Learning to Breathe: A Memoir (Chapter 2)

2 | Learning to Breathe: A Memoir

~ Life begins when we choose to live‌ ~

by Langelo

Chapter 2 Family Tree Our Mom’s father had been married three times. The first wife had died from an illness, leaving one son behind. The second died from taking the wrong medication and had never given birth. Mom’s mother was the third wife. When Mom was around twelve years old, her Dad became ill and died.

He left behind Grandma Vuong, Di Cou Foo, Mom, Aunty Tam, Uncle Chu, and Uncle Dony.

They were wretchedly poor. Unable to pay for a proper burial, they begged their neighbors for spare change. With the little money they collected, they bought a rag for a shroud and a humble plot. Grandma Vuong worked longer hours as a chef after Grandpa Vuong passed away. Grandma Vuong believed, and Mom brought up this phrase often when she taught us about life’s journey, the Chinese saying that goes, “If the horse on which you ride dies, you have to walk.” And walk Grandma Vuong did by working long crazy hours. When opportunity arose, she took on two shifts, and had very little time to care for the family. Mom and Aunty Tam ran the family and did all the domestic chores since their eldest brother Di Cou Foo was too irresponsible and wild with more interest in chasing after girls and gambling than in the family, and the other two brothers were too young.

Without money, school was not a realistic possibility, so all of them had to study on their own.

At the age of thirteen, Mom joined Grandma Vuong at her work while Aunty Tam took over caring for the family. The little money that came in went to food and clothing. Their clothes were torn and ragged. Their house leaked during the stormy seasons, and sometimes it would flood if it rained too hard. In spite of their terrible hardships, Mom remembered the family as full of warmth and happiness, everyone helped each other out. Even Di Cou Foo — in times of need, contributed.

Grandma Vuong argued with him much of the time, because she had higher expectations for her eldest son. In Grandma Vuong’s eyes, his help was never enough. Our culture places a lot of responsibility on one in his position. The Chinese believe that the eldest male in the family must take on a father’s role if the father dies young. Not only does the eldest male have to provide financially for the family, but he must also discipline his junior siblings and set a good example.

Mom was eighteen when she married Dad. Soon after, Mom gave birth to Fong. Dad was drafted into the army at the age of eighteen, as was compulsory in Vietnam. He served many years before he bribed government officials so they would make it appear that he was serving his country while he tended his business… and since Dad was supposed to be serving his country and at war he did not sign Fong’s birth certificate. That was how Fong received Mom’s surname: Vuong.

Our family fortunes thrived because of Mom’s determination to excel in life, and Dad’s willingness to take risks in his illegal meat business. It was illegal because the communist government wanted to have full control of the lucrative meat market. Dad bribed government officials and bought his way out of all kinds of things. That made him a lot of friends, but it made him an equal number of enemies. He was always on the road, taking

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risks, while Mom stayed at home handling the accounts. His friends often teased him and said, “The wife uses her brain while you use brute strength.”

“Ha ha ha,” Dad said, “As you can see, I’m not a half-wit at the gambling table.” And Dad was speaking the truth — he was quite diligent at the gambling table. It seemed he had the luck of winning.

Mom slowly amassed enough money to provide for her own family. She gave Grandma Vuong money to repair and remodel the old leaky house. To avoid gossip, Mom instructed her mother, “You tell the neighbors that the money you have to renovate the house was earned through interest from Jup Woo.” Jup Woo was a banking system and social institution prevalent in Vietnam at this period, which acted as an unofficial bank between trusted friends and business associates.

It was very expensive to erect a brick facing on Grandma Vuong’s old wooden house, and Dad’s family became suspicious about the source of the funds. They filled Dad’s ear with gossip. So what if Mom gave money to her side of the family? Of course, Dad would not want his parents to know that he didn’t mind his wife giving his hard earned money to her side of the family. And I’m sure he knew. But he also knew that without Mom, his business would not have run so smoothly.

Mom and Dad had the right attitude: they worked very hard, and built up trust within the community. They were even able to run a successful Chinese lottery game in their neighborhood, called Gee Far. Money had made Mom and Dad people of standing in the community.

About a year after having Fong, Mom gave birth to Kuang. The circumstances of the war made it necessary for Dad to appear to be away on duty yet again. And on the birth certificate, his first son was registered under Mom’s surname: Vuong. Shortly after Kuang’s birth, the war stabilized somewhat. Dad could legally be at home to oversee his business.

It was late 1970, and the Vietnamese government was particularly inflexible in the matter of the sale of illegal meat. Since the government wanted full control of the money-making meat market, the police were afraid to take bribe money. Dad put too much trust in his workers and gave them too many responsibilities. Due to inexperience, most of his workers were arrested. The police seized all the pigs they had purchased. Dad used his savings to provide for his employees’ families, so that his name would never be mentioned. The workers would be staying in prison for a couple of years for smuggling.

