Episode 74: A Word Away

Ocean Vuong, who is probably every young Vietnamese American's favorite poet right now, once wrote:

"Every word I write here is a word farther from you, Ma."

At least, that's what I think he wrote. I had trouble finding the real thing in my hazy 1:11 AM self.

Me. Ba. 

It's true.

For every new English word I learn, another Vietnamese word grows hazier or, is lost. Fizzing out. Connections between firing neurons to make the word, a word, snapped. 

And that scares the shit out of me. 

I dread the day that I learn another English word. Which is every day. 

All the history in your heads, is written in the neurons of your minds. Telling my mind. What it knows. What it thinks it knows. 

Memory is selective and self-serving all too many times. I bet your stories are too. Stories often are, but...

I'm trying to put together what it is I'm losing exactly. 

Why does it feel like I'm losing? A lot of little somethings? Trillions of possibilities: many of them I see share the same ending. 

My great great grandkids won't even know. 

Any bit as much as I know. 

Or anything at all of what you both know. 

Me. Ba. 

What will become of all that we know? What's going to happen to the history we fought so hard to protect? What history is left to spell out? My kids and their kids and their kids are going to never, not as much, not as much as we do. And I even can't. I can't even articulate what happened of our ancestors either.

I'm so so so sad. I know it's inevitable but god.

What a hefty goal it is, to desire rememberance.

And with every new English word I use,

like

"rememberance,"

I'm losing it.

It feels like a ticking time bomb that when it explodes, shatters all the time, all the memories, the glass reflecting myself back.

I taught my mother how to play a bit of "For the love of a princess" from Braveheart on the piano tonight.

It's a song I've been playing for years and the one she always requests I play at the end of almost every day.

"Play that song I like, Ngoc."

And it's always "for the love of a princess." 

She tells me it makes her feel nostalgic, wistful, and that all the beauty that ever existed, she's seen before, she sees through this song. 

This song gives her the words to tell me that it makes her feel like she's deeply connected with all the mountains she grew up with. The rivers and the birds and maybe that boy from her past and the yams and all the things that stabbed her bare feet. And me. I'm pulling her heart strings over here haha, and I'm leaving to study abroad soon. In less than a week. My papers aren't even together yet, YIKES, but

I'm leaving super soon.

I wanted to leave her with the memory of how to play this song by herself.

So if she misses all the memories of her youth, or of me, that she can access those feelings through music any time at all. 

Teaching her to memorize it was for naught. She doesn't know how to read music or play any instrument outside of the drums.

It was her idea and a brilliant one too; I taped numbers on the piano keys so she'll know which ones to play in order.

She soon picked it up and eventually, just a tap away from accessing it. 

All it took was being a willing and supportive teacher and she was smilinggg. And she wanted to stay longer and longer to continue practicing the 13 or 14 notes she now learned.

I would have stayed there for as long as she wanted.

I wanted to give her something new, like all the things she's given me. 

There's a lot of words I don't know in Vietnamese.

There's a lot of notes my mom doesn't know how to play.

There's a lot of good memories that slipped my dad's mind. 

And part of preserving memory is making memory. 

I don't think I'll ever forget the way my mom and I danced to Michael Buble's "Sway" tonight or the way we hopped like mad to Careless Whisper even if it was a saaaad song. 

I may not have all the important memories of my ancestors in me, but I do know that I'm a ready student.

Perhaps I'll never truly know enough. Or ask enough or the right questions. But I want to. I want to know enough to at least be a willing and supportive teacher to my kids. Know enough to pique and keep their interest so that they have the initiative to search for answers on their own, should I no longer be alive.

Just as my parents instilled in me.

Haha, I don't have kids yet, but say 10 years from now, when they exist--

I want them to feel as proud, as I do, about the Nguyen Khoa family line. About the Huynhs and their great-grand father who died plowing the infertile dirt, hopeful for food -- the ultimate act of love. About their grandma's resilience and courage and kindness, how she forgives even the most unkind of people. How she prefers Popeyes to Canes, and how their mom and aunt would quickly agree to disagree. About their grandpa who's always retelling the same stories because he wants to keep the conversation going. How he once fought and lost a war. How he drove their mom and aunt to mostly anywhere they wanted, as long as they were with their girlfriends. And their great grandma who would cook anything they wanted, perhaps the same egg and rice dish that their mom loved eating after school in her elementary school years.

I'm tearing up. 

I really am. I can't believe that there's going to be a day when I'm going to be a mother. And though these darn kids don't exist yet, I love them already. I want so much for them. I want for them all the things I had and more. I want them to know about the history I lived with, was surrounded with, was choked with. 

I can hardly believe that as I write this, that I'm going on to do some amazing things. I'm super proud and scared for myself. Study abroad in Singapore (AND IM ROOMING WITH ONE OF MY BEST FRIENDS AHHH). Internship with the State Department in the bureau I've always wanted. And.. finishing my last year at Smith. And hopefully, back to Houston.

Back to home. To the mall. To the dress shopping and the book shopping and my favorite underground curry place.

Having kids is going to be amazing, I'm just not ready for the sharing. Would I ever tell the stories well enough? Would I have enough words, no, the right words? To relay it. Would I inspire the same curiosity my parents inspired in me? 

To look up at the moon and say, "I want to stay out here, stay and stare and wonder about all these things I don't know about. So let's make a wish."

I do know they're probably going to be super cute, if they look anything like me when I was a toddler. Pft.

There's a lot to remember but I'll do well to remember it all too well.

At least for myself.

"Why doesn't grandma eat meat when there's a full moon out?" my grandkids would whisper.

"Something about her dad doing the same. Buddhist stuff," the eldest grandkid would reply.

"hehe, Bootyism," the other grandkid would snicker. That one's definitely mine.

(I'll make them Taylor Swift fans too.)

Your girl,

Ngoc

P.S. This episode was chaOTIC. It started on a fearful note of wth is going to happen to all these things that I know about my family and the history I was taught to value. All this history would just be less and less as future generations exist. AHH. 

I just want my grandparents and parents to live on. If not physically, that they live on in memory. And at some point, I won't have any control over that. We were in no one's memory when we were first born, and then after, we were. Then we die, and...yeah, hah..

okie.

Episode 73: Okay

Okay doesn't mean "okay" anymore.

It's two weeks from finals and

the state of okay

is laced with the toothiness of tiredness. 

The sluggish movements we all make from not staying in bed long enough.

Something about snow coming

and it's stark dark and not even 4:30. 

Slouching in all of Smith's couches,

I find myself

being smart enough to find a chair, hard and sturdy, instead

to keep awake.

Awake to do and think and express all these okay things keeping me awake.

The new status quo 

is exhausting yourself from constantly producing and producing shit

and being wedged between

this feeling of mediocrity

and plain bad.

And it's not even 2 pm yet. 

Am I even going to be awake enough to 

produce a shitty coherent thought

at 2 pm?

Honestly.

The little stamina I have 

is spinning

on absolute fear.

Of not finishing

not submitting

not writing and reading enough to

finish and submit.

How do we manage to freaking breathe?

And when I do, finally, do as my body does

and breathe,

I'm scared that I'm breathing for too long.

For laughing too much like we enjoy being crispy and burnt.

So cheers to today.

Another day when I tell my cute friends and my cute housemates

that I'm okay

only to proceed quickly with the word "fuck" 

in a long exhale

the kind that communicates, 

"I'm not okay at all. In fact, you probably knew that already. Maybe you're going through this too. Maybe we're both not alone in feeling this diluted version of 'okay.' Maybe we're too scared to map out everything we have to do, because if we think hard enough, that list starts to grow. 

out of control."

Is what I'm going through right now

even okay?

I'm going to start answering people with

"It's great to see you."

Instead of "how are you?"

from now on. 

Because I'd rather see people, see anyone,

than see myself 

engulfed.

Episode 72: Skunk

11.19.21.

12 AM. Three losing League games until we won. I was a tree and you were a swordsman. I threw my sapling bits that exploded on the enemy. You spun into the fray, brave and true, until they all descended on you. Hungry for kills. 

