direction the boat was heading? How much notice were they given? How did they mentally prepare? What were the specs of the boat? What was the hookup?

I reached out to my auntie for a follow up, the one I felt comfortable enough to ask for a story in the first place, and haven't gotten an answer. I'm not going to push for one, and I'm grateful she even shared all this with me in the first place.

I'm having a hard time right now. So this will have to continue as Part III another time.

Thank you for reading this far.