With the livestock gone and the capital draining away, money was becoming a critical issue for our family. The business swiftly declined.

And with police constantly raiding the black market, it was difficult for Dad to find sellers. When he did find dealers, they asked for large advances. With prices inflated, our financial burden grew.

Since most of Dad's income came from the sale of this meat, he was compelled to ask his oldest brother, Ah Yeh, for a loan. Ah Yeh refused, because he did not believe Dad would ever be able to pay him back. Dad was even more furious when his own parents refused to lend him the money that he needed. His parents told him, “Why don’t you ask your smart wife for the money.” Clearly, they implied that Mom had hidden money under Dad’s nose.

The wives of their other two sons deferred absolutely to their husbands

and were not allowed to touch the family money. Instead, they were given a daily allowance with which to buy food and other household items. This was the type of wife Grandma Ho and Grandpa Tang wanted Mom to be. They did not approve of her strength, her intelligence, or the fact that she took control of the finances.

It was fortunate that Dad didn’t listen to his parents’ criticisms of Mom. He knew perfectly well that without Mom’s acute reasoning, he would not have become wealthy. There was no alternative but to ask Mom’s mother for money. Grandma Vuong did not have much to spare, so she mortgaged her house, pawned her jewelry, and liquidated her life’s savings so that Dad could reinvest in the business. Because my parents were known as trustworthy and hard-working, people let them buy meat on credit. With both of them willing to begin again from scratch, they slowly recreated their initial success.

Forced to acknowledge the government’s stranglehold on the meat market, Dad willingly spent much more money to bribe police officers and his army friends. Dad’s wit, charm, and generous nature helped him make many friends. With these friends as contacts, he was able to open doors to the black market that allowed him to obtain the cheapest meat around. With people again on our side, the operation blossomed anew. Ah Yeh, his own eldest brother, was jealous of Dad’s success. And so there was a period during which they didn’t talk, not acknowledging one another.

As Dad’s profits increased, he repaid his debts in installments. Instead of repaying Grandma Vuong back right away, Dad used the money for an even larger purchase. In addition to selling fresh meat, roasted pig and pork, barbecued duck and chicken, Dad expanded to selling beef and animal byproducts. The business skyrocketed. They brought home buckets of money each night.

I was born in October 1971, the Year of the Pig. A common Chinese belief is that people born in the pig year are characteristically lazy, not very bright, and naive. It’s also believed that a pig is not a very lucky animal. People born in such a year will have a tough life… and so some parents had taken bizarre measures to induce labor with medicines or a caesarean section so they would have their child before the pig year. Dad was home for my birth, so I was the first in the family to be honored with the family name: Ho. Soon after I was born, my parents were able to buy a new house next to Grandma Ho and Grandpa Tang. Mom was thrilled to be able to move out of the grandparents’ home, and out from beneath their watchful eyes. The new house was magnificent. It was thousands of feet long and hundreds of feet wide. In front was a garage where we parked our big automobile, Froggy, so named because it bounced up and down when it ran over potholes. Our living room had handsome polished antique wooden tables and chairs and old classical Chinese paintings. In a corner, we had an altar at which we prayed. At the back of the house we raised livestock. There were cages for pigs, ducks, chickens, and a few other animals.

There was a huge kitchen where the workers could roast pig and pork, barbecue duck and chicken in three enormous cement ovens. There was a beautifully designed Western bathroom with shower faucets, European toilets, and a colorful tile floor. The entire house had marble floors and brick walls. The ceilings were made of costly stamped tin. Our bedroom was

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on the second floor, one large room for the entire family. Our beds were fashioned of rich tropical hardwoods. Our family was known to be among the wealthiest on the block.

Fong, Kuang, and I took care of the animals as if they were our pets. We helped our father bring home male pigs to breed with the sows. These animals were huge and resembled miniature elephants. Usually, the sow had five or six piglets. We raised them until they were old enough to sell. We cleaned up after them and bathed them twice a week. We rode on their backs as if they were horses. Often we became so attached to them that it pained us greatly to see them slaughtered in our kitchen.

With the business booming, our parents hired a group of loyal, hardworking people. With Mom and the staff taking care of things at home, Dad would sometimes take Fong, Kuang and me with him to the black market, which we loved.

