There is Hope Over the Ocean

There is Hope Over the Ocean

There is Hope Over the Ocean Written and illustrated by Nini Bui 1

There is Hope Over the Ocean

Cảm ơn Ba, Mẹ

Viᝇt Nam

Like the rich blue seas that embraced us and the lush mountain

ranges that protected us—we must move forward. We must look to the future and refuse to back down to our enemies. We are the people of Vietnam and we are tired of being ruled by others and used as pawns. We are the children born from a beautiful fairy and a fierce dragon king from the sea. We cannot give up. We cannot lose hope.

Strong Like Bamboo

The

roused Lẹ up before her mother’s hands did. She was already pushing herself off the mat when her mother’s slender yet firm hands gripped Lẹ’s shoulders and shook her back and forth.

“Con,” her mother started. Her voice was steady, but there was a sense of urgency in it.

“Grab a bag and some clothes. The village is being bombed,” with that, Lẹ’s mother shoved a small brown sack into her hands and ran out of the room to gather up the other essentials.

There was no time to hesitate or worry, so Lẹ pushed off her blanket and began to pack as much as she could into her sack. They would only be able to carry three bags worth of supplies for their escape. In that moment, Lẹ was thankful that her parents worried easily. The war had been raging for a few months. The bombings were escalating and luckily her parents were smart enough to have come up with an emergency escape plan if their home was ever bombed. Those weekly practices of packing efficiently and running with her head low through the streets of her village were coming in handy.

After stuffing her sack with some clothes and medicine, Lẹ was ready to meet her parents outside of their house. The three of them silently said their goodbyes to the space that had once given them shelter and warmth then threw their bags over their shoulders.

With their heads low, the three of them ran towards the edge of the village, where civilization met jungle. Their village was crumbling down and turning into ashes as more bombs fell from the sky. The collapsing roofs shook the ground and muffled the cries and screams of the other families. Chaos was everywhere. smoky scent of burning wood

There is Hope Over the Ocean

As the three of them ran, a high pitched wail caught Lẹ’s attention. She spun around wildly, eyes swiftly glancing over the collapsed buildings in search of the source of the cry. Eventually, her eyes fell on a young boy trapped inside a burning house. He stuck on the furthest wall away from the door. His small fists pounding against the cracked window. Only his head could be seen over the windowsill. Lẹ’s hands gripped tightly on her sack’s strap as she slid it off her shoulder. She felt a large hand grab hers before she could run to the boy.

Glancing over, her father’s dark eyes met hers. Silent messages raced between them. Her father’s eyes deepened with determination and he quickly pulled her in, embracing her and whispering, “I love you,” before he dropped his own sack onto the dirt floor and raced towards the house engulfed in flames.

The thunk of the bag made her mom turn around, but it was too late. Lines formed on both of their faces, their knuckles grew white as they gripped onto their bags, and their eyes remained unblinking as they waited for his return. Hoping he would survive the wild flames snaking through the house. Praying to whoever would listen that he would run out of the burning house safely.

The minutes dragged on. Suddenly, moving shadows appeared by the door. Lẹ was about to sprint towards the house to help, but her mother’s hand snaked out and pulled her back. Preventing her from going anywhere. The movement by the door became more purposeful. The shadows more solid instead of erratic. Using a shirt to wave the flames away from his and the little boy’s body, the two were able to make it out with minimal burns. Ash covered their faces creating a gray and dusty shadow on their deeply tanned skin. The two were moving slowly, their steps imbalanced and short.

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Lẹ’s father’s limping grew more apparent as they got closer.

Her mother rushed forward and wrapped an arm under his, helping him lay on the soft dirt ground. Lẹ reached for the small child and used the back of her hand to wipe his face. The ash mixed with the boy’s tears, which made it streak more across his face.

“It’s okay,” Lẹ cooed sweetly, still trying to clean him up.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

The boy sucked in a shallow breath, attempting to slow his breathing down and stop his crying.

“My name is Tam,” he said through sniffles.

“My name is Lẹ and these are my parents. You can call them Chú Quang and Cô Hàng. Do you know where your parents are?”

Water began to rim is eyes again, filling over and streaming down his dirty face. He started to wail. Lẹ didn’t know why he was crying all over again. She was flustered so all she could manage to do was gingerly wrap her arms around him.

Lẹ was too focused on calming Tam down so she barely heard her father’s voice when he cleared his throat and spoke up.

“They’re dead.” He said. His voice sounded dry and coarse.

Tam’s crying grew louder and his body shook with each sob.

Lẹ drew her eyes away from him to stare at her father.

“Part of the ceiling had collapsed inside and it fell on them.

It was too late to save them.”

“It was my fault!” Tam cried. “I was standing there and my parents both pushed me away. They died because of me.”

Lẹ pulled him tighter to her, patting his head and shushing him.

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“They did what parents do. They protected you.” Lẹ said gently.

Tam continued to cry in her arms, but they couldn’t stay like that all night. Once Lẹ’s mother was finished cleaning her father up and helped him regain some strength, the four of them started their journey into the jungle and towards the next village over.

The next few days were spent trekking through the jungles. Tall trees and thick vines provided them with shade and protection against the dangers that hovered in the sky. As the days passed, Lẹ began to notice a pungent smell following them. She wondered if it was simply the four of them since there wasn’t time to stop and wash properly during this journey, but this odor was sharp and sickly.

Lẹ’s mother noticed it too. “Do you smell that?” She asked us all.

Lẹ and Tam both nodded, their faces twisting at the smell.

“I think it might be me.”

The three of them turned around to look at Lẹ’s father who trailed them by a few feet. He walked slow than them, stayed behind them. Lẹ had thought that he was doing that to protect them and watch their backs, but when she looked over at her father she was shocked by how thin he had become. His skin looked gray, but all of the ash that coated it had melted away. Sweat dripped down his gaunt face.