1 AM. I told you about a lunar eclipse happening tonight, holding onto the edge of my chair and peering hard out our window. You asked if I'd want to go on the balcony to witness it for real. A place I've never been. "Let's pick a chair. Yours or mine?" 

"We're going to smuggle a chair onto the balcony?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"Haha no. To reach the window!" 

You grinned with homework heavy in hand. 

That's how you show me you care. 

So you carried my chair ahead, figured out how to pull down the window screen, as I pulled on pants and boots. We kept giggling as we struggled to fit through the window. My inner thighs hurt a lot. My boots were in the way. Your slipper was in the way. But we managed to see the other side. To witness the moon we were promised.

"Allison, we're on the wrong side to see it, aren't we?" 

"We definitely aren't. Plus it's so cloudy tonight. How are we supposed to see the moon?" you pondered with your astrology knowledge.

Haha oop. 

Astronomy. 

Moon or not, it really didn't matter. The view before me was fresh. The air was chilly. My nose was chilly. My hands were getting cold but the glow of the campus center, the way my bike looked from above, tips of trees I never knew to be so tall suddenly realized, and not a star in the sky.

It was wet. A streak of thin white cloud in the dark ass sky. 

"Is that the milky way?" I asked, truly not knowing. I was in that late-night sleepy daze where too many questions came to mind. And you never minded answering them.

Not without laughing out loud this time, "We're in the milky way, silly."

"Ah... hahahahaXD"

We laughed and talked about anything again. The tips of my boots began to feel cold and I wondered how cold wearing slippers only felt. I started walking back towards the window, thinking maybe it was cold enough to go in, but you were reluctant. No way did we go through all that trouble for just 10 minutes of balcony time. So we stayed for longer, happily chilling in the chill.

Then I spotted a scurrying creature by the side of the empty campus center. Pitter pattering on top of orange-yellow leaves and illuminated by the bright lights of the white building. Squeezing and stopping below the black steel benches. We kept on moving to get a better angle. 

This was the first time in my life that I saw a skunk so clearly. The first time I saw a skunk that wasn't in Curious George.

It looked like a raccoon panda. 

so FLUFFY. AND CUTE. AND SQUISHY. 

I bet its cute paws would pat pat on me if I held it. TOE BEANS.

But its ass would make me a mess.

"We're going to need all the homemade marinara from Tyler to get that stink off us," I commented.

"Or ketchup and water for days," you added. I could feel your cheeky grin. I could feel my own cheeky grin. I COULD FEEL MY CHEEKS.

I've been smiling too much lately. But today, or tonight haha, I couldn't stop pointing and be awed. 

By the deft way the skunk knew where to go. Up the concrete stairs instead of hedging through the grass. So quick and sure and human. 

I wonder if this skunk could hear us tonight. Saying stupid shit like "woah, it's so cute." 

Or "woah, it's ACTUALLY so cute." 

I'm 21 years old. And I've finally seen a skunk.

Your city girl can't get more domesticated than this.

Am I even using domesticated correctly?

Tonight, I was awed by that simple, pretty feeling. Tonight was so pretty. 

Pretty like the smiles on our faces. Pretty like all the laughter we couldn't stop holding back as we realized all our efforts were for naught, with no moon in sight. Pretty like the warmth in my belly as we witnessed this skunk doing skunky things. 

I wasn't at all disappointed that I couldn't see the moon. I was with you, my awesome friend.

You and I eventually turned towards the window after a series of yawns. I went after you, your long legs reaching the chair long before mine could. Then, mine came after. I was unsure, unsteady, but you held the chair. I was just fine. 

You have my back.

Last week, I teared up on the middle of the street, walking to a fancy dinner I was in no way well-dressed for. Thinking about things I wish I could turn back time on, but before I lingered on regret, you and Luna appeared before me in the dark. 

I could tell it was you anyway. You could be walking a mile away but if I ever saw anyone that walked like you, "it's her" I'd say. 

And it was you. That happy, jaunty walk. You're like the main character of a coming-of-age movie. The protagonist everyone roots for, because your positive energy is magnetic. Radiant. Warm. You make people ask if all comp sci majors walk like that.

You walked up to me and I greeted you both into a hug. 

I was about to break down crying. Maybe I almost did and the glow of the streetlights reflected the truth of what I felt, maybe all the cars driving past us knew I was emitting sad girl vibes, but before I could tear up any more, you said, "Hey. Whenever you get back to our room, look out for a little something, because I got you something. :)" 

That's one of the moments I knew. 

That I'll remember most. 

I'll be okay, because my friends are rooting for me. You're rooting for me.

You want to see me happy and well. :)

Whoever I'll become in the future, wherever I'll be, I'm probably going to cry.

A lot.

But being with you makes me smile. 

Friends, I thank you for being my homemade marinara sauce. ^-^

Cuz sometimes life fucking stinks and I fucking suck.

Like.

Skunk.

And I'll need to smell nice things again.

the afterthought

am i supposed to

get used to

silence?

your presence 

only nighttime

when its convenient

when you're too tired

to talk about anything

sufficient.

anything real. 

are we real? really? in a realationship? 

relationship.

is this how it's supposed to feel?

you tell me it's going to change. 

it. or you? 

or when you say that, you're asking me to change? 

my expectations? 

but why is it, that no matter how much i concede,

how much i want to believe

that i can handle the little we have

the little you give me, 

why does it feel wrong? 

can two people really be this busy for each other?

or just one is too busy for the other?

i'd rather do as i've done before,

keep a foot out the door,

but the part of me that remembers your steady gaze, 

the words you spilled, the drives you made,

doesn't mind the silence.

doesn't mind the waiting. 

but someone once

taught me,

that it shouldn't feel like waiting

for things to change.

because my time is precious

and so is yours.

you tell me you are satisfied with 5 minutes of talking. 

"a glass half full," you said.  

i think not. 

i'm not looking for a glass half full.

im looking for one glass full

of satisfaction, depth, speed, care. 

it's not about how much time we spend, 

babe.

i don't want 

to feel as i do now -- unnatural, uncomfortable, left, unread -- 

like an afterthought. 

maybe i don't understand you.

maybe you don't understand me. 

but that's what it feels right now

that's what it appears to be.

the misplaced pencil pooch

i have a hunch that i left my beautiful gray, flowered pencil pouch out on the kickball field, last week. when my house played kickball against another house for lawn-naming rights. i had biked out to Cutter-Ziskind to pack brunch into my backpack and then on my bike, i raced down the hill, the one that takes me straight to the sports fields. on any decline, my bike can fly. i felt like flying, flying, flying until my bike lock fell off loudly behind me. It’s okie. Was worth. 

when i walked to the field, my housemates were warming up, waving to me. i found a spot on the bench to sit down and pull my brunch from my backpack. Eating and smiling and cold.

the kickball game began. allison and i applauded and screamed. she rested her notepad on her lap, meaning to study but i knew we'd only have eyes for the game. 

"H-W Lawn" has always been the hope. we lost by a point. we lent the opposing team our best players because they didn’t have enough. Haha, again. It’s okay. The grass was green and the sky was sunny and my nose was chilly and the view of smith, beautiful.

So we technically won by default. i had so much fun cheering on the sidelines. enjoying my egg quiche and the company. ^-^

if not the kickball field, then the pouch is in josten library, in that study room full of old, rare books behind glass bookshelves. i remember opening the door and almost yelped when i saw the shape of a person studying in such dim lighting. it was Loren, an acquaintance that always said hi back. the kind of person i know deep down i could vibe with had we had more encounters.

it's the room with a keyboard you can play with headsets on. I played some of my favorite songs while Loren studied. after i finished, we conversed about international politics, wine and parties, and rap. two girls who enjoyed boardgames and watching kpop dancing videos. that one UMass frat party I walked in on. We listened to August D’s Daechwita and bopped along. laughed about the silly and the serious. before I left, we promised we'd meet again.

if the pouch was not at josten, then it might have fallen out at the boat house. i had biked there immediately after leaving the library to meet with Naina. we made last minute plans to kayak haha. i got there first, sat down on the steps as i waited, enjoyed the view of the pond, the trees, the scattered yellow and red leaves on the ever-shifting pond surface. it was chilly. i dug my heels into the concrete steps. not too long, i heard foot steps behind me. 

maybe it's from walking with her lots but i knew those steps were hers. 