Fong and I sat in the back while Kuang sat in the front with Dad. Dad favored Kuang because he was bright and sly, ideal traits for a businessman, Dad always said. Neither Fong nor I minded Dad's show of favoritism. The three of us were very close because our parents were always working. Besides, I knew that in Chinese culture, the family always favored the oldest son. The oldest son was the heir to everything, but had also to bear more responsibilities than the younger ones. I never envied Kuang, but of course at times I wished Dad would brag about me to his friends as he did with Kuang.

The black markets were very dirty and full of debris, with mean-looking shirtless men loitering everywhere. They all smoked and swore. In the markets, you had to act tough so no one would take advantage of you. And so Dad’s demeanor changed quickly once he set foot in the market. He swore, smoked, and acted like a gangster. He had conversations with his buddies in a loud, swaggering voice. He would introduce us to his friends and they would grab us by the waist and lift us up. They always complimented him: “You have a bunch of smart looking kids here,” and they insisted, “With such sharp kids, you need not worry about who will be taking over the business when you retire.” His friends knew exactly what to say to put smiles on children’s faces. The three of us were embarrassed yet we smiled broadly. And while Dad was making some deals, we kids were never allowed around, for whatever reason I did not know. He would ask one of his buddies to take us to watch cockfights, fish fights, and feast on exotic food. Who wanted to be around their father anyway, talking seriously, when there was so much excitement!

The three of us could never have enough of cockfighting. It was similar to boxing, but spurs on the roosters’ feet were sharpened for these matches. The two owners would each hold a rooster by his side, thrusting the birds at each other to taunt them into a fight. When they were angry enough to go at it, the feathers on their necks would stick up and the owners would throw the two roosters into a cage where they would fight.

The bettors, clenching money and tickets in their hands, screamed, swore, and cheered for their champions. As the roosters exchanged vicious pecks and stabbed each other with the spurs on their feet, the betting frenzy intensified. When the roosters were fatigued, the owners would pull them out and spit water into the birds’ faces. They would throw the revived cocks back in the cage for another round. The roosters would keep fighting

until one died or gave up. Blood flew everywhere and it was very gory, but the excitement provided a heart-pounding adrenaline rush.

Then, it would be time for the fish to fight. Like the roosters, the fish were teased in two separate glass jars facing each other. When they became angry, their gills would flare and the owners would place the two fish into a larger glass jar. They were left in the jar until there was a winner. Unlike the roosters, the losing fish would most likely die at the end. As young as we were, we were not upset. The fish were raised for that purpose. In our view, to die in such a way was glorious.

Of course, after such spectacles our hungry bodies needed replenishment.

Our tour guide always allowed us to eat whatever we wanted, and he paid for it as well. After our adventures, we would rejoin our father, who would be waiting with some hogs loaded up in our automobile, Froggy. They would have already had their legs bound and their snouts taped to silence them. We covered the pigs with plastic sheets and then Fong and I would sit on them as if they were chairs in case the police stopped us.

I always laughed when I sat on a pig and could feel its heart beating.

Dad would brief us before taking off to make sure we knew what to say if we encountered the police. “We’re visiting relatives in the suburbs,” Dad reminded Fong, Kuang and me to say if the police were to ever question us.

And as luck would have it, we were never stopped.

Despite the financial success of my parents, Grandma Vuong was still working her morning shift in the restaurant. She did not want to be a burden to Mom, or listen to malicious slander from the other Grandparents.

Grandma Vuong’s continual response when Mom asked her to stop working so much was, “I’ve worked all my life and would be uncomfortable if I were to remain idle at home doing nothing other than eating and sleeping.” And Mom would stop nagging Grandma Vuong.

One blighted morning, Grandma Vuong’s life was shattered. The crowded bus she rode on to go to work had an accident and flipped over. With several fatalities, it was a miracle that Grandma Vuong survived the crash at all, but she was paralyzed from the waist down.

Dad spent a lot of money in the hope that she would walk again. He insisted that Grandma Vuong remain at a private hospital and get Western medical care. Because the bills would have been very high, Grandma Vuong refused. She knew that Dad’s parents would use this as another reason to badmouth Mom. However, with persistence, Grandma Vuong listened to Dad. Dad cared for Grandma Vuong as if she were his real mother. It was his way of repaying her for her unselfish love and generosity. And to this day, he still remembers fondly what Grandma Vuong did for him when he tells us stories about her, especially when he ran out of luck at the gambling table. At times, in order to keep Mom from finding out how much he had lost in gambling, Grandma Vuong would sneak him money to cover the bills. She once pawned her jewelry to meet his gambling debts. His own parents would never have done that for him. “I’m truly blessed to have such a wonderful person enter my life,” Dad said in a grateful manner.

Then he would laugh, “Of course, aside from your mother.”

One day while Dad was gambling, the police raided the joint. In order to escape jail, Dad jumped out of a second-story window and broke his ankle.

