Episode 97: For, even the birds

"Even the birds miss him, miss," was what Olga Vega, my neighbor told me, walking straight up to our gate. Our friendship of one spring, one summer, and one autumn bringing us together.

My mother and I smelled like his hospital room, a thorough 12-hour marinade. I didn't have any energy to update Olga fully on all that's happened. And why, and when things will change. And when that day is, when all of our neighbors, who know and love him, would see his truck fixed and pulling out onto the I-45 again, by his own hand.

I came home on a Wednesday night. Houston shined below me. I felt both at peace, knowing it's home, and so hecking anxious. I sat squished against the window. I'm not a claustrophobic person but I became one, on Spirit airlines. Everything about its smaller seat space made me feel like there was never enough fresh oxygen pulling into my lungs. People are less patient. Unforgiving on the way out. There's little Ohio neighborliness, that I was spoiled with for 5 months now. There was little to look forward to, on my own way out of Bush.

I was simply glad that an old friend could take me home. One familiar face to ease my mind, before all the days ahead, which today, being a Tuesday night, a full week has passed. 

I didn't expect my last words to be so true, to my supervisor. Who hugged me very hard and who I felt, understood me deeply, perhaps foresaw all the hardships before I saw them myself. "I feel like," I paused, her eyes keen on me and quickly ended the call she was on to see me out, my plane would depart shortly. 

"I feel like everything in my life is preparing me for this moment. Everything I've learned, everything I've got. It's going to be for this," I finished, smiling slightly, while my eyes filled with water for a bit, before I bit the edge of my cheek. Telling all my soldiers to hold back, protect the barriers, the walls. It's work, it's not any other place right now. I'm not home yet.

She rushed in to hug me tightly and said past my shoulder, "You are going to be brilliant. You are going to be just what your family needs right now. Your positivity, your intelligence. All of it. They are in such good hands." She pulled back, smiling brightly, kindly. 

I felt it then. I really am, exactly where I'm supposed to be, again.

But after landing in Houston, the pit in my stomach boiled, an omen or simply nerves. There can never be enough preparation for the long-term injury of a loved one. The old days are gone. Perhaps they were all gone, the moment I left for Ohio, toxically optimistic that my father will always be the picturesque color of strength. How could a man as fiery, stubborn, and careful, ever not be healthy? And of course, he's my father. It can't be him and it won't be any time soon. But the old days now, are certainly gone, after my father's hemorrhagic stroke, last Sunday.

Saturday night, he took a cold shower after spending so many hours gardening. We have a big beautiful garden in the back. My mother's and his. His certainty of what needed watering and tending to is instinct. All of my childhood, he'd note the dropping temperature. Anything lower than 40 meant that his precious gac and star fruits needed a warm lamp and a thick covering. He'd call for my help in bringing out giant wooden boards and boxing our precious trees in, protecting them from wind and cold. They were his children. And even at 80, he'd worry at least, over the watering, trimming, removing. 

That's always been a lot. 

So after all that self-sufficient gardening along with the immediate cold shower on Saturday night, he suddenly felt his brain burst for a bit. An unexplainable burst of pain. Perhaps it was a roar? But something had changed forever, and he knew it, couldn't put a finger on it. Slept on it, through Sunday morning. My mother was aware but thought it was simply a headache. Offered Tylenol for it.

In his last moments of full consciousness on Sunday morning, even when the back of his brain roared with pain, he still wanted to attend the Vietnamese Community Center gathering. A promise of seeing others, that's always been his joy, always to make a bet that someone who knew him was still alive and awake enough to attend these meetings, for him to simply talk to. Rediscover the days of his prime, back when he looked like a movie star, rode a motorbike like one, and smoked packs with his friends who would be more than happy to drive out hours just to hang at the spot: Loc's house. That mess of a house. That mess and madness of a man who's so easy to anger, so hard to not love because no one could deny that he was generous with his joy. The one to buy buckets of food, hunt and shoot the biggest buck, bring it home to his house and call on all his friends to deskin and cut into its thick, muscly flesh. I could imagine the stench of fresh kill, of a bleeding buck, of the barbeque grill which was something he even hand-made and hand-pulled for every sort of grilling. All the men would cut generously into the kill, joke, smoke, beer, and chat all throughout the evening and the night. Perhaps, they even stayed over and went straight to work the next day, because it was Loc's place. 

But today, at 80, there are hardly any other South Vietnamese Veterans left. Who wouldn't want to relive their prime? Who wouldn't want to be surrounded by people who came for you because of who you are? Because of the stubborn, possessive personality you had above the rest? 