Naina and i went into the boathouse. it was my first time. god. that boat house felt and smelled…? like a movie. the strong smell of wet wood and earth. wooden desks. wood everything. a life vest was fitted on us both before we each got our own kayaks and were pushed into the water.

everything feels different when i was in the water. the paddling. the calm. the conversation. the way the surface of the water moved and shined under the sun and with the wind. if i had anything to say, it was an observation. 

"beautiful."

"gosh."

"woah! haha"

"i can't breathe"

Naina looked so cute paddling pft. sometimes she would struggle to push herself forward or her kayak was stuck on a log hahaha and i keep saying this and it's so weird but she's the cutest daughter. if i had a daughter like her, i would be blessed. forever. our paddling wasn't synchronous but the sight of her silhouette against the shine of the water and the trees was absolutely gorgeous. i wonder what i'd see if i was paddling behind myself. how do i look? 

all in a sunday. all these beautiful, peaceful feelings i felt. somewhere in me, somewhere deep, i felt warm. warm from how such a normal sunday could already feel so extraordinary because of the people in it. the nature in it. the flight i felt in my heart.

i was making memories that i'd remember for the rest of my life. as I write this, I can still see it all. 

i used to be the kid who stayed in, studying hard for that extra letter grade. who based her self-worth on her academic performance and achievement. 

it was my everything. it was me. and i allowed it to be. 

however, that meant i left a lot of life behind. 

fomo. 

fear of missing out. my beautiful friend Elise first introduced this to me in our penpal letters. i realized then how that was everything. everything i had feared. perfectly condensed.

i feared i had lost. had i lost years? lost it to nothing at all. nothing i'd remember or recall. downing and memorizing and swallowing information i'd barely touch. for the sake of recognition. someone else's. not mine. 

it's as if i could only be real if someone else noticed me and my efforts. not that i did. i lived for others. and i loved it. i hated it. i thrived and i burned and i was quiet. never voicing it. crying only in the middle of the night as i stared down my computer screen. another essay to conquer. another concept to master.

i never did much. not for fun. 

Like The Band Perry's song "If I Die Young" -- "all i never did is done." 

on a night out to a jazz concert with someone i really like (this was a month ago) i was epically excited about funnel cakes, having never had them before. on our way back from getting a plate, as we sought a place to eat it, he asked me, "do you ever have fomo? is this fomo for you?" 

it was painful to admit it. the funnel cake plate was warm in my hands as we walked. his eyes, earnest. 

"yes. god, yes i do. but im here tonight aren't i? im in the exact place my parents would never have allowed me to go, with the exact person they'd never want me to be with at night: a boy. haha."

we ate the cake together, fingers and all. amazing music floating through the chilly air. the highway beneath us. i felt safe. flying. like a bike in decline. i felt easy.

so where was the damn pencil pouch? it wasn't in any of these places.

two days had passed after that sunday. i dug around my backpack for an umbrella and there it was.

with me all along. it was with me everywhere. this trusty pencil pouch.

not lost.

i didn't lose it after all.

i hope you'll find what you've felt you've lost. and if you don't, that you can create it :)

yes.

best,

Ngoc

P.S. haha. cheesy.

i am a cheese about my own life.

am i perfectly happy? definitely not! i just... i've come to learn where i like putting in my time. 

we got this heh ^-^

Episode 71: our drunken ship

In the past few years, I've learned what is absolutely true, the hard way. Each time after the next, it gets easier to accept. 

There are some people who are meant to be in your life for a moment, a season, or seasons. 

Forever isn't ever guaranteed.

I was convinced forever worked.

Especially in my friendships.

I was convinced that she would be my ride or die. A girl who slowly opened up to me, but when she did, she was art. I loved her mind. I deeply enjoyed our conversations, wherever they went. We both danced with flowers, one of the last to be on the dance floor, on our prom night. She was my date.

I was convinced what we had could never end. We were too similar in many regards. And wherever we were different, it was something to peacefully notice and accept.

She gets me when I needed to be gotten. And my listening ear was a space for her to vent and explore what went on in that mind of hers. 

It's been years and since covid started, our friendship became harder to maintain. 

At one point, we would call often. Or often enough to feel a semblance of connection. 

She keeps to herself during this pandemic and hates calling. But I love calling. 

It's not that I've lost her. 

I've lost the expectation for her to be here. With me forever.

Tonight, our plans to meet failed through yet...again. I desperately wanted to make them happen.

And she didn't for reasons beyond my control. For reasons unrelated to me. 

But it's disappointing. Frustrating. I'm not her, so I'll can't imagine what she's going through. 

I miss her from time to time. It's nostalgia. Naggy and haunting. And wanting to say hi.

"How easy it was to be 'us'..."

I was happy with our friendship. 

And whenever we caught up, it's as if no time has passed at all.

Keshi's "drunk" is playing in the background again. And how fitting, because our ship, it feels drunk.

Like there's not a straight line from where we are to where we're going. 

She and I are pausing what we have until we can actually meet again. I hope she's in a better place. 

I hope I will be too. And I hope we won't harbor bitterness to each other and if anything, I'm rooting for her. 

Even if it's from afar until we meet again.

I hope our ship isn't drunken enough to sink. Just.. drunk. Swerving and unclear. That's... that's okay. :)

It's one of those nights where I wish I had someone by my side. 

Haha, I say it like I have no one. 

But I do. 

She's just fast asleep two rooms away from mine. I'm waking up with her 6:30 am alarm to cook her some corndogs. That's who I do have.

Yen. I can count on her forever and forever. That's my babe. 

And hey.

Maybe it's not forever that I want.

Maybe it's that feverish feeling I get whenever I'm convinced in forever that matters.

Because right now, I know I might not have forever with some of the people I have in my life. The fact that forever ever crossed my mind when it did-- that makes the hurt of possibly losing them one day all worth it. 

Call me naive.

I'm luckily young enough to screw this part up.

When it gets old, when I get old-- at least I'll have been screwed.

With enough times to reconsider

not counting on all my ships surviving to shore.

Wishful and yours,

Ngoc

P.S. It was poor of me to... uh, screw around with screw jokes. :I sorry. And do you have a drunken ship? or two? 

My metaphors get lost at one point. Forgive my poor taste.

I fucking love ships and whales.

do i?

do i like you or do i like that you like me?

do i want you or do i want you to want me?

do i like convincing you we could make this last 

while both of us are high off the heat? the adrenaline we both get

from saying things we want the other to believe?

do i want you to fall for me? hard.

am i brave enough to return the favor? 

when this is what i've been wanting

and here you are, exactly and not exactly as i wanted

but good for me

all the same.

"i really like you, Ngoc"

words so simple, so short yet endless

you were nervous, shitless. and rightfully so.

"i might have to wait 6 months for you to feel sure about me too?

that feels like im played with... you know?"

you're right. 

do i want to stick it out? 

am i as sure about you as you are about me?

do i want to stick it out and make myself believe?

wait to see what you see? 

would i be at ease

during our time's entirety?

or do i let you go now,

wistful at how early

or continue what we have, 

all confident that we could be "friends" so innocently?

just wanna drive

Yen sat in the back. Diana sat in the passenger's seat. I held the wheel. 

And they believed in me.

Yes, I have a drivers' license, but geez, it's been a long time since I've driven. 

But we made it. We made it Coral Sword and played boardgames for hours. Phew.

I love driving. I'm scared too, of course. But I love accelerating. I love knowing that I can feel what the middle of the road is now. I remember when I first started and I'd always be a little too much to the left. I love being the one to take my mom home after a long day at the nail salon. She can rest and I'll take over. I love how if I need to brake last minute, I can still make it smooth like velvet.  

But... driving Diana and Yen to Coral Sword was different.

To think, that was the first time I drove without my parents breathing down my back.

Was it because of control? My parents feared I might get pregnant if I can drive? Hahaha. Yo, legit. Or they didn't want me to meet friends or guys? Unconfident if I'd mess up and crash and make our family's insurance plan skyrocket? 

Maybe all three. 

But I just wanna drive. 

I've held onto this license for 1.5 years now and I've driven alone 0 times. ZERO. 