Lẹ’s mother immediately ran towards him and cupped his face.

Her eyes were large and searching his face for an answer. A crease between her eyebrows grew.

“What’s wrong?” Lẹ heard her mother whisper.

The two were trying to keep their conversation quiet to not worry Lẹ and Tam, but the wind carried their messages.

“It’s my leg…” was all she heard before her father dropped to the ground followed by her mother.

The children raced over to join them. Her mother’s hand were tearing wildly at her father’s pants. She ripped the lower half off to reveal a festering burn. The pungent smell grew worse making Lẹ’s stomach twist and jump. Green rimmed the edges of the pink, vulnerable flesh.

“It’s infected Em,” Lẹ’s father gently laid his hand on top of her mother’s hand. Willing it to stop trembling. “You all need to go without me. I can barely walk and I don’t want to slow you down.

You need to find safety and fast.”

“We are not leaving you.” Her mother’s voice took on a harsh and determined tone. One that no one dared to fight with.

“Lẹ, are you strong enough to help me carry your dad?”

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“Yes,” she responded with no hesitation. She glanced down at Tam. During their trip she learned that he was only six years old, eight years younger than her, but the journey forced him to toughen up a bit.

“Em Tam, I need to help my parents. Are you strong enough to carry this bag?” She shrugged the sack off her shoulders and handed it over.

Tam stared at it as if he had never seen it before. He chewed on his lip and hesitantly reached for it. It was about the size of him, but it was filled with light-weight items and Lẹ hoped that he could carry it so she could comfortably support her dad. Silently, Tam’s small hands reached out to grab the sack. It was too large for him to throw over his shoulder, so he dragged it behind him. Luckily the sack was sturdy enough not to rip as it followed him.

No one uttered a complaint as they trudged through wild tree roots, families of mosquitos, and windy paths. Lẹ and Tam grew weary and weak as the days passed. Their steps slowed down. But Lẹ’s mother remained strong and sturdy. Her steps never slowed; she was like the bamboo stalks that decorated our village. The bamboos survived many monsoon, many raids filled with gunshots, but they stood tall. Lẹ’smother did the same.

Light began to shimmer in through the leaves creating intricate patterns that littered the floor of the jungle. They were getting close. Lẹ’s mother’s pace quickened when she could hear the faint noise of civilization, but the exhaustion was getting to her and she became less careful.

Lẹ trailed closely behind her, hoping that she would be able to catch her if she fell. Her mother became less careful, driven by the sound of distant voices. Her foot caught on a tree root and she tumbled. Lẹ quickly ran to her fallen parents, offering a hand to help her mother up. Her body was as listless and as a feather lost to the wind.

“Mẹ, let me help you,” exhaustion coated Lẹ’s words as she reached down and pulled her mother up.

Once she was up, her mother bent down to help her father and started the journey again. They were so close. In just a few more strides, they would be out of the jungle and be freed from its embrace. The light grew brighter and brighter as they neared the edge and the tension that they all held evaporated when our eyes fell on surprised faces. Her mother’s body gave up when they made it to the next village and her body slumped down onto the ground.

The strangers’ faces were filled with confusion and concern, but an elderly couple rushed over towards us.

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“Honey, go get Minh and tell him to come here and help us,” ordered the strange man. The woman next to him nodded and ran off, yelling the name over and over again.

The man asked us a lot of questions that my mother mumbled the answers. He helped her drink some water before helping her up to her feet. A young man bounded towards us with two other guys in tow and the elderly woman trailing behind them. They didn’t disrupt the conversation, but waited patiently for their task. The older man ordered the strongest looking one, Minh to carry my father on his back. One of the other young men took the bags from us, and another offered to carry me on his back. I rested my head against his back and let my body soften and melt—finally being able to rest and be off my feet. I willed myself to stay awake as we walked, but the warmth from him made me feel like I was being wrapped up in a blanket. Tucked in and ready to slip into a dream.

As my eyes closed, I drifted off to the whispers of my mother, still walking on her own two feet.

9

The First Day

It was the first day of kindergarten and I couldn’t stop bouncing

up and down. My nerves stressed my dad out, but my mom looked down at me and swooped me up, backpack and all. She bounced up and down with me while my dad finished up getting ready. Once we were all dressed, we hopped into our small sedan and headed to school. Hand in hand, we navigated the twisty halls of my elementary school.

I was too scared to open my mouth to talk to the other kids.

I tightened my grip on their hands as I watched other kids play together. There was a blond-haired girl who held one of the prettiest Barbie’s I had ever seen. I couldn’t stop staring and my mom noticed, so she walked us over.

“Hello,” my mom said as she squatted, “This my daughter.

Trúc. She has Barbie with her. Want to play?” My mom asked and the blond girl gave a small nod. We smiled at each other and then my mom left with my dad.

We played in a comfortable silence for a bit before the girl looked up at me and asked, “Why is your mom’s English so weird?”

The words stung. My lips clamped together. I didn’t know what to say or if she even meant it in a bad way. She didn’t look like a mean person. Instead of standing up for my mom, I simply lifted my shoulders up and down and continued to silently play with my doll.

My mom rode the public bus to pick me up from school since my

dad was at work. When she bent down to greet me, I could see a thin sheen of sweat coating her skin. I raised my small hand and wiped some away. She gently grabbed it and rested my hand against her lips, kissing it gently.

There is Hope Over the Ocean

“Cảm ơn, con” she said quietly. Her eyes crinkled at the ends as she smiled down at me.

I nodded, but instead of saying you’re welcome, I asked the only thing that was on my mind all day.

“Mẹ, this girl in my class said your English is bad. How can it be bad when you lived here for so long?”

Her eyes widened. I asked it too fast. It took her awhile to fully understand, but I could tell when she did understand it. A sad shadow crossed her face, she stood up and started leading me to the bus stop. It was about a mile away, but it wasn’t a tough walk.