You were always so stubborn. So proud of who you are, that you glowed brightly, so sure of who you are, that anyone who stood up against you for even a sentence would feel unsteady. The red in the whites of your eyes always bulged when you sensed a challenge or a challenger. Indiscriminate to friends or family. Which is why... maybe it is why you were too sure of yourself, too proud. Your strengths that gave many the instinct to instantly believe in you and your leadership in all situations: whether it was the open boat of 35 Viet boat people you steered using the stars to get to Thailand, or the surety you had the night that the fish you've been feeding and the little tree you've been growing is big and ready for you to chop down and eat and escape the concentration camp with, or it was when you were sure that you could save another captain's family in enemy territory being the only pilot bomber brave enough to fly in and pick them up in just a minute, or when you were so sure that because Yen and I are your daughters, that we must be great or will be, one day, beyond imagination.

But it is your absolute surety though, that proudness, that ensures you'd never waver. You'd never concede. Even if you knew you were wrong. Your biggest weakness was never conceding, not one sorry in your life, after your own outbursts, true or not, of anyone who cared about you. So over the years, our house got quieter and quieter. Less and less people came to our gatherings. Your nickname amongst your friends, which started out as a joke, became the general accepted truth in all your circles: Loc Dien. Crazy Ass Loc.

You were crazy because you were always the bravest, the loudest, the most ready to defend what you believed in was truth. 

And then you became crazy, in the eyes of people who stood there, loved you, cared about you, who only dared to voice a slight opposing opinion, and to them, you would always be ready to bring up the worst, invent the story, invent and re-invent and until the reds in your whites became redder, eyes that you promised me you had practiced harnessing their chi to make all enemies fear you, which is what you did. You said the worst, and made the kindest fear you. Shake their heads in disappointment. He is lost in himself, in his own truths.

And so our house, which once was the beacon of Vietnamese festivity, saw itself shrink in the number of voices, the plates of food on New Years day, the amount of gangsta Vietnamese who even cared for your name anymore. Until there was no one. Not even your closest friends. Peoples fucking left Asiantown to come to a mainly Hispanic community to celebrate New Years because of you. But not in the end.

In your last moments of clarity, after the stroke of the night before, you wanted one thing: you wanted to see if you could be seen again. As you were, in your greatest. So you attempted to drive out to the Vietnamese Community Center for the weekly Sunday flag raising ceremony. That unexplainable ache in the back of your head.

It's not a light 30 minute drive. And in the truck that's failed him at least once a month, on something, he only made it out for 2 minutes before he crashed into a big something above the curb. Bent the front of his car silly. It must have been loud. It must have been awful, scary, disorienting, and loud again. The craziest part isn't the crash, but the fact that he made it home in one piece and calmly. 

My mother was worried about insurance premiums on the phone for most of the day, while my father, had all the signs of someone who experienced something life-altering the previous night, that we couldn't connect the crash to. All the dots were there.

But the biggest dot was when, during Sunday lunch time, after the crash, even as the chopsticks laid out perfectly in front of him, he didn't recognize them for what they were. Denied that they were chopsticks and stood up to grab two strainers and attempted to use them as chopsticks.

The most logical man that I knew. Give him any tool and he could figure it out. A self-made construction business, the first Viet to do so in Houston. Give him anything to figure out and he would, suddenly thought the restroom was our shoe closet, and relieved himself there.

He believed the faucet was pouring fire, not water, as my mother helped him wash his hands.

My mother cried hard, calling me quickly, "I am calling 911. He doesn't believe he's unwell, but something's so wrong. It must be a stroke. It must be the shower." She cried for the same reasons I cried, hearing those words: the end of the patriarchy is here. Like the book "The Autumn of the Patriarch" by Gabriel Ma'rquez, his grasp for his own power has sunk with the ship.

I agreed immediately with her decision. Moments before she would call 911, I spoke to my father on videocall for the last time that he had all of himself, in a way. The last messages of the once healthy neurons in his brain, firing for old time's sake. He firmly told me, as I muffled my own tears and cries into my hand, which he clearly saw but continued on strongly that, "Don't worry. Please don't cry. I will be okay. I will be well and you will see me well. And then we will all eat together at Ocean Palace." Which made me cry harder. Fuck. Ocean Palace sucks, he knows this. We've told him countless times. He'd never quit, but I nodded. The image of our last fancy dinner together in my head, at Kim Son in downtown. It was my Christmas family dinner idea. And it was the best meal we had together, and as reluctant as he was on the way in, grouchy that it wasn't Ocean Palace but this "shitty place", he still sat down and bit into the dishes. And maybe he didn't like the food, but seeing how happy Yen, Mom, and I were, in our red dresses that day, smiling into our bites, I think a part of him eased that evening. And was happy because we were happy, and that we were a family, his family. His place of belonging. 

I would get a phone confirmation that the first hospital believed he may need more advanced care. Perhaps even brain surgery. And so I panicked and couldn't sleep all night. I cried all night.