Agh. And when I have, I better make no mistake or I won't get to drive for another few weeks. Left to ponder and never make that mistake again, but how am I supposed to be better at driving if you won't let me drive?? 

"Where are you going? When are you coming back? Who are you meeting? Who are their parents? What will you be doing?"

I could not have a social life at all throughout high school when most events happened in the night. Save for prom and a handful of middle school homecoming dances, I was sheltered.

Stay at home. Go no where.

Risk nothing.

No boys to ruin me. Haha. 

Sigh.

The best decision I ever made in my life and definitely expensive, is going to college out-of-state.

And it was probably the biggest strike of gold in their eyes when it turned out I was going to a traditionally all-women's college.

"Wow. You're so studious Ngoc! You're going to focus on school!"

Maybe instead of celebrating, you should have asked why. Why did I choose Smith?

Maybe, you taught me to fear men.

Or you, Dad. You taught me to hate them. 

Jokes on them. 

I gotta practice my dating muscle somehow. :)

Wow. 

I just wanna drive. I just want to be in control of my life again. I'm tired of reporting...

And I will. In 3 weeks. I'll be off to Smith, happily tripling with my friends. Going out whenever I want. Returning whenever I wish. Access to the gyms YES. No one to report to but myself.

That's what a car represents to me right now. I've been leashed for 20 years and in less than a month, I'll be 21. 

Would turning 21 really mean anything in their eyes? Or would it just mean I'd be something tougher to control? Keep tabs on? 

Having my own place is costly and if I want to build wealth easier, I might need to live here for a while longer. Woah. 

But I get it. 

I thank them. I do. I'm grateful too that they've sheltered me. 

Yesterday, as Yen and I walked to the park, a car slowed down right by us and the guy in the passenger's seat opened his door to stick his head out, looking at me dead in the eye, and after a second or two, he closed the door. The car drove off, only to make a U-Turn again and come back our way.

I felt the hairs on my back raise. Yen and I speed walked and finally made it into the grass of the park, standing near the pool gates.

Seconds before we even made it into the grass and were still in parking lot, the car honked at us for no reason at all. We weren't even in their way. Farrr from it. And they shouted something at us. 

Yen said she heard the word, "GET..." 

But we were to shaken, too speed-walky to hear the rest.

On the walk back home from the park, Yen and I were nervous, shaky the entire time. Any car that drove by made me want to walk quicker. Not that I can outwalk a car haha, but I get it. 

It's not like I haven't. 

I understand why you both protected Yen and I for so long... 

I'm really grateful that it's only up to now that I get it. 

I get rebellious. I feel angry. I feel like I've lost my youth, but also, there were things you made sure I wouldn't come to know until later, when I'm old enough to understand for myself. Old enough to have the wisdom and initiative and capability to protect myself.

Thank you, Mom and Dad.

I know that my childhood wasn't perfect.

But you did your best.

I still just wanna drive.

But I'll always do my best. 

Because up until now, you've forced me to take no risks period. 

Now, I have to force myself to take those risks. Be smart. And you've done a great job protecting Yen and I up until now. Now it's my turn to protect myself. And one day soon, protect you both. 

What I need most though is for you both to believe in me. 

That's it. 

Welped,

Ngoc

P.S. This random episode is everywhere haha. It started as this grievance letter to my parents about how they won't let me drive.

And then as I recalled my most recent experiences, I understand them. 

One day, when I have children of my own, I wonder what kind of parent I would be. I'm young haha. I'm still just 20 but gosh, raising children is so hard!! Kids grow up, compare their lives to others, and have a bit of FOMO because their parents keep tabs on them, and feel anger at time lost. At opportunities lost. It's all in the name of keeping us safe, but there has got to be a sweet spot of surveillance and opportunity.

And yes, child-raising can be VERY gendered. I have guy friends who were way younger and their parents did not keep this many tabs on them, or fear that they'd get pregnant. :I It's what it is and I can still create the life I want. Erase the boldness of the lines surrounding me.

P.P.S. Creepy strangers is definitely not a new thing!! After speaking to a close friend of mine, I realized how often it happens. Living as a woman. Owning a woman's body... a lot of strings are tied to it. 

Rape culture. How at any moment, a man can have the physical advantage. Not to mention, I'm such a people pleaser. How to say no and be confident in it. Be ready for the consequences of saying, "No" in a world that can't take "no" from a woman. Yeah...

Fuck this shit. 

FUCK THIS SHIT. ha. Thank god Yen was there with me. I have no idea what would have happened if... I had walked to the park alone yesterday.

I can't even run that fast yet. Welp. 

yup. 

fuckthisstupidassshitaghhhh

Some men just up front do shit like this. Agh. 

Episode 70: The Dying Business

** Content Warning! Death-related things and violence :( **

*** Written 7/11 ***

Bad news come clustered. Every day for four days, someone I knew would die.

Each time, it's fresh like hell.

The first day, a puppy I had been feeding for 2 weeks had died.

The second day, news of my half brother having less than 48 hours to live.

The third, a second puppy gone.

The fourth morning, my half brother had passed. For real this time.

Death. Death, all the dang time. And to think, just a day before the first puppy had died, I had been mingling with someone who opened up about his suicidal past. We were vibing and I was nervous and he kept teasing me for being nervous enough to describe a mall as a "market-store" and then after a round of League and more storytelling, I was given a fork-in-the-road situation of, "This is me. This may happen again. Is this something you're okay with?" He was honest. It was my first time hearing something like this. Given a choice like this. Someone you may want to date could take their own life again one day. And it wouldn't be my responsibility to keep him here, he wanted? And I wasn't sure, if I was ready to be ready to lose someone again.

Anyways... you're probably thinking. "She killed those puppies didn't she? Or she forgot to feed them for 3 days straight?" 

So for the past 2 weeks, I fed my neighbors' six puppies every morning while they vacationed. Someone else would feed the puppies in the afternoon/evening. 

At first, the puppers didn't really know me and would bark sooo loudly when they saw me at the gate entrance. Their little furry bodies would crowd against the gate and each other. I feared if I opened it slightly, one of them would deftly escape. Later, I would learn to throw my water bottle in the opposite direction. Have them chase that before I scrambled to open the gate.

That trick only worked 2 times though. They're freaking smart. Or water bottles are super boring toys. :(

Panda, the white and black puppy, would be the rowdiest of them all. She would jump and claw for me the most, leading the pack of puppies. Her excitement unmatched. When I brought out their food, Panda would be the first to snatch any stray bits I accidentally dropped.

Barto used to do that too. Though I know him to be the one to follow me back whenever I returned to scoop Abba (another pupper) her own separate food. He knew where the possible extras were and wasn't afraid to get it. 

A few days before the owners had returned, I noticed how skinny Barto was. Even when there were plenty of leftover kibbles, he wouldn't touch any. In fact, he ate nothing for two mornings. I petted his ribs and asked, "Barto. Why don't you want to eat baby? Why are you so skinny?" He would look up at me with these incredibly sad puppy eyes. His head tilted down. His eyes wide and down casted. 

I'd touch the other puppies' ribs to compare. His was the skinniest. I would go back and scoop him an extra scoop, just for him, and put it right in front of him. He would turn his sad little head and walk away. I was worried but apparently, not worried enough. I convinced myself maybe he would eat when the other person came around to feeding them. And I left, while the other puppies saw the extra scoop and ate it right up. Panda heading the front. I updated Sabrina, my neighbors' daughter, of this via messenger. "Barto didn't eat this morning. He's not eating lately."

On my last dogsitting morning, Barto still wouldn't eat. I was hoping that maybe my neighbors who would return from their trip that evening would know what to do. God, but that last morning, I remember how he followed me everywhere in a very slow, careful walk. Back when he was more excitable, he would follow me anywhere where food was. But this time, I would be cleaning and refilling their water buckets and he'd stay with and follow me instead of eating with his siblings. I would pet him, sensing that he wanted to be with me. I don't know why but I felt that he was very sad.... about something. A reason that I didn't understand. Couldn't understand. 

I walked back and gave him an extra scoop still. "Hey, baby. Eat this at least."