My mom made sure to slow down her pace, so my short legs could keep up. We spent the time walking in silence and swinging our held hands back and forth.

“Trúc,” she called and I glanced up at her with no response.

She paused to gather her thoughts before launching into her story in her native tongue.

“I haven’t been here for very long, con,” she began, “I have been here for maybe 10 years. I was born and raised in Vietnam, that’s why you’re Vietnamese and why we speak it at home.”

I nodded at her explanation. I never questioned where my mom was from or why we spoke another language. That was just how it worked.

“When I was a little girl, the two sides of Vietnam were in a war. My family lost everything when our village was bombed, but my mother was strong and made sure that we would make it to the next town. When we got there, my grandparents immediately spotted us and ordered many people in the village to help us. Those people were so nice. One of them even carried me,” her voice grew wistful as she recalled that act of kindness.

“My father was injured and ended up passing away that night.

His last words were that he loved us and he made my mom promise him that she would find freedom,” she paused to take a deep breath.

I glanced up at my mom to see glossy eyes and I squeezed her hand.

She squeezed mine back.

“I didn’t see my mother cry once when my father died. I knew that she missed him though, she must have cried when I was not around. We didn’t rest when he was gone. My mother became braver. Nothing could stop her from keeping her promise. She helped take care of fallen soldiers and eventually got word of a boat that was heading to Indonesia. That night, she took us onto the boat.” We finally made it to the bus stop and my mom’s voice began to quiver.

Only her mother and her had survived the journey to America, but her mother passed away shortly afterwards. After she made sure 13

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to keep her promise.

My mom told me about how she was taken care of by family friends who came to America earlier and how she only went to high school for a year before deciding that she would rather make money. That night, I cried quietly to myself as the blond haired girl’s comments echoed in my mind.

Of course my mom’s English was bad. She didn’t have time to perfect it when she was trying to survive.

It was the first day of sixth grade and my mom woke me up bright

and early to walk me. My dad received a promotion a few years ago, so we were able to live closer to the nice schools. As we walked together, I noticed that most of the kids who looked around my age were walking by themselves or in a group. Except for me. I was walking to school with my mom. As a sixth grader. I grew irritated and I let go of her hand because why couldn’t I walk by myself ?

She said nothing when I let go of her hand and continued to walk side by side with me. We reached the front of the school grounds and I thought she would leave, but instead my mom turned over and smiled broadly at me.

“What you class number?” She asked in her broken English.

I glanced around, hoping that none of the other kids could hear her talk.

“You don’t need to come with me. I can find it,” I said firmly, but she just shook her head.

“No, we always do this together.”

I knew she wouldn’t budge, so with a sigh, I lead us to my first class. She immediately approached my teacher to introduce herself when we got there.

“Good morning, my name is Lẹ. I am Trúc’s mom,” a large and friendly smile was plastered on her face as she offered her hand.

The teacher shook it and continued the introductions. I stood nearby, ignoring them. Waiting for it to be over. My ears perked when I heard my name again because my mom was just talking about her hair salon. Why was I brought up now?

“Trúc is very sweet girl. So hard working. Very good at math too.”

“Sorry about this, my mom was just about to go,” I said meekly, giving a slight nod to the teacher.

As we headed to the door, I could hear snickering.

“I can’t believe she brought her mom here,” said one boy.

“Right? What a baby. Did you hear the her mom’s English too?

Did she like just come here?” Inquired a girl besides him.

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My face flushed red and I walked my mom all the way back to the entrance of the school. The remark sparked something inside of me. My mom’s English was bad. Why was it still bad? She’s been here for over ten years and yet her accent was as thick as ever. As we walked, I tried to recall moments where my mom was trying to improve her English, but there weren’t any because she never tried to get better. Anger and frustration built in me and it exploded when we stepped outside of the building.

“Why is your English still bad?” I yelled staring straight up at her.

Her expression was shocked and she opened her mouth readying a response, but I didn’t let her.

“You are so embarrassing! You’ve lived here for more than ten years, but you still sound like you just got here! You haven’t even tried to get better.”

After a pause, my mom whispered, “I embarrass you?”

“Yes. Stop walking me to school,” I demanded and walked back to my classroom—flustered by those kids comments, irritated by my mom not letting me grow up, and confused with my swirling dark emotions.

I didn’t need my mom to pick me up from school since we were in walking distance, so I went home by myself and when I got home I found her hunched over a large book with headphones in. When I 15

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walked by to get a snack from the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of the passage that she was reading, “Breaking Down English’s Grammar” it read.

I didn’t greet her when I walked by. A pang of guilt struck me as I watched her concentrate, gently moving her mouth to pronounce the unknown words on the page.

I reminded myself that her learning English was better for her.

It would be better for all of us.

It was the first day of college and a thin layer of sweat coated my

hands as I gripped onto my phone and scrolled through my packed schedule. The campus was bustling and filled with a nervous energy. I couldn’t tell if everyone was wound up because of first day of school jitters or because of all of the coffee they had. I circled around campus and eventually accepted that I was lost. All of the brick buildings just looked too similar and I was miles away from home. Nothing around here looked familiar.

I wished my mom could help me.

As I was losing hope on getting to class on time, a student with tanned skin and smiley eyes approached me.

“Do you need any help finding your class?” He asked with a friendly smile.

I nodded and gave him the necessary information. He was kind enough to walk me to the building. We introduced ourselves and talked about our majors as we walked together.

“So are you Việt since you’re taking is class?” I was surprised by his random question, but I nodded.

“Yeah I am. I used to be fluent, but then my family started talking in English at home more.”

“Wow, so you forgot Vietnamese? My parents would scold me when I spoke English at home. They were adamant that I spoke it,” I was surprised that he was Vietnamese too because it was my first time meeting another Vietnamese person.