Jail in Vietnam was far worse than jail in America. In Vietnam, jail food and the living quarters were unfit even for animals. There were no

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showers, televisions, gyms, basketball courts, or amenities of any kind.

One went to jail to suffer, not to eat and sleep comfortably like in America.

Mom was furious. This was not the first time Dad had been busted.

Occasionally, Mom would go up to these illegal gambling joints and start a riot. She would scream and shout, but nothing seemed to get through to him. Mom complained to Grandma Vuong. If it were not for Grandma Vuong’s smooth persuasion, he would not have been forgiven. Dad owed Grandma Vuong many favors.

One of Dad’s legs never completely healed from the jump out the secondstory window. Our family doctor who practiced Western medicine (a privilege for the rich) could not fix the fracture. Dad’s leg gave him so much pain that Mom had to massage it with Chinese herbal oil. At these times, she would tell him to look at what gambling had done to him. In his pain, Dad would promise Mom anything, but he would always go back to his bad habits.

After Grandma Vuong’s accident, Mom and Dad took care of her expenses.

And Dad’s parents began complaining, but they could not say anything that would change Dad’s mind. Mom bought Grandma Vuong a television, and Fong, Kuang and I went over to her house every night to visit and watch television with her. At first it was because our parents were so busy with their various enterprises that they did not have much time for us. And the three of us became very attached to her nurturing and kind words. She always had good food, special treats and sweets prepared for us.

When the family businesses heated up, Fong, Kuang and I were sent away to live with an old couple so Mom and Dad could focus on them. This was the fate of most children who had wealthy parents. The children were sent away to live and study in expensive private school or to live with people whose jobs were to care for wealthy kids. The mean husband and wife whom Fong, Kuang and I were sent to were situated a couple of blocks from Grandma Vuong’s house. They didn’t care for us like our nanny. They were more like prison guards who were there to make certain our lives were miserable, keeping us locked up in the house at all times. But we were no angels. When the couple went out, we would sneak out by climbing through the window and then over a tall metal fence to visit Grandma Vuong.

Grandma Vuong would hug us and pat our backs and said, “There, there… your mother and father have to work hard and focus on the business at this time. How are you to get nice clothes and toys if they don’t? Be good children now… I’m sure they still love you three very much. They’ll bring you home in no time.” Grandma Vuong would have her maid make us abundant food and desserts as we watched television with her.

The couple would tell on us, without of course ever mentioning that they mistreated us. Our lives with them consisted of: waking up, eating, drinking water, eating and sleeping. If we were lucky the couple would give us pens, pencils and paper to draw. There was no television, toys, or playing outside. We were to appreciate the four dull walls… there were always the beds if we were tired of staring at the walls. And yet they wanted us be angels. Could you imagine such a life for children, Fong, six, Kuang, five, and me, four years old? We were turned from a princess and princes where our nanny and maids bathed us, cooked for us, fed us, offered us toys and played with us among the streets and markets to the

equivalent of paupers where we had to do everything ourselves and were not allowed to see sunlight.

Mom and Dad punished us for being disobedient, sneaking out of the couple’s house even though we explained that we just wanted to spend time with Grandma Vuong. Fong, Kuang and I had to kneel in front of the Goddess of Mercy statue with both hands, pinching our ears. This was the family’s traditional form of penitence. Sometimes, this nasty old couple took the matter into their own hands. They beat us, leaving severe marks on our bodies. We hated the “Gai mo so,” that damned customary disciplinary stick with feathers attached to its end. Each family had at least one of these if they had small children.

We hated that place. Every night, we thought up plans to run away and ways to make the couple suffer. We decided that nothing short of torturing the couple would do. This malicious thinking helped us through those difficult weeks. And thankfully Mom and Dad decided we were better off living at home when the family businesses continued to thrive and became more stable.

Mom had our nanny and other servants care for us. We loved nanny dearly, as much as we loved our mother. She took us to school. After school she bathed us, cooked for us, fed us, did the washing, and folded our clothes.

She nurtured us as if we were her own children. She never punished us, even when we misbehaved, and at night told us Chinese fables before tucking us in. What we liked most about her was that she was never forceful or strict. She let us loiter around the markets filled with hawkers and street vendors. She did not mind us eating on the streets where every business knew our family, and we never had to pay. We ate on credit and the vendors would come to our house at night to collect the bills.

We were spoiled but we were not undisciplined. We learned Vietnamese in school and learned Chinese at home, a privilege reserved for the rich.