He turned and walked away again. It couldn't be helped. I wish... I wish I could grasp the urgency of this situation had I turned back time. I wish I wasn't as confident as I was that Barto was eating his afternoon meals and that he'd be okay. I wish I hadn't biked away.

Because he definitely wasn't if he died the next morning. 

Sabrina notified me through text. "Ngoc, are you awake? Barto died this morning." 

I was 20 minutes away from an internship call. I didn't cry. My eyes were red but no tears came of it. I was numb with shock. Numb as I told Dad this. He had seen me bike out for two weeks straight for these puppies and I-- I had formed a bond with them. I felt so much at fault. I felt like hell.

He told me, "Let's go right now."

And so I biked out immediately. My left hand gripped three incense sticks and my phone. My right hand steered. My left knee ached.

My neighbors were outside. I greeted them awkwardly, feeling all this fault, but they never put it on me. I apologized over and over. I really didn't know. I couldn't foresee this. I'm sorry that they got back from their amazing family trip and one of their sweetest puppies died.

They took me out to where Barto was buried. His head faced the flowers. His feet faced the gate. I lighted the incense, chanted a death Buddhist mantra half in my head/half out loud, and planted the three incense sticks next to the flowers. I felt empty inside. I felt so fucking stupid.

Because I am. 

And I biked back, right into my internship call as if nothing had happened. 

The next morning, I naturally rose early. Part of my morning habit now from feeding the puppies heh. Mom was hovering over the sink as I greeted her. She turned to me, "Anh Luc only has only one more day or two. Your aunt called your Dad just now."

I know him as Anh Luc, or Brother Luc. My half-brother from my Dad's side. He's 50 and for months now, or has it been a year? He's been battling stomach cancer. He goes by Tony to his children and wife. To the government, he's Long Nguyen.

Anh Luc hid his cancer from Dad for almost a year, fearing that it'd do him no good knowing and when their relationship was never perfect. Far from it. Long story short, my Dad had disowned Anh Luc a long, long time ago. 

"I want you and your kids nowhere near my body or grave when I'm dead!" Dad had vowed to Anh Luc. The reasons for this are damn complex. Dad had grown up with a military-like parenting style from my grandfather. No warmth. Just verbal and physical beatings, and if needed, punishment and fear to keep the kid from messing up. Dad was adamant about Anh Luc going to school, forcing him to only focus on education and almost nothing else. Anh Luc was Dad's sole male firstborn. The first kid that he was actively taking care of for the first time since the Vietnam War ended and since starting a life in America. In Vietnamese culture, the boy is valued hecking highly. They're the ones to continue the blood line. And that's that.

And Dad didn't want one thing out of line. 

There was no room to mess up, Dad probably thought. This was his only son, so he was extra critical and controlling of Anh Luc. That, plus Dad's naturally macho parenting style led to them having a rift. 

A person who grows up getting beaten is likely to be a beater themselves as an adult. "Beating breeds beating," according to 10 Negative effects of beating children | Wow Parenting. This is perhaps why Dad was a child beater himself. However, Anh Luc never beat up his own kids and ended the cycle there. He wanted to be anything but like Dad.

Anh Luc immigrated to the U.S. and only lived with Dad for one year. At 15, he left home, and according to Dad, joined a gang. No amount of convincing from Dad could get him to leave. Eventually, Dad disowned him once nothing could be done which led Anh Luc to leave home for decades. Or maybe Anh Luc had left home for so long that my Dad might as well have disowned him. They never contacted or met in that time. With Dad's harsh, controlling parenting style, Anh Luc probably yearned for freedom. He was probably searching for family he never felt he had in Dad.

I understand, heh.

Dad wasn't ever a warm person. You mess up once, you've messed up forever in his eyes. And it must have been fucking stifling to live under Dad's tyranny. That's certainly what it feels like in my life haha. Though... Mom did say Dad has greatly improved when he had Yen and I. If that's the case, I can't imagine how horribly Anh Luc had it with Dad. 

About a decade ago? That's when Anh Luc started to call Dad. Once every few years or meet up with Dad once in a while. Dad's phone number hasn't changed in the last 40 years ha.

Dad is extremely judgmental. He hates tattoos and earrings on boys. Anh Luc had both. Later, Dad would discover that his grandson would also have both. Dad was furious and disowned Anh Luc a second time with a quick swoop of his unparalleled anger and his quick, angry mouth. 

A mouth that had once uttered, "Kill me then, Ngoc. Shove this knife into my heart if you meant what you said. You think I'm the devil," as his large hands wrapped around mine and made me grip the handle of our kitchen knife, forcing the knife into his chest. "STOP!!" I had screamed, scared. Shaking, that my father would be so cruel as to force my 13 year old self to kill him. Relief as he let me go. I hated him so much that I could hate him forever.

My story here is very incomplete. It's just... I never got to know Anh Luc meaningfully because of this disownment. I only saw him 3 times in my life. Other than that, whenever uttered, his name was like a mistake in Dad's mouth. 

1. The first real memory of him was when he visited us. He was older than my mom by four years so they were always awkward with each other. I felt that awkwardness even as a child. I was nervous then, to see my half-brother for the first time in the flesh. He’s a shorter, younger replica of Dad. I had been playing some game on this fat, super old PC that a family friend had donated to us. Anh Luc noticed and asked me if I had Adobe Flash or CC Cleaner installed. I was 8 or so, so I definitely didn't haha. He was standing for half an hour or more, helping me install both. Telling me how it works and why they're both important. To this day, 12 years later, Yen and I still use CC Cleaner. An absolute essential we couldn’t have otherwise. Welp. Gods. It would be later, when Anh Luc's son, Adrian, came to visit us before his funeral day that we'd learn it was Adrian who introduced CC Cleaner to Anh Luc, who in turn, introduced it to us. Woah. 
2. The second real memory of him was when he visited us again. This time with his two grown kids. A girl and a boy. Dad had engrained in me how much of a sin it was for guys to have tattoos and earrings, how gangster that was. And so I wrote in my journal how disappointed I was that Anh Luc's son had both. I don't know why I felt like being cruel but 11-year-old me went and showed the boy my journal entry I had written about him. I was too cowardly to say it to his face, so I left my journal with him. When they left, I noticed that page was torn out. I instantly regretted doing that. I'm sure his son still remembers me and what I said and I hope he'll forgive me. I definitely don't believe in shit like that anymore but god, it was so wrong of me to write and share that. To this day, Dad still mentions that day as when he vowed he'd never want Anh Luc or Adrian near him even in his death because his grandson bore earrings and tattoos. 
3. The last memory I have of him was when my half-sister, Chi Minou took Yen and I to visit him at his small townhome. He was there alone. Barely 90 pounds. His long sweater hung loosely on his bone-thin frame. A walk so slow and calculated. Every few steps, he’d pause to catch his breath or re-angle his body against the pain. Stomach cancer. That’s what it was. It shouldn’t have been. “He’s only 50,” my mom exclaimed, “too young to go!”  When my Dad first found out, he listened in disbelief, “he’s my son. He’ll make it. I’ll do my healing meditations on him and he’ll get better for sure.” So it was just me and Yen and Anh Luc in his living room. Chi Minou was busy for over an hour teaching a yoga class upstairs. Yen and I struggled to find the words to start. To say out loud to our dying half-brother whom we barely knew. It felt so awkward and every time he talked, he explained that it would irritate his recent stomach surgery. Had it not been for that, looking back, I'd have asked everything I could think of. Yen, who’s cute innocence is unparalleled, asked some of the silliest, shortest but possibly, one of the most important questions ever asked. “Anh Luc, what’s your favorite food?" 

           "Hamburgers. I love hamburgers," he managed painfully, before staring back at the TV screen where an animal show was playing. Another pause before he would return our question to us, "And what do y'all like?" That's actually a good summary of our conversation. We'd ask him questions that he could give short answers to. He'd look at us to respond, maybe comment more, and then return his eyes to the screen. A back and forth. He'd ask us questions too: "What schools do you go to? Does Dad still eat ramen every morning?"