“Why didn’t they want you to speak English at home if we live in America?” I asked as we lingered outside of the building that held my class.

“Well,” he began scratching the back of his head, “They said that I would lose my culture and heritage if I forgot. They basically didn’t want me to be too American.”

The bell rang throughout campus to remind its students that classes were beginning. We said our goodbyes and I headed into my first Vietnamese language course wondering if I was too American.

Have I lost ties to my culture?

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It was the first day of the Vietnamese 101 class, but my teacher

was not holding back. I skimmed through the enormous amounts of paper. She gave us packets of basic vocabulary words and lists of grammar points that she wanted us to look over before next class.

When class was over, I was overwhelmed by everything. I had for gotten about my first language. I didn’t realize how long it had been since I held a conversation in my native tongue.

That night when all of my classes were over and my roommate went out for dinner, I sat crosslegged on my bed and dialed my mom’s number.

“Hi con. Did you eat yet?”

“Yes I did. Mom, would you be able to help me with my Viet homework?” I asked and started reading off some of the learning goals for the class.

A long pause filled the space between us.

“Con, I’m not sure if I remember all of those details, but I will try to help you when I can.”

“Thank you,” I was nervous to ask my next question, “Mom, why did we stop speaking Vietnamese at home?”

Another pause Hùng between us.

“When you were in middle school you asked me to have better English. Did you forget that? The easiest way for me to practice was to speak it at home with you and your dad. I guess dad and I still speak Vietnamese to each other sometimes.”

“Oh…” was all I could muster up because I had completely forgotten about that day. We ended our conversation. I spent that night recalling my rage and request. Guilt filled my body. It was my fault that my mom stopped speaking her native language.

She sacrificed her ties with her culture and family, so I wouldn’t be upset or embarrased. As we got older, my mom stopped going to church in the Vietnamese community and started being more involved in my high school with the other Caucasian parents.

My grandmother gave up everything she had known to get my mom safely across the ocean. My mom had given up her identity to create a new one for me. The weight of my selfishness was suffocating and I felt lost.

17

Ông Nội’s Stories

My grandfather was eccentric and stubborn. He watched his vil-

lage and home get raided—fortunes stolen and memories destroyed, but he refused to give in. He refused to be scared. He refused these new ideals that were being forced upon him. My grandfather grew up listening to tales of the Chinese countless tries of taking Vietnam, but their reign never lasted. He was old enough to have seen his country fought over by Japan, French, and now by his own kin. Many were losing hope. No one could see an end to the long and savage war.

My grandfather was the exception though because he believed in our people.

His favorite story to tell me was the one of Âu Cơ.

The sky was painted with oranges, pinks, and specks of warm blue.

It was usually dark by now, but the sun didn’t want to say goodbye just yet. The other children in my neighborhood ran around, enjoying the extra few hours of sunlight before they were forced to wash up and go to bed. I was ready for my day to end though, so I waved my goodbyes and settled down on the floor with my grandfather. He was plucking at his đàn nguyệt. The circular face reminding me of the moon that would arrive shortly.

The melody filled the room and I watched his nimble fingers move skillfully and carefully. I waited until the tune quieted down before clearing my throat to get his attention.

One eye quirked open, “Hm?” My grandfather intoned as he continued to strum with his eyes closed. “Ông Nội, will you tell me another story?”

He rocked back and forth, moving along to his music, “And which one would you like to here tonight?”

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“Âu Cơ, please.”

I untwisted my legs and came onto my stomach, resting my chin in my hands and waiting for the story to begin. When my grandfather was in a really good mood he would strum while telling me a story—creating intense melodies to make a scene more suspenseful or a soft one as background noise. Tonight, he chose the latter. Once he created a song that felt right to him, he jumped into my favorite story and his favorite one to share.

“Our

from magic and love. We were always meant to be gentle people,” he began the tale.

“A young and beautiful fairy, named Âu Cơ, lived high up in the mountains descended down to the mortals often. She was kind hearted and used her skills in medicine to help those in need. But one day, a monster attacked her and she transformed into a crane to escape. A dragon king of the sea saw this happen. His name was Lạc Long Quân and he couldn’t just watch a small crane be attacked.

So, he grabbed a rock and killed the monster. Âu Cơ wanted to see who had helped her. She transformed back into a fairy and searched for her hero. The two instantly fell in love and she bore an egg sac that hatched 100 children. But the two were not destined to be together forever because her home was in the mountains and his was people were born

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in the sea. They each took 50 children and separated, returning back to their homes, but still watching out for each other. All 100 of these children were the first Vietnamese people.�

Our creation story never ceased to hold my attention because what other cultures had a fairy and dragon watching over them?

But they must have been busy now because signs of danger were appearing.

The neighborhood was filled with anxiety for the next few days.

We could make out the distant sound of gunshots echoing around us.

At night, smoke snaked up into the starry sky. Soldiers were near our village, but which side were they on?

The next morning I woke up to yelling.

Rubbing the sleep off my face, I trudged out of my small home and was shocked by the hoard of people that was assembled in the center of our neighborhood. The streets were littered with papers, books, instruments, and a lot of other belongings. More houses were raided when I was asleep and something worse must have been happening now if people weren’t worried about their belongings. I pushed through the crowd and came to a halt when I saw my grandfather kneeled down on the ground. His hands were behind his head, a shot gun raised and aimed at him. The soldier

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holding it pressed it against him, but my grandfather didn’t flinch.

His eyes were fixed on the dirt ground underneath him. He looked defeated. He looked like he had given up.

No. My grandfather wasn’t capable of losing hope. “Ông Nội!” I yelled, stepping closer towards but then two soldiers arrived blocking my path.

Through the cracks between the soldier’s bodies, I was able to see my grandfather’s eyes lift up to meet mine.