Maybe it was because our hearts were not always focused on schoolwork that the teachers punished us. We had to stick out our open hands, with palms facing upward, while they whacked us with a big ruler. Sometimes I cried when the pain became unbearable. But other times, I endured the torture without shedding a tear. We hated school. If you had long fingernails, long hair, dirty clothes, dirty shoes or appeared in any way unkempt or unwashed, you would be beaten. A teacher was considered kind if they only made you stand in front of the room balancing a book on your head for all the class to ridicule you.

Kuang received the most punishment for his strange obsession: carrying his little special pillow to school. The pillow was a toy he liked to pinch on its corners. The teachers did not allow Kuang to bring anything other than school materials to school, because anything else was considered a disruption. Kuang would hide his little pillow in his school bag, but when the teachers found out, he was beaten.

In 1975, Mom gave birth to my sister, Anh. About a year or so later, she gave birth to twin sisters, Kim and Ngan. Mom and Dad considered the twins their lucky charm. After their birth, the family businesses grew enormously, bringing in even more money. With this kind of wealth, Dad became the typical rich Chinese man. He dared to show off his many Vietnamese mistresses in public.

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It was easy getting Vietnamese mistresses, as they preferred Chinese men rather than Vietnamese men. Regardless of whether the women would be second or third wives… they were usually treated better than the whores, as the wealthy wives would call these women. The few who were fortunate to become second or third wives, had to live under the shadow of the first wife. They possessed no decision making ability in the family, no rights to the family wealth, and were the butt of all gossip and ridicule, yet they believed it was worth it… that the more wealthy Chinese men would assure them a brighter future.

Although it sounds strange, Dad’s parents greatly encouraged this infidelity because the mistresses pampered their son like a king. But Mom would have killed the mistresses in the same manner in which she chopped up the roasted pig. Dad knew Mom was capable of this, so he did not dare to bring any of the women home, and yet he showed them off to his friends during male gatherings. The mistresses brought him status, and were displayed as so many trophies.

Dad was caught a number of times on the streets, in out door markets or restaurants, when Mom was pregnant with the youngsters. She beat the mistresses. Dad was too afraid to touch her because she was pregnant. Once Mom gave birth, Dad was braver. With the implicit support of his parents, Dad felt he had every right to be a womanizer. He told Mom as much, pointing out that her own father had three wives. These arguments led to fist fights, and this time Dad was not a gentleman. But Mom never just stood there pretending to be a sandbag like other people’s rich wives. If it were not for the presence of the workers in our home, they would have killed each other.

Grandma Vuong’s favorite saying was, “Once married, you have to stick with it through thick and thin. If he runs wild like a monkey in the forest, you have to follow him.” Maybe this explained why Mom fought so stubbornly for the marriage.

When I was six years old, Dad took Fong, Kuang, and me on a long trip. I thought we were going to the black markets, but it was not until much later that I found out that this was our first attempt to leave for America. Even today, I don’t fully comprehend why Mom would have allowed Dad to split up the family, knowing her love for us. But I suppose that freedom, liberty and opportunities for her children were her priorities in life… and she was brave enough to let us have a crack at them. To me that is the incredible love of a mother. I don’t think I could be as gutsy as her, or make such a heart wrenching decision.

That night, Dad allowed one of the workers to drive his automobile, Froggy, and for the first time we carried luggage with us on a night trip.

Several hours later, we were in the middle of nowhere. It was dark and we could see nothing. The only sounds were the waves crashing into the rocks.

Dad instructed us, “Go on… get out of Froggy and bring along the luggage.”

We did as we were told and once we were out of the van our driver sped off. We grabbed Dad’s hands and followed him down to a pier. In the feeble beam of the flashlight, we carefully made our way toward the pier. We began to hear whispering, and came upon a subdued assembly. We joined them, but Dad did not speak to anyone. Either his friends were not visible, or he simply knew no one there that night. The three of us neither complained nor asked questions.

We hung around for a long time, sitting and waiting. Nothing happened, other than that the whispers became louder and sounded angry. Dad took a plastic sheet and navy blankets out of his bags. He spread them out for us to sleep on, and covered us with the blankets. It was chilly and very uncomfortable, with rocks poking through the plastic sheet into our backs.

Fong, Kuang and I never had to sleep like this. Quite understandably, we tossed and turned, unable to sleep, but Dad demanded, “You three stop moving around and get some sleep.” He wrapped his hand around us and pulled us close. I’m sure it was to keep us warm and not to stop us from moving about.

Early the next morning, around six or seven o’clock, Dad woke us all up.

From his voice, it was easy to tell he was angry. And he did not look like he had slept at all. His eyes were puffy and red and circled by dark rings. We did not dare to ask why he was mad, and instead quietly helped put our plastic sheet and blankets back into the bag. There were about forty to fifty people stuffing skimpy bedding into bags, swearing all the while. We did not stay to watch what was going to happen next. Dad ordered us, “Follow me closely.”