            I wonder if we ever laughed together. Perhaps we did laugh when Yen and I quickly nodded "Yes, Dad still eats ramen every morning." I do remember all four of us, Anh Luc, Chi Minou, Yen, and I taking a photo. I think we were smiling. I could see it in Anh Luc. I could see throughout our many short exchanges back and forth that he was doing his best. Trying his best to be there for the people that he'll see no more. Even if it ached, he had things to say. He is kind. 

            My half-brother is kind. That's probably the one thing I'll ever know about him and know so surely.

            And like my Dad, he... he won't let it go.

            It was both surprising and unsurprising that Anh Luc made sure Dad wouldn't get to be by his bedside in his last moments. Anh Luc didn't even want to see him. After all, Dad had disowned him twice and said the cruelest things he can't take back: "I want you and your kids nowhere near my body or grave when I'm dead!" In the biggest Uno Reverse ever pulled, Anh Luc did it. He Uno Reversed so hard with his last breath.

            That's the thing about saying things that feel GOOD for that moment. Because feeling good doesn't make what you want to say right. And what you want to say? What you want? Why did you want that? Why would you ever want to disown your child? Why couldn't you have been more patient and given him the love and support he needed instead of letting him go and verbally abusing him and blaming him when he was trying to search for family that he never found in you? I've always wondered why I love you as much as I hate you. Why you say the nastiest things to the people closest to you and get away with it. Why do people who love you allow you to get away with it.

            You never admit you're wrong. You never own up when you hurt anyone's feelings.

            Your words, as you want to believe, are always right.

            It felt good, right, Dad? To disown your kid for joining a gang or leaving first or whatever. But not asking him why he joined when he did. It felt good to do it again, right? When you found out your son and grandson have piercings and tattoos? Like that's all it took? You couldn't relent and see past their exterior? Or anyone's exterior in fact. You thought I was a whore for practicing walking on the treadmill in front of our home when I was 5 months out of ACL surgery, just because one of the neighborhood boys was biking back and forth in front of our house? You thought I was showing off my tits or something? You thought Yen was a whore for putting up posters of her favorite Kpop band and when she wanted to take brazilian jiu jitsu lessons more often, you thought she wanted to hug men. But that's part of the sport!

I get my anger from you. In the heat of any moment, I know that I'll know exactly what to say to hurt the people I love the most. I'm the most inspired, most powerful it feels sometimes, when I'm angry and I hate that I got it from you. It's a curse, a gift wrapped in one. I wish that you had wrapped Anh Luc's hurt and shown him you cared like the way you wrapped my right ankle countless times after I sprained it yet again. Maybe things would have been different if you had simply said, "I'm sorry, con" to Anh Luc.

Maybe he would have let you known earlier that he had stomach cancer. Maybe he would have let you come over to his place more often to take care of him and be with him. Maybe he would have called you more and picked up when you impatiently and worriedly called almost everyday after you learned of his cancer. Then again, he was super busy between all the treatments and you were impatient and worried that he could be gone at any moment, mid-treatment. Maybe he would have let you in to see him in his last days. Maybe he would have wanted you to be a part of the process of his burial.

Words open worlds. And just as quickly, words can shut you out of them.

He made sure, you weren't. He left you out.

To the point that we struggled and begged to get the name of his hospital. To get a time. To see him on the day he had died.

And when we finally did, our drive there was full of anticipation. A 50/50 chance of being able to see him according to Chi Minou. "Sometime around 3 PM today."

We got there at 4. On the way, I sneaked looks at you from the passenger's seat, holding the phone and navigating us there. I noticed how your eyes were rimmed red the entire time. Tears would discreetly snake down your cheeks but often, you would wipe at your eyes before they were visible. At one part, we drove past a dead dog on the top of the highway ramp. Dead on its side.

"Either it had jumped out or its owner had pushed it out. This is just-- carelessness. Evil either way," Dad commented. I shivered at the irony.

We practically ran in when we arrived. A young man greeted us at the entrance, masked and sitting behind a long table with a list of patient rooms in his hand. 

"Welcome. How can I help you?" he asked in a kind, warm tone.

I struggled to find the words then. "Um, hi. So I have a family member who just passed away this morning in this hospital. My family, behind me, and I don't know where this patient is located in this hospital. Can you help us find his visiting room?"

"Ohmigosh, I'm so sorry for your loss. Condolences to you and your family. To answer your question, most likely they've been moved right away after they passed. I don't know if I can help you but what is the patient's name?"

"Luc Nguyen. Do you have anyone by that name?"

"Hm, we do not. Does he go by another..?"

 "Er..He passed from stomach cancer. I just know that and that he passed this morning here. Is there anything else we could do to locate him?"

"I'm going to call my supervisor for this. Give me one moment..."

He converses with a walkie-talkie and after a few minutes, gets back to us while we lingered in the lobby.

"So according to my supervisor, we do have someone by the name of Long Nguyen who passed this morning. Stomach cancer. 50. That is him right?"

"YES. That is. Ohmigosh that is."

We looked up at each other, relief. Relief stolen from us when the young man finds through his papers that they're no longer allowing people into Anh Luc's room. I noticed many notes highlighted for that room as I glanced down. 

''I'm sorry but it appears they're no longer allowing visitors for that room today. I'm so sorry. There's nothing more I can do from here unfortunately... And condolences again."

"Hello. I want to see my son. I am the father--" my father interrupts my conversation, pulling out his ID cards. Drivers' License, Insurance, anything else he had in his worn down wallet.

"I just want to see door. I just want to see door to my son's room. Please. Please," he communicates with his weak English. 

His eyes burned bright red. 

The young man behind the desk shifted uncomfortably but gave in. 

"Let me speak with my supervisor again. One moment please. I'll see what I can do," he said kindly.

Moments passed.

"So Long has been moved to the morgue. The original visiting room is vacant right now. If you return here tomorrow morning, you will definitely be able to see him at the morgue. Today is.. not possible unfortunately..."

Dad so badly wanted to see him that he begged to see just the door. That's all he wanted... it broke my heart. I wanted to sob too. Sob that Dad was careless and cruel enough to say what he did to Anh Luc to be in a situation like this but also at how pathetic it all is. You can't even see your son the day he died. We were in the same building as Anh Luc. So freaking close. A 50-minute drive away from home. Dad pushing almost 70 versus his usual 55 mph. It was... awful to be there. To be there, be unsuccessful, beg and press this nice young man over and over again: "Is there anything else that can be done... my Dad really wants to see him today..."

"Unfortunately this is all that can be done today. I'm so sorry."

So we all departed. Heavy hearted.

On the way home, Yen brought up how hamburgers were his favorite meal, so we stopped by a McDonald's drive-thru to grab one. We placed it on our mini-shrine for him. The house was quiet that night. Dad looked on the verge on tears the entire time and for days afterward. I'd check on him more often, randomly hugging him if I notice his eyes especially red. My Dad isn't an affectionate guy but I know how much he loves hugs. Hugs help a little. He's still going through it -- living day by day. And...

the day before Anh Luc passed, I learned that Panda had died. Panda the puppy. Panda died 2 or 3 days after Barto died. My energetic, rambunctious pupper gone. 

They had both died from Parvo and it was something none of us foresaw until it happened. Until my neighbors' took Panda to the doctor, worried too that she would die like Barto, and retrieved the diagnosis and a ton of pills for Panda to fight the onset of symptoms. 

Parvo isn't curable and Panda died inside the home... her ashes today sit in a plastic bag in a brown metal container by their TV. It would be the next Friday that I would bike to their place to properly pay Panda my respects.

I think back about Barto and can't imagine how much pain, discomfort he was feeling that last day I saw him. Pain felt to the point of avoiding food altogether and his attempt at communicating with me that it hurt. And Panda, the one that'd overeat actually -- for her to eat no longer. It must have hurt...

That it hurt a lot, but I didn't see. I didn't and I --

That's the business of dying. 

It becomes everyone's business. Whomever the deceased ever touched, even briefly, it's their business now. It's their business to take it in. To attempt to take in the whole life of the deceased. To recall and relive those memories. See the world new again. A world made new now that they're gone.

Episode 69: one-hour eyeglass repair

***Reader discretion advised!! Super dark and sad and yeah... it's not light-hearted at all. Death. Violence. Abuse. ***

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My favorite pair of glasses broke today. 