“Go back home, con.” He silently mouthed to me behind the soldiers back. But how could I just abandon him?

I shook my head and looked up at the soldiers.

“That’s my grandfather. Why are you taking him?” My voice quivered, but I made sure to speak directly at them. Meeting their gazes even though my hands couldn’t stay still.

“He refused to let us in his home.” The soldier didn’t elaborate that they only wanted to go into his house to find his money and steal it for themselves. Everyone in the neighborhood knew that that was they wanted.

I was about to say that they had no right to command people to let them in, but my grandfather spoke first.

He spat on the ground, “I would never let you corrupted, dirty soldiers walk into my home. Your men will not win the war.” His words were cold and venomous.

I took a step back, surprised that such a tone escaped my grandfather’s mouth. He started to talk about how the soldiers were ruining our culture. Our history. The way of our people.

His speech was getting others worked up. My neighbors began to scream and shout at the terrorizing soldiers They drowned out my grandfather’s words.

And a loud crack silenced them.

The crowd stumbled backwards and away from the soldiers. A splash of red caught my attention. It moved and grew. I squeezed through the space between the two soldiers and when I was past them I fell to my knees. My stomach grew queazy as my vision blurred with red.

Blood was everywhere.

My grandfather had fallen before me and he was surrounded by a pool of blood. His own blood. The hole in his head glared back at me and I hunched over heaving up everything in my stomach until there was nothing left.

No one dared to yell at the soldiers anymore. The square eventually cleared out. My neighbors hid in their ransacked homes, the soldiers walking away towards their next destination, while I lied 23

there next to my grandfather’s limp body. Hoping that some sign of life would show. But he remained still and lifeless.

Where were Âu Cơ and Lạc Long Quân now?

The Only Daughter

The American

soldiers took over Saigon. It was impossible to walk through the streets without seeing foreign faces. They men were sent there to help the South Vietnam, but many were enraged by how long the war had lasted. They grew tired and irrational. Sick of being surrounded by war and in a country where the sun and heat never took a break. Their impatience and irritation grew and warnings were spread from household to household.

“Don’t let Thảo walk by herself, okay?” Whispered Cô Mai, one of Thảo’s mother’s friends.

“Why not? What have you heard?” Thảo’s mother’s voice rose with concern.

Thảo was taught to be quiet and invisible unless called on, but she couldn’t pretend to ignore the conversation that was about her, so she headed into the kitchen where the two women gossiped and began boiling some water for tea. Surely her mother wouldn’t scold her for brewing tea. Quiet as a mouse, she kept herself busy while listening to their conversation.

“The American men are getting mad—restless. They miss their home, their food, and their women. Chị Hoa’s girl was attacked a few weeks ago and now her stomach is swelling up.”

Thảo’s mother gasped, “Is it the American soldier’s child?”

“Of course!” Spat Cô Mai. “ Chị Hoa’s daughter is naive. She thinks that the soldier will help her and be the father, but he won’t. They never do and this one was older too.”

“How will her daughter get married now?” Thảo’s mother asked quietly.

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“She’ll probably abandon the half-breed. No man will want to marry her if she keeps it. That’s why you need to make sure Thảo is never alone.”

Thảo’s hands were shaking as she poured three cups of tea— placing two on the table in front of her mother and Cô Mai—then walking out of the room without acknowledging the conversation.

She had heard more of these rumors recently. She was already anxious about leaving the house to run errands as shootings and bombings escalated, but now she feared the foreign men who were sent to help them—to help free them from the communists. But now they were growing angry and taking advantage of the Vietnamese women.

Anger churned inside of Thảo. She was only sixteen, but had witnessed things that most adults died without seeing. She lost friends her age to assault, unwanted pregnancies, and the war.

Nowhere was safe anymore.

There was nothing she could do about her anger, so she let it stir inside of her. She was sipping her tea and flipping through a book when one of her older brothers walked into her room. Being the only daughter put a lot of pressure on Thảo since she had to stay beautiful, quiet, and obedient so she could find a nice man to marry. But being the only daughter also allowed her to have her own room. She enjoyed her privacy.

“Mother says I need to walk with you all the time now,” Hùng said, leaning against her wall in his dirty work clothes. Dirt and dust from the construction site clung onto his uniform.

Thảo’s face twisted in disgust. Everything in her room was pristine while all of her brother’s rooms were messy.

“Yes, the American men are becoming a threat.” She responded matter of factly.

Hùng scoffed, “They have always been a threat. We didn’t need their help.”

Thảo could tell that her brother was about to start another one of his tangents on the United State’s involvement. One that she has heard many times.

“Don’t worry though. I don’t need to go out often, so you won’t need to babysit me.”

“Good. I have better things to do.” With that, her brother waved his hand goodbye and walked away, dust trailing behind him.

Thảo grew used to one of her brother’s being around her all the time now. Her role at home was to cook and take care of the house and chores while her parents tended to a restaurant they owned. Her 29

There is Hope Over the Ocean

four brothers had different jobs related to the military and they rotated their duties of taking care of her.

Tonight, two of them walked with her. It was her best friend, Tuyet’s seventeenth birthday and they wouldn’t let a war prevent them from enjoying one day. Just one day of celebration. The streets bustled with life and lit the dark street. It was too dark for young children to be out. Only groups of teenagers and adults dared to be out this late. The stench of alcohol and tobacco suffocated Thảo as she walked with her brothers.

“How much alcohol is everyone drinking for it to smell like this.” She said, plugging her nose.

Her brother Hải shrugged, “I suppose a lot of people are celebrating tonight.”