We trudged some distance until we reached a village. There, he talked to some strangers and gave a man some cash. Later, this guy came back with a small truck. We hopped onto this mini-truck and rode home.

It was around noon when we returned, and Mom was out at the market selling meat. As we stepped into the house, one of the servants asked, “Why are you back so soon, sir?”

Fuming, Dad demanded to his servant, “Don’t ask too many questions. Go and get the missus to come home now.”

While nanny, Fong, Kuang and I were playing with the youngsters Anh, Kim and Ngan, Mom stormed back in a tizzy. She and Dad started arguing.

“Didn’t I warn you?” Mom shouted, with both hands on her hips. “I’ve told you the deal was too fishy and you shouldn’t place too much trust in your friends but nooo you chose to be a trusting friend. Well… I hope you’re wiser now, when it comes to gold, you tell your friends to trust my ass.”

Mom had been suspicious of the venture from the beginning, when Dad’s friends asked for a relatively low fare, four pieces of gold bar per person instead of the common fare of six to eight pieces. Dad’s friends explained that we would be making the trip in a small houseboat. The fares were lower than traveling in a regular boat, since such boats carried a higher risk of falling apart at sea. This sort of craft was very common at the time.

We had frequently heard tragic tales about over-laden boats floundering in the middle of the sea, drowning almost everyone aboard. Such was the sad fate of some close friends of Mom and Dad’s. The family had sailed in a little wooden family boat made for thirty people, but at the time of departure there were more than fifty on board. By now most escapees knew this was a common practice among boat owners, who were also captains of their crafts.

Shortly after leaving the pier of My-Tho, the boat ran up against a rocky reef and sank. Everyone else in that family died: grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, and children. Only the wife and the husband survived, because they had held onto a beam of wood from the wreckage. But their lives were tormented with guilt, especially the wife, who believed

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it was her fault that her son had died. She cried that she had drowned her only baby with her own hands. In rescuing her husband, she had let go of her son in order to pull him to the wooden beam.

Their big, expensive home proved to be a dreary dwelling for two sad people. They cried and cried as they recounted the night that they were at sea. Mom and Dad tried to be supportive but to no avail. The whole time we were there, Mom and Dad patted their friends on their backs and offered many words of consolation. The empty silence of the house contributed to the rumor that the drowned kids, parents, and siblings haunted the place.

They came home every night, crying for blankets because they were cold at sea.

At first, hearing something like this would really unnerve us, but all too soon these dismal tragic tales became familiar. They became part of almost all conversations. My siblings, cousins, friends, and I would relate the more chilling accounts to each other at night, and after our spooky narratives were told, we invariably hid in terror under our heavy blankets until we were covered with sweat. **** It was at the break of dawn, the eve of Chinese New Year 1979, that a Vietnamese girl came over to our house and asked for Dad. The girl had long black hair braided into two ponytails. Dad recognized her as the daughter of an army buddy. He knew she must have something of great importance to tell him. He spoke with her in Vietnamese. According to her father, the police were going to raid all the families suspected of selling illegal meat, and Dad’s name was at the top of the list.

“Thank you for delivering such important information,” Dad told the girl. “Why don’t you wait right here for a couple minutes while Uncle goes and grabs a gift for your father for the New Year.”

“Yes, Uncle,” she smiled angelically, “I shall wait for your return.”

In a few minutes, Dad returned with a brown bag full of money from Mom. He placed the brown bag into a red plastic bag and tied the bag. He handled the bag to the little girl and said, “Tell your father that Uncle wishes him and the family a Happy New Year.”

“I’ll tell Dad,” the girl replied. “And Happy New Year to you also, Uncle,” she said cheerfully as she turned and walked out the front door.

The information was a little too late. Dad had already stocked extra pigs, chickens, and ducks for the holiday. And immediately after the girl left, Dad set his employees to task. Mom, Dad, and the employees worked extra hard just to get rid of the contraband meat. Running back and forth, dripping with sweat, they cleaned, roasted, and barbecued in great haste.

It was noisy and very hectic indeed, but by about five o’clock in the afternoon, everything was finished.

Dad took Fong, Kuang, and me through the back alleys to transfer all the live pigs to our nanny's house. She lived only a few blocks away. We often left the animals there. The pigs would destroy the house, and Dad had to cover the damages. This time, there were more than ten pigs. It was the most we had ever tried to cram into her house. The pigs were not cooperative. They were very loud and left behind a trail of droppings wherever they went. We spanked the pigs on their behinds as they oinked their way into our nanny’s house. We locked the door after the last one entered. On our way home, we cleaned up their mess.