They finally broke. By my own hand. 

I flung it to the ground. With great force that all day today, I greatly regret. 

I couldn't stop crying. Sobbing, really, when I realized what I had done. 

I've sat on it. Dropped it countless times right on the lens. I would immediately check for scratches but they would never have a scratch. 3 years with it. Maybe 4? 

I would sit on it. Squish it between the bed and a wall. Always, it would be okay. It's shape held together. Like a promise, I could be as careless with it as I'd want but it would always be okay. 

My favorite pair. You loyal, loyal pair. I-- 

Yet, you finally broke. You finally broke when I wanted you to break. 

You did it. 

You held it together until I finally broke you myself. 

I hate myself and I love you so goddamn much and I wish I could turn back time. Hold back my anger. And leave you out of the argument. Now you're this broken mess that I made.

You've done nothing but help me see the world. Now, all of today, I saw the world without you. This blurry blurry mess of a world that you had helped me comprehend these past 3 years.

I can't stop crying. 

I killed you. I broke you, you unbreakable thing.

I may have wanted you to break in that moment, but I swear, -- god I can't stop crying.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today was my half-brother's funeral ceremony. That's where we were headed.

I had waited outside for a long time while Dad got into the car and sat in there for 5 minutes almost, not moving the car out of the driveway. I was waiting for him to pull out so I can close the gates. Yen and Mom were sitting in the back. 

The car finally pulled out. I closed the gate. Sat in the front seat, ready to navigate us to the funeral home. I commented, "hey, what took you so long to pull out of the driveway?" I asked him.

"oh, don't start with me. Don't you dare," he responded as he drove us out to the intersection.

Hecking confused, I asked, "What?? Start what? I was just wondering what took you so long to pull out the car."

"I asked if your mom was in the car yet but no one responded," he said. 

"Wait, what?? Where was mom? I thought she was in the car the whole time."

"I fucking can't right now. I'm turning this car around. We're driving separately, I can't with any of you today," he harshly spat out as he swerved our car a hard right, returning us back home.

"What the heck. Why are you doing this?? We should go to Anh Luc's funeral as one family. Why are you making this harder for everyone, Dad?"

"This is the exact attitude that's going to get us into a car crash. Keep that up, rude child."

"I don't understand!" Half in shock. Half in awe that this is really happening. My father turned us all around and we really came back to our house. He got out of the car, grabbed the keys but I pulled the keys back.

"You can't go. We're going there together as one. This doesn't make any sense. Look at yourself! What's going on? Why are you choosing anger again??!" I asked.

He pulled the keys away from me. Eyes blood shot angry.

"Rude bitch."

He went to unlock the gate. Mom closely followed, frustrated.

I turned around to face Yen. "Do you know why he's like that Yen?"

She responded, "He was asking us if Mom was in the car, except, he turned his head around in the drivers' seat enough to definitely see mom. But he still asked where mom was. I thought it was one of those stupid moments where he's asking something even though he already knows the answer so I didn't respond and Mom didn't respond either because she was busy leaning over to grab something."

"So y'all were just quiet when he asked a question and that's why he got mad? He's crazy for real," I said.

Watching Mom open the gate for him, push it open, and wait by the gate for him to get into his truck and pull it out -- it made me furious. She did nothing wrong. All she did that made him course through his anger was not answering a stupid ass question. Why is she just standing there, looking like the one at fault? Why is she taking this blame again?

I rushed out of the passengers' seat. 

"Mom, you can wait in the car. I'll close the gate for him," I said as I walked by her. I turned my head around to make sure she was walking back before I headed straight for my father.

He was moving to unlock his truck door angrily. When I was 4 feet away, standing by the front of his truck, I bursted out one calm short sentence. 

"You never know when to relent, do you."

"What'd you say huh? Rude ass bitch. Come here," he exclaims angrily as he picks up a 2 foot wooden stick from the ground and I get the hint. 

"Haha, so you're going to hit me now?!" I asked as I dodged his hard throw. It clang to the ground loudly behind me. I looked up after bracing myself and on his gout-ridden ankles, he raced for my neck almost. Somehow, Mom got between me and Dad. 

But she got between us too late, a little after the moment when he screamed into my face: "I'mma fucking punch and slap that rude face, you rude bitch."

I couldn't believe what was going to happen. He wanted to fight me. 

My own father for some reason, looked like he wanted to choke the living daylights out of me. Hurt me. He was really going to do it. He was going to punch my face, the same day we were supposed to attend my half-brother's funeral. His son's funeral service. Here we are.

Inches away from a fight that's only happened to me one other time in my life with him. 

He dared to threaten to hurt me. I'm 20. I'm no longer 12. He dared to do this and in my head, I knew he was capable of it. I was ready for this hurt and ready to fight back should he do it. Yet deep down, I was scared. Fearful for my life. "Should I push it? Should I push it like I did all those years ago?" 

I chose yes. I accepted my anger. He was ready to fight me? Hurt me first? I gotta at least defend. And if he wanted to punch my face for real? I'm not letting him break my glasses, so in a burst of uncontrolled anger, I broke you.

I flung you to the ground. It's better that I broke you first, and not him. I'm not letting him break you, you unbreakable one. 

Was it ego? Was it to make a point? That I broke the one thing I needed most? What fucking point? What was the fucking point? I'm so lost. But it felt so good then. To hear you crack on the ground. Yet, as much as I loved that sound, I broke inside into a million pieces. You really broke. And I felt broken then. 

I was going to burst into sobs. I thought I could depend on you not breaking. "One last time baby. If you could survive all those times, survive this time too, please," I prayed as I flung you. Hard.

I thought too that if you broke, all the better. I'm crazier than this crazy man if I broke you. Yes, that was my point then. I can out-crazy the shit out of you, Dad. You think, you can beat the thing you created? I-- I just. I shouldn't have. 

I never should have ever considered flinging you. God. Fuck this anger. It means nothing if I can't have you. It means nothing if I'm typing through tears and not able to see one word on the screen as I write this blog episode in a sporadic, frenzied craze while Demonslayer's Gurenge replays in the background.

So this is the story of how my favorite pair of glasses broke. 

No. There's no one-hour eyeglass repair. I wish. I pray. That maybe I could salvage what's left of you and make you fit to my face again, but I doubt that that's possible. That you'll ever be as flexible, as strong as you were before I broke you. 

Anger does this. I did this. I did this. 

After I flung you, he looked down at your broken pieces. Mom screamed this loud scream, "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DID IT. NOW YOU CAN'T SEE. CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE NGOC?!?!" I really am not any better than Dad huh.

I'm really not. I felt like some poorly written anti-hero then.

Now with everyone's face in a blur, but my dad's face was clear. Getting clearer as he rushed to me yet again, "So you really want to fight huh? Then fight me. Punch me you rude bitch!!"

My confused, angry self, angrier that he had chosen to flip his words onto me. Wow. The audacity. Making me the bad guy. Haha, are the heavens watching? You're missing out. 

But I've learned better. Years of this. My body was trained for this moment to take the verbal hits and do nothing with it. My hands were clenched from wanting to punch him but also to hold myself back. 

If I did it, I'd cost our family everything. The kind of everything that I've costed years and years before. I'm not making that mistake again. Mom pushed me and Dad away though. He walked away. Mom screamed and tugged me to the car, distressed that I had made such a scene. That I was at fault for everything. "Why can't you shut up Ngoc?! Why are you always making things worse?!" she asked. Pleaded. With me again.

All this moment gave me was the chance to say, "You never relent, do you." HAHAHA WOW. 

I just, I couldn't not say it. I felt like if I keep letting this happen. If I keep letting him mistreat the three of us over and over again and always doing what mom says, to shut the fuck up and do nothing about it --- that I would lose my sense of self. That I would dive even deeper into being a fearful person who would grow into someone who does just that if something like this were to happen to me again.

That I wouldn't have the strength to stand up for myself. That I'd be too far into the conditioning to want to stand up for myself. For Mom. For Yen. But every time I do this, every time I say exactly what's on my mind, I make shit worse. I know it. 

Agh. I-- I love too much the taste to say exactly what I feel. What I think. I relished those 3 seconds of saying what I wanted to say to a man that I could only ever hold truths back from. So I loved it. 