They continued pushing themselves through the crowded bodies. Her brothers flanked her and protected her from the drunk men that lingered outside of restaurants and bars. She wore one of her nicer dresses for the occasion. The silk had floral patterns painted on it, the deep purple making her fair skin look whiter. Thảo’s long thick hair was worn freely and it flew around her face. While she was allowed nicer clothing, each of her brothers only owned a few different outfits. Tonight, they went out in their uniforms to show their status. Hải and Vân weren’t generals or anything high ranked, but they were proud to be soldiers and wore the army pants and their tags displayed.

The uniforms helped ward off unwanted interactions. The South Vietnamese people were respectful of those who were risking their lives, but Thảo noticed some dirty looks from the foreign soldiers.

“Thảo!” Shouted a bright and cheerful voice.

She whipped her head around and found Tuyet waving her hands above her head to get their attention. Thảo’s lips stretched into a smile as she ran towards her friend and greeted her. Other girl friends were there to drink and eat. Older brothers and cousins joined to protect them. This particular restaurant that Tuyet picked had a lot of foreign soldiers because the chefs had decided to learn how to cook some western foods to satisfy the men’s needs. In that moment, she was thankful to have her brothers by her side.

Thảo’s

gratefulness turned into irritation as Hải and Van both enjoyed their night too much. Hải bumped into her and almost fell into her lap.

Shoving him off she yelled, “You’re drunk! How are you supposed to walk home now. You can barely sit up straight.”

Anger laced her words.

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There is Hope Over the Ocean

Hải leaned against the wall and let his head fall back. “Don’t worry em Thảo. I’ll sober up in an hour or so.”

Thảo pursed her lips knowing that that wouldn’t happen. She would have to get one of Tuyet’s cousins to help drag him home or else they would get an earful from their mother the next day. At least Hải was still there though because Van had slinked off with one of her friends a few hours ago and no one had seen the two since. She sighed and crossed her arms, waiting for the night to end.

They were finally leaving the restaurant. Most of the girls lived in the opposite direction as Thảo, but one of Tuyet’s cousins was nice enough to stay with her and Hải. He wasn’t as drunk as Hải, so he was able to help carry her brother’s limp body back home.

“Thank you for helping me get my brother home,” Thảo said, trailing behind the two.

“No problem. We couldn’t just leave him there,” his voice slurred a bit, but she tried to ignore it. They just needed to make it home.

Thảo saw movement in the corner of her eye and turned around to find two American soldiers stumbling over towards them.

She quickened her pace, but Hải and her friend’s cousin weren’t able to.

“Hey,” called out one soldier.

“Slow down, beautiful,” another one yelled.

She couldn’t understand a word coming out of their mouths and continued to walk briskly back home. She would have ran if it weren’t for her drunken company. Something brushed her shoulder.

She glanced over to find one of the American soldiers had caught up. His dark blue eyes lazily looked her up and down and his lips twisted into a grin. His hand moved from her shoulder to cup a face and she could smell the alcohol coating his breath. She tried to jerk her face away, but his grip was too tight.

“Hey man, let go,” growled a voice behind her.

Hải woke up from his haze and managed to utter a few threatening words in English. Thảo had no idea what her brother was saying, but she could figure out the gist of it through the tone and the hatred in his eyes. The blue eyed soldier couldn’t utter a word before Hải bounded over and threw fist at the soldier. They tumbled through the ground and took turns throwing and dodging punches.

Thảo’s other friend ran off when the scuffle started and left her and her Hải to fend for themselves.

Thảo stumbled back as Hải and the solider continued their brawl. She continued to inch back, avoiding the fight until her back hit something warm and solid. The scent of greasy food and alcohol immediately hit her. She didn’t need to turn around to know who 31

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was there. Strong hands gripped her shoulder and jerked her away from the scuffle and into a dark alley. Sucking in a breath, Thảo was about to scream for help before her captor clasped his hand on her mouth. He kept her back to him and her mouth covered as his other hand roamed her body. She was pinned against a building’s wall and had no room or strength to escape. She wanted to scream, but no one would hear it. All she could do was close her eyes and imagine that she was somewhere else.

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Children of the Dust

M y mother shrieked when my step father’s hand smacked her

face. The noise made me jump and I continued hiding behind my mother’s body.

“Why are you protecting that piece of trash? He shouldn’t exist.” My stepfather’s voice was icy and slurred. His voice was never clear. He was never sober.

I didn’t dare to look at him.

I didn’t dare to breathe. Because he was right, I shouldn’t exist.

I

can’t remember a time

when I felt like I belonged somewhere.

People either gave me repulsed looks or completely ignored me as if I was a speck of dust. Nonexistent. I didn’t understand why I was treated this way.

Did I smell bad?

Did I do something wrong?

Was I a bad person?

I had no friends and no family except for my mother, but she married an old drunk. I grew up knowing that he wasn’t my real father because he refused to claim me and it was obvious that I couldn’t be his. His skin was tanned, his hair an inky black, and his eyes were so dark I couldn’t see where is iris and pupil met. But my skin was light, my hair turned into a reddish brown when the sun lit it, and my eyes were the color of young bamboo leaves. It was obvious that I was a child of an American soldier—a child of the dust. But my mother never talked about my real father. It was as if he never existed. The one time I asked about him, my mother’s eyes grew sad, her skin paled, and her body trembled. But she didn’t utter a word. She just stared into space with a horrified expression.

There is Hope Over the Ocean

I was so scared.

I never dared to ask about him again. But I still had questions about myself.

My

trying to find another job, which was rare because he was never motivated to do anything except for drink and gamble away what little money we had. I took his absence as a chance to talk to my mother. She sat on the floor with her hair loosely wound up in a bun, stray strands framed her face as she hunched over a piece of parchment with a brush and ink. When my mother wasn’t working or taking care of chores, she chose to practice her calligraphy—something only wealthy women knew how to do. I wondered where she learned it from.

“Mẹ?” I asked softly, sitting down next to her, watching her wrist flick and curve to create fluid lines.

“Hm?” She mumbled.