All the roasted pig and pork, barbecued duck and chicken had been removed from the house, which now was thoroughly cleaned. The floor shone.

Mom and Dad wished all their employees a Happy New Year and thanked them for their efforts. Mom and Dad gave their employees the lai see, traditional red envelopes with good luck money inside, and told them to go home early.

The police had not arrived, so at around seven in the evening, Dad decided to take Fong, Kuang, and me for a ride on his motorcycle. Just as he turned on the ignition, we saw a whole platoon of police marching toward our front door. They had machine guns in their hands. Mom greeted them and, seeing us still in the front, she waved to us. Dad knew what Mom wanted, she was signaling for us to leave. Dad took off.

We went to the center of town for dessert. We were too young to understand what the police were doing at our house. As for Dad, he talked and smiled, but his mind was obviously elsewhere.

We had our “Three Bean” drinks… the green, yellow and red beans with coconut milk were delicious, and our favorite. We walked around the market for a while. Then, we went over to Dad’s friend’s house. Dad talked intensely with the man about the police at our house, expressing his concern about how they might handle Mom. We were nonchalantly watching television when we heard this, and we began to worry about Mom’s safety.

By eleven o’clock, Dad decided it was time to head home.

When we got back, Dad banged anxiously on the front door. With her face very pale, nanny opened the door. She was quaking in fear because she thought the police had returned. She smiled when she saw us standing there. She quickly locked the door behind us. Dad hurried to find Mom in the living room, where she was talking to the employees. Dad asked hastily, “What happened?” And we sat down and waited to hear the story.

“When the police entered the house,” Mom began, “I inquired as to the purpose of their visit.”

The sergeant said, “Someone reported to me that you’re operating an illegal business in this house. I’ve come in order to verify this allegation.”

“That’s crazy, absurd.” Mom denied the charge.

“We’ll see who is crazy after we search the house.”

“And what district do you represent?” Mom inquired. “I’ve never seen you before.” Her intuition was correct. The police were not from our district, and what was more, they did not have a search warrant. “You’re from another district and also without a search warrant, you have no right to search the house,” Mom informed the sergeant.

The sergeant was so galled by Mom’s attitude that he pulled a gun on her. He shoved his face close to hers, placed the gun on her head, and spat his words. “Don’t make me use this. I suggest you shut your mouth.”

Mom didn’t say a word as he and his men marched further into our house.

Seeing people crowded in the front door being nosy, Mom yelled to one of the neighbors to run over to her mother’s house to get her brother, Di Cou Foo. And within minutes, the neighbors who had crowded in the front door had brought him along. Since the police were Vietnamese, Mom spoke to him in Cantonese, our native tongue. “You go to our district headquarters and request the precinct sergeant to come to the house at once.”

Di Cou Foo knew this officer was Dad’s best friend and the godfather of

14 | Learning to Breathe: A Memoir

by Langelo

the twins so he didn’t need to ask further questions. He left immediately.

Without wasting time, Mom marched directly to the kitchen where the sergeant and his men were. “You have no right to search my house,” she barked. “You want to search the house. Well… no problem, you show me the search warrant and you can do as you please.”

They completely ignored her protests. The police rummaged through the place. All Mom could do was hope they found nothing. No matter how brave and strong she was, she could only look on and pray for God to watch over us.

Scrutinizing the kitchen, the sergeant noticed that our big ovens were warm. He turned to Mom and accused, trying to invoke fear, “And why are these ovens hot?”

“If you’re not aware, today’s New Year’s Eve, the busiest time of the year. We had barbecued some ducks and chickens for a few of the nearby restaurants.”

“Are you positive that chickens and ducks were all you barbecued?”

She staunchly affirmed that this was true. He was steaming, frustrated at not being able to find anything. The sergeant ordered his men to search the pipes and the streets in the back of our house.

One of the family workers was notably disconcerted when the police dug pig waste and hog bristles from the sewage. Noticing how anxious he was, the sergeant singled him out for questioning. He brusquely interrogated the worker about the debris that he had found.

Mom spoke rapidly in Chinese to the help, “You pretend that you don’t speak Vietnamese.” In Vietnam, the Chinese were bilingual and Vietnamese were not.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up!” the sergeant turned and glared at Mom, “Maybe you’d like to sit in the police truck.”

“He doesn’t speak Vietnamese. You’re just going to waste your breath,” Mom told the sergeant flatly.

The sergeant must have hated her for her display of confidence. He planted himself in front of her. “Then you shall answer the question.”

“We owned a couple of piglets as pets… and as you’re aware, the home must be spotless for the New Year. Hence, the waste and pig hairs were found in the sewage.”

“I don’t see any piglets.”