The cost was steep. 

My stupidity costed me my favorite pair of glasses. 

I cried later in the car.

I couldn't stop sobbing. Ugly. Nose-dripping. Eyes blurry and wet and hot. Tears that burned their ways down my cheeks. Tears that continue to burn their way right now... agh.

It hit me then, that I broke you. 

That you were broken. There was no going back.

This was your endgame. I was your endgame.

Like I said, this wasn't the first time that he's wanted to physically fight me.

When I was in 6th grade and forgot to call him back to say that I got on my bus ride home. Well. I might have picked up my phone. Or sat on my phone? Theme of the story, I sit on a lot of things agh. Somehow the "call" button was pressed and that day, Dad was furious, because he had heard one of my guy friends' voices on the phone. I forgot to press the "end" button with my butt too I guess. :I

Anyways, that day, he called me a whore. Wow. a 12-year old whore. 

I matured real quick by then hm. And that I'm no longer studying and just chasing guys. 

Literally. Literally, ALL I did back then was study. One slip up of even one male friend's voice and he's turned into an anaconda.

I was angry that day too. That he called me that and I retorted in a way that my disbelieving self only knew how: "I can't believe you'd think of me that way. You're a terrible father!"

He lunged out at me from his bed. Practically sliding off the bed to grab for my head. I dodged then too, shocked AGAIN that this was really happening. "He's going to hurt me," I had thought. 

Somehow, we ended up in the kitchen, my fearful self backing out quickly, walking backwards while he sped towards me. Hungry to make a point that I was a liar. That I really haven't been studying at all and have been chasing guys. In self-defense, I shifted my arms up in a fighting stance. Ready to be hit. This angry, steady chubby 12-year old facing off this 65-year-old muscled man in a white tunic. He had taken it as a challenge then and really thought I wanted to fight him.

"You wanna fight me huh? Really fight me? Then do it."

I was angry. Hurt. Confused. What the HECKED and I wanted to, in that moment, hurt him as much as he had hurt me with his cruel words.

I went for him. A poor punch then, perhaps. But I did. But he went back. He punched me. Again and again. My arms. My ribs. Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough for me to yelp out. I was sloppy. Leaving too many openings even as I tried to be fast on my feet. At one point, I fell to the ground. Crying. Angry that I was crying. And angry that I had let it become a fight. Angry that I lost even though, no way would I ever win. Not against my father. Not against him.

I'll never win. Not physically because I don't actually want to hurt him. I'll never win if I want Mom to have a peaceful night's rest when the only place he wants her to sleep is beside him. I've accepted that already. So I won't win. 

Fine.

So today, when mom tugged me back to the car, my pair of broken glasses in one of her hands, I shrugged her off. Half-jogging to Dad while she chased me, ready to pull me back but I was out of her reach. I was too fast.

I made it in front of him. "Dad, we have to go to the funeral service. Anh Luc wouldn't want this. Let's go Dad."

The words were hard to slip past my lips. I wanted to vomit.

He looked up. Smirked. Resolute. "Say sorry to me first. Apologize for your rudeness and all the rude shit you said just now. Go inside, to the shrine, apologize to your ancestors too." He waved his cigarette around, putting it back into his mouth, head tilted up. He knew my limits.  

I scoffed out loud. Hahahaha. I couldn't believe it was ME that had to apologize. All the effort it took for me to say the next few words. Fine. I'll never win. So I ought to give in this time. Ngoc, do it, do it or you'll make shit worse. God. That's what I do huh. I make shit worse?

"I'm sorry. I said it. But you gotta tell me. What am I sorry for? What did I do wrong? What am I supposed to apologize for?" 

I was millimeters from slipping up. At the amount of bullshit I was hearing. 

He couldn't say anything. Just silence. So I pressed on, lawyer-like, deadly. Because yeah, sometimes I slip and throw a lemon at the ground, or today, my pair of glasses, but when I'm at my angriest. At disbelief-level angry, I'm as calm as the ocean. Ready to ask all the questions to make my case. No need to point out who was wrong if I could prove to every single audience, even you, that you're wrong. That you can't pin it on me, haha, even if you really want to. I have all the words, when I'm at my angriest, if I really wanted to -- I could make it hurt. A lot. And I really wanted it to. 

In that moment, my words came out in a blur. All I know now was that every word struck. It felt fucking good. "Why would you throw that stick at me? Why would you want to hurt me? Your own daughter? You said I'm rude to you, but all I said was this one thing. This one true thing that til now, you haven't admitted yourself -- you never want to relent. You love escalation don't you? You really wanted the stick you threw at me to strike right? If you didn't, then why would you whip it out at me as quickly as you did?" As I striked at him with my questions, he walked away. 

"And what am I apologizing for again? Tell me. What did I do wrong? What am I wrong for saying? I gotta know what I did wrong if I were to be a better daughter, shouldn't I?" 

He walked away still. Into the garage.

Silent.

Mom said it was enough. I was enough. I'm a lot. God, I know. Just, don't be a jerk! And don't threaten to hurt me or my family. And you're good. That's all you gotta do. Bare minimum here.

I'm at the top of my game when I'm super angry. Maybe that's what I ought to do. Fight against forces that make me angriest so I can be at my coolest haha, but NO. THAT'S DUMB. NO. 

At some point, he pulls out his shotgun from the cabinet on his left. He places it in front of him on his table after returning from the garage.

Finally. I was scared enough to shut up. But not scared enough to not move.

I tugged mom's phone from her grasp and took a video of him. He lifted the gun and twirled it. "Take a video of me. Do what you want."

I'm done. That's what he threatens Mom with every single damn day. 

Mom told me many times that he's threatened to kill us all ever since we were young. 

I was 8 but I remember how fucking scary it was to hear your own dad, in the dead of night, threaten to kill the whole family if Mom didn't accept his demands. Didn't accept his lies for truths. 

I hated him then. But somehow, despite hearing that, I could immediately go back to sleep. If anything happens, let me just be asleep when it happens. I wished.

I-- people look at me. And they see this happy, smiley girl. And gods, yes. That's who I want to be. I want to be dedicated to making the world a brighter, happier, more pleasant place to live haha. I want to be that person you run into on elevator who asks about your day because I care about your day. But... this wish to make the word a brighter place comes from this intensely dark place inside me. 

From all the hurt, the darkness, the sadness that comes from living with an abusive father. Where our lives have been threatened but not yet taken in the past 2 decades.

I'm 20 now. 

I'll be 21 soon.

My friends have asked if I'd leave the house if I could. And I would. But i'd be leaving Yen and Mom behind. He'd always be able to find us haha. Our small nail salon. That's our family sustenance. That place will always be here. And so the issue gets more complicated in-- how do we escape?

How do Yen, Mom, and I escape? 

And my glasses are still broken. And I need new ones. And my back kind of hurts now from leaning too close to the laptop to see the words I'm typing sans glasses.

But thank gods I can type without looking, so I half-trust, half-not in myself. Welp.

In the car, when we finally managed to get into separate cars. I couldn't stop sobbing. 

My glasses were broken. I effed up. I let me anger take over me again. 

But if this were to happen 10 times, let's say. How could I hold it in all 10 times? How could I let my own father continue to make a big shitten deal out of any small mistake, mishap, any of us make? It always feels like walking on a millimeter of glass with him. Any misstep and any of us will drown into the white currents beneath us. 

I keep drowning. 

And I'm 20.

And I can barely tread for a minute.

My glasses broke today. I know. I keep saying this.

But IT SUCKS. AND I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT. AND I REGRET IT. I MUST NEVER. ever. 

If I'm ever angry again -- I must never throw my resources away. 

My half-sister was right. I got my anger from my Dad. 

I'm just like him. But also, I'm not. 

I'm not like him. 

I know that my anger is capable of hurting people. So I suppress it when I feel it. He-- he chooses to let go. He doesn't relent. He loves the thrill. The aftermath. When he lets his anger out on the people he loves the most, knowing exactly how much he's hurting them. 

He can calculate down to the ounces of pain he's inflicted.

Blue-blooded b-----

The Anime That Played in Ngoc's Head