“Why does no one like me?” I blurted out. I didn’t mean to ask it so bluntly, but I also didn’t see a reason to beat around the bush.

Her hand paused for a moment before she continued her practice.

“I like you.”

“But why doesn’t anyone else?”

She remained silent. I could tell that the conversation was making her uncomfortable. She didn’t want to talk about this anymore, but I needed to know.

“Is it because I don’t look like everyone else?”

My mother’s brushstrokes grew thicker as she pressed the brush harder on the paper.

“Is it true? The things people whisper…” I trailed off, nervous to ask. “Was my real dad a foreigner?”

Her hands slammed down onto the table, knocking the small bottle of ink over. The pool of black ink bled everywhere, but she didn’t rush to clean it up. Sobs escaped her mouth as she pushed the table further away from her and wrapped herself up into her arms. Her body shook and her cries grew louder. I crept forward to place a hand on her shoulder but she only cried more and inched away from my touch.

“Don’t touch me!” She shrieked in a tone I never heard before.

I stood there silently looking at her small frame, bundled up and trembling.

Please look at me. I thought to myself as I watched her. I silently willed her to look at me. To acknowledge me. I couldn’t have my mother ignore me like everyone else did. I eventually gave up and step father was out

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There is Hope Over the Ocean

went on a walk. But when I came back all I could see was a pool of red mixed with the black ink. Slowly moving around the table, I found my mother’s limp body against the floor.

Something hard slammed against my stomach. I curled inwards

and opened my eyes to see my step father’s feet next to my face. Silently, I pushed myself up and glanced over my shoulder to see that my mother’s body remained untouched. Bile was rising in the back of my throat. But there was no time to rest. No time to react as my step father grabbed me by the collar and tossed me outside, cursing at me and slamming the door in my face. As he continued to curse at me, I picked out some phrases that I always heard spat at me.

Mỹ lai.

Bụi đời.

Trẻ bụi đời.

As I stumbled on the dirt road with tears running down my face, I realized that all of those people were right. I was foreign.

I belonged to no one anymore. I was a child of the dust. And I planned to follow the dirt path in hopes of finding others like me.

37

My Mother’s Sacrifice

“Mẹ,” I whispered sharply, gently shaking her fragile frame. She

mumbled something unrepeatable and rolled over.

“Mẹ, tonight is the night. I have everything packed we just need to get on the boat.”

She nodded as her response and slowly rose to her feet. Her joints were cracking as she stood up. My mother wasn’t that old, she was around 40 years old, but a life on the farm aged her joints faster than they would had if she was born to a different family.

She was strong and I wasn’t worried about her surviving this trip.

I felt a tug on the hem of my shirt and looked down. My daughter’s large dark eyes looked back up at me and my heart tightened.

My worry was all for her. For her small body. For her beautiful face.

I ran a hand through her long, wavy hair. It was healthy and shiny.

But it needed to go.

As my mom was packing up some extra food, I sat my daughter down and quickly created a long braid down her spine. She saw my hands reach towards the rusty kitchen knife.

“Mẹ?” She tried to stand up to leave, but my grip was firm on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry Phượng, but this will keep you safe. I promise,” I stated as I slid the jagged knife through her hair.

We

were finally in line with everyone else waiting for the ship.

My mother stood to my left, my daughter to the right, putting me in the middle. I was in charge and I was determined to make sure we survived this journey. My husband was useless, refusing to flee the country that abandoned him. There was no hope left in Vietnam.

There is Hope Over the Ocean

Phượng was still sulking and grabbing the uneven ends of her hair. She was only eight years old, so she didn’t understand the dangers of the world. She threw another fit when I made her change out of her dress and into loose fitting garments. I needed to hide my beautiful daughter with a boy-like hair cut and drab clothes.

This disguise will become her armor. Her shield.

The sun was rising as hundreds of us boarded onto the long boat. I was surprised that we all fit. No one cared for personal space.

We just needed to find land that would accept us. Before the sun fully rose, we were hurdled into the ocean.

“Mẹ, can I have a snack?” Asked my daughter.

“Of course.”

I reached in one of our sacks and pulled out a few plums and a small knife. Gingerly cutting them as the boat rocked back and forth. I handed the pieces to my daughter and my mother and then wrapped the knife up before tossing it back into the sack. It hit something with a clink. I double checked the small vial filled with clear liquid and let a breath escape when the surface was still smooth and no cracks were found

A

the life on a crowded boat was starting to affect some. Men grew angry and irritable. Women and children were constantly crying. We were all scared. We were all Hungry. But we needed to endure.

Two weeks passed and we saw another boat heading towards us. We didn’t know who would approach us, so women huddled together with the children while the men settled down in front of us. The boat had more space now that some people decided that they couldn’t endure this journey anymore.

“Con, I think those are pirates. Hide Phượng’s face.” Whispered my mother. I nodded and grabbed a hat and pulled it over my daughter’s face. I took a look at her. No pirate would find her attractive. She would be safe.

The strange men immediately boarded our tiny boat when their’s grew close enough. The men on our ship tried to ward them off, but these pirates pulled out their shiny weapons. We did not speak the same tongue as them, but their eyes lingered on us—the group of women. It was clear what they were after. I shielded my body in front of Phượng and my mom put herself in front of me.

There were three generations of us Phạm women. We couldn’t let these men hurt us.

They approached the opposite side of the group and when they saw someone who piqued their interest, they grabbed her. week passed and

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There is Hope Over the Ocean

As if she weighed nothing. As if she belonged to them. The men eventually made it to my corner of the group and family got closer together. I did my best to shield my face with my long hair and looked down at their feet. We didn’t need to draw any attention to us. I could hear their footsteps retreating, but before I could let out the breath that I was holding in I felt a hand grab onto my hair and yanked my head up, making the strands fall away from my face.