“The family ate them for the holiday dinner.” Since it was legal to raise and eat pig privately, as long as you did not sell them, there was nothing the sergeant could do. It was tradition to make your house spotless, the belief was: out with the old and in with the new before the New Year, so Mom’s explanation left no room for the sergeant to drill her further.

The policemen who had searched the back street returned. They had found nothing. It was a miracle that the ten pigs jammed into close quarters nearby had remained quiet enough to avoid detection. We were very lucky indeed, and Mom believed it was fate.

Finally, Dad’s friend arrived. Our precinct sergeant brought in his own army of police officers. They marched into the kitchen in uniforms with machine guns in their hands. The twins’ godfather, the sergeant, smiled at Mom and greeted her warmly. He went over to the sergeant who had been interrogating Mom for the past few hours and demanded that he be shown the

search warrant.

The other sergeant could not provide the papers. The twins’ godfather requested that this officer and his men join him for tea back at the regional station. He had no choice but to follow the sergeant from our district. As they departed, Mom could see that the sergeant was fuming. He glared at her and she gave him a cocky smile.

Suddenly there was a loud knock on our front door. Nanny rushed to open it and came back with the sergeant from our district. Dad rushed immediately to the sergeant and shook the man’s hand. “Thank you so much for all your help!”

“It’s not a big deal.” He shook Mom’s hand and they all sat on the floor. Nanny handed the sergeant a cup of tea and he began. “The sergeant apologized to me for having raided the wrong house. Obviously, it’s a lie, but there isn’t much I can do other than to ask him and his troops to leave our district.” The sergeant looked at Dad. “You, my friend, are very lucky… he arrested someone else shortly afterwards. They confiscated everything, and carted away the owner along with all his employees.” He took a sip of tea and continued. “And I’m saying this as a friend… I suggest that you stop selling the illegal meat. You made so much money already. Maybe you can invest in another business. You may not be as lucky the next time. I’ve heard that they wanted to bust you badly. And your poorer neighbors may be envious of your success. They may very well be the ones who snitched on you. I don’t want to visit you in prison, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what to do,” Dad told the sergeant. “Why don’t you have some more tea and play with your goddaughters for a while. I’ll be right back.”

Dad stood and walked away.

Mom brought Kim and Ngan to the sergeant and he made baby sounds as he playfully touched their cheeks. I don’t think the sergeant was really the twins’ godfather, he never performed any godfather duties. The title was a convenience, drawing a family connection to better serve their mutual benefits. He held and played with the twins until Dad returned. Mom and nanny took the twins from him. “Thank you again so much for this timely assistance,” Dad said as he handed the sergeant a bag of money to show his appreciation. “A little something for the New Year.” Dad smiled as they shook hands.

“A happy New Year to you and your family.” The sergeant shook Mom’s hand. Nanny handed the other twin to Mom. She escorted the sergeant out.

After that night, Mom and Dad closed their business. Our only income was from Keno. Out of nowhere, one evening, Mom brought home a young female teacher who was in her early twenties, and she was supposed to teach Fong, Kuang and me English. And for months, we learned Vietnamese in class and were taught English and Chinese in the afternoon.

In early April, Dad’s oldest brother, Ah Yeh, was arrested for selling illegal meat. Dad had warned him after the attempted raid on our home on the eve of the Chinese New Year. But Ah Yeh refused to listen and thought that Dad did not want him to be as successful as he was. Ah Yeh was convicted and sentenced to four years. This, more than anything else, convinced Mom and Dad that it would be better to leave Vietnam… their children would not have a future otherwise.

16 | Learning to Breathe: A Memoir

by Langelo

About the Author The third of seven children, at seven years old, Langelo and his extended family fled communist Vietnam. He arrived in Boston, Massachusetts in the summer of 1980 after surviving a year living in Malaysia’s refugee camps.

Langelo achieved his American dream in 1996 — a Bachelor of Science degree in Mechanical Engineering from Northeastern University. He soon discovered that pursuing his artistic dreams brought a deeper meaning and happiness to his life. He began to paint, to write, to dance, after losing his brother in a motorcycle accident. He performs and dances in theaters, exhibits his oil paintings, and is seeking the right representation for his three books, Learning to Breathe: A Memoir, A Blind Step Forward: A Memoir, and a murder mystery Hell: A Place on Earth. He is working on two new books.

On January 9, 2007, Langelo opened an art gallery café named Flamepoeira, inspired by his training in flamenco and the Brazilian martial art capoeira. Aside from exhibiting his own work at Flamepoeira, he offers a haven where people can build relationships and exhibit their work. "The sun will shine only if you allow it — dreams die because you let them.

Happiness is a gift you have to be brave enough to give yourself.