His coal colored eyes lingered around my face and his hands traveled around my body. I stiffened and his thin lips quirked into a smile, baring crooked multicolored teeth. He was thin but strong— pulling me up onto my feet and dragging me towards the boat by my hair.

“No!” Phượng screamed, climbing to her feet.

“Con, sit down!” I screamed back, willing her to listen to me.

Pleading with my eyes. But she wouldn’t listen to me.

Phượng ran up with her small hands balled up and began to throw them against the man. He smiled, amused by her actions. He only needed one hand to keep me in place and he used his other hand to lift Phượng face.

Foreign words left his mouth, but I could see his brows knit together with confusion. I prayed that he would not realize that she was a girl, but then his lips curved upwards and my stomach sank.

Before I could react, my mother had quietly crept closer to us. In flash, she hit the man’s side and blood began to gush. His men started moving towards us, crowding us. Before anyone could lay a hand on my family, I grabbed them and shielded them.

The other pirates circled the man who grabbed me. Concern and anger warped their features. The man with the multicolored teeth was holding onto his wound, but the blood didn’t stop. I reached down to look at my mother’s hand and the small knife in her small, frail hands. They were trembling, but her eyes were filled with determination. I gently peeled the blade out of her hand and tightly gripped it in mine. Readying myself to ward the pirates off.

The other Vietnamese men were creeping closer to the pirates, but their movement made the boat rock. Many of the pirates whipped their heads around and unsheathed their swords threateningly, telling the men to stay back.

The injured man finally gave up on stopping the bleeding wound and with heavy steps headed straight towards us. Phuong whimpered and my mother’s hand tightened around my shoulder.

He uttered a stream of words we did not understand. My mother brushed her lips against my cheek before he could get too close and with her short determined strides she slammed herself against him, throwing him unbalanced and rocking our small boat more.

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There is Hope Over the Ocean

His eyes widened as he watched my determined mother refusing to stand down. He raised his hand and whipped it across her face causing the other women behind megasped and the children screamed.

My mother’s body crumpled down onto the boat. I could see her back rise and fall though. She was still alive, but remained down.

I started to walk towards her when he brought his foot down and slammed it against her stomach. My mother’s body curled inwards as she shrieked.

I was too shocked by the sight before me that I didn’t even notice Phượng run out from behind me wielding a long thin stick—a cane that was left by an old man who could not survive the ocean.

She brought it down against the man’s back. I heard a crack that sent my stomach turning, but there wasn’t any time to be nauseous.

My mother and daughter were fighting now. They were protecting me when I should have been protecting them. I followed my daughter’s lead and threw my body in front of hers just as the man’s blade sliced through the air and ripped through my face.

With trembling hands, I reached up and felt warm liquid run down my face. It stung, but it wasn’t unbearable. I glanced up, wondering why the sword hadn’t cut deeper. Two other elderly woman had tackled the man down before his blade could draw more blood.

They punched wildly with no skill or control. A few other women gathered around my mother, cleaning up blood and helping her sit up. I turned my head to see that the men with faces like mine did not let fear stop them anymore. They began fighting the pirates with lack of weapons, but their wild tenacity was scaring the pirates off. More joined the fight. It wasn’t just my family and I fighting anymore. The whole boat had come together and we fought off 42

There is Hope Over the Ocean

the pirates. Pushing them into the ocean and letting her waves take them down. The ones that were not pushed ran and climbed onto their own boat and eventually sailed off.

Miraculously, we had won that fight. We tended to each others wounds and another woman helped me clean up the cut that snaked from my forehead, across my eye, and down my cheek.

“This will scar,” she whispered as she dabbed at it with the salty water from the ocean.

I nodded not caring if my face will be marred forever because we were alive.

Another

week had passed and there were still no signs of land.

Many of us grew more tired after our fight with the pirates, some wounds did not heal. Sickness and infection plagued our small boat.

Men had jumped into the ocean, afraid that their sickness would jump from them and seep into the children. Mother’s weeped with sorrow. Children cried from starvation.

By now, many sick people had taken matters into their own hands, except for my mother. Her sickness wasn’t as obvious because she didn’t have any cuts that oozed green and red. But she kept on coughing up blood.

I was about to drift off to sleep with my mother grabbed my hand.

“Con,” she started, “Where is it?”

“Where is what, mẹ?” I asked through yawns.

“The vial of poison. I heard you ask the doctor for it.”

My groggy thoughts escaped me and surprised replaced it.

The village was small so there was no reason for me to ask her how she knew. Word got around easily.

Instead, I asked her, “Why do you want it?”

“I’m going to drink it. You and Phượng don’t need to take care of me. Take care of yourselves instead. Live. Be free and find this land of hope.” My mother’s voice was calm and soft. I couldn’t detect any sense of fear in it because she had made up her mind.

I swallowed the lump that was forming in my throat.

“I love you mom,” I whispered.

“I know. Take care,” she whispered back.

I gingerly sat up, grabbed the sack, and pulled out the vial. I placed it her hands and when I heard her twist the bottle open, I rolled over to where Phượng slept and pulled her into my arms.

Hot tears streamed down my face.

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Author’s Note

There is Hope Over the Ocean explores the experience of living during the Vietnam War and the aftermath of it. Each individual had their own experience. But for storytelling purposes, I kept more common tales of escape general, so many readers would be able to connect to this collection. Although these stories were inspired by real ones, they are fiction and simply based on actual events.

Growing up as a first generation Vietnamese-American, I felt disconnected and confused with my identity. The stories my parents told me about the war were not reflected in my textbooks for history class. My experience living with two cultures was not represented in media. So, when I was given the opportunity to research and create something I was passionate about, I chose to create There is Hope Over the Ocean to share these unique stories and voices in hopes of creating more conversation between parents and children who survived this war.

There is Hope Over the Ocean

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