With my face pushed into my own pillow and my brain running without pause into wall after wall, it felt like the worst heartbreak of my life. For the life that he may never have again. For our family. For the two timelines to converge: the timeline where I knew him at his best, his strongest, and the timeline of today, at his lowest, his weakest and most painful. In a night, I attempted through my tears to converge two timelines into something I could work with. 

And try as I might all night, that was impossible. And I only felt one thing which was this immediate instinct that my father was not doing well. That he must be scared, displaced, and that he might need help. At 3 am, I called my mother for the hospital's number to double check how he was doing. If the surgery went through at all? And it didn't. 

And in my head then, I was convinced that it must be hospital neglect then. And I called her an Uber at 4 am to take her there to check on him, and it was her arrival that helped him ease to any sleep at all. My poor mother ran ragged all night and every night until my arrival in Houston.

We would be on the phone with any loved ones who knew anything about this. While my Mum called loved ones, I took over all calls with our case managers, doctors, social workers, nurses, and long term care facilities. I received information, gathered more information, shared information amongst Yen and Mum. I simply went into my automatic settings and accessed everything that I've ever learned about wording, asking the right questions in a limited time, advocated for my father's needs, helped create a long-term vision and defend that vision on my family's behalf. 

Our most important conversations weren't just ones where we were moving the needle with someone at the hospital, but were ones we had with each other. Solidifying our vision. Over dinner, in the car, every second of every day for the last 1.5 weeks has been about what we should be doing and why, and why not. 

Yen has a very strong vision of what she'd prefer, for the sake of Mum's safety and her quality of life, it's best we take him to a long-term care facility. Mum has a very flexible vision, finding herself capable of maybe even taking care of him long-term, which, oh my gosh, is impossible. We can't have her do that. And I see something else. My own return to Houston, not any time soon, but soon enough to be a part of our family in a way that strengthens the foundations I grew on. I cannot simply leave my mother here, to caretake mister man. I cannot.

I am a part of something. Always.

And for all the love that I have for my new job and all the people in it, I have to find a compromise between being a part of Peoples Bank and being a part of my family in this time of need. 

This forever time of need. My father's loneliness, only having been in the hospital for only 1.5 weeks, an echo in my head. I see his loneliness. The full realization of his loneliness. It was no one else but me who sat next to him for all of 12 hours for so many days, as he tried to get up out of bed, as he squinted at his phone, hard, not understanding what the numbers on it meant, for days. I saw his pain and displacement and seeing in real time, his attempt at reconciling a new normal that he doesn't understand. Or may never understand. "Why? Why all of this?" he would ask us, and my mother's, Yen's, and my response to him that we've already converged and reworked together, "Whatever the doctors say is best."

Because the truth is, we cannot bulletproof our home. We cannot supervise him 24/7, which is necessary for his care from now on. 

We cannot trust ourselves to protect him from himself. I would fear the second that we didn't pay close attention enough.

His confusion will be a constant. It will only worsen. The freedoms he once enjoyed, the garden he nurtured so much, the picture that he always pointed to, a newspaper article with a picture of his 30-year-old self swimming in the angry ocean, above sharks, to hail down a U.S. cargo ship towards an abandoned island off of Thailand, containing 30 Vietnamese, running for their lives from the newly Communist Vietnamese regime, to the white Honda Ridgeline that he would spend $200 per month fixing something on, even as it failed him forever and ever, because this one truck afforded him the greatest thing in the world: the freedom to exist.

Gosh, if there's one word to describe my father it would be freedom. It is my word too. I understand it so deeply, that to see him lose all of it, in an instant, and to see him struggle with listening to doctors and nurses and having to take medicines that sedate his mind, restrict his movements, risk mitigate, because it is their responsibility to keep him safe. I feel his pain as it were my own. Nurses have found me crying, a nose-slobbering session, alongside my father who is heavily sedated. Because he wouldn't stop getting out of bed. No one can blame him. My case worker, Emmanuel breathes out a compassionate, "Oh gosh," as I recalled that he is convinced he is at home. That the hospital window is actually our window at home, overlooking his tended garden. That my mother has renovated this new home so much that he can no longer recognize the walls and ceilings he once built, as if overnight, without his input. It would make him both so indignant, so mad, and then incredibly sad. He'd miss the house he once built, convinced my Mom's rebuilt it. He believes that his black shoes, with the special heel inserts made for his gout are right beneath this bed. That he is well. Can go home. Doesn't understand the restraints on his wrists and ankles. Why is he tied up, in his own home?

So he will claw his way out and has.

The only freedom he has now is to live in his own head. And when he's fully there, it is the scariest place. I saw him with my own eyes, that first night there, clawing the air above his bed, in the darkness, as if he were still driving his truck. My mother gripped onto his hand, attempting to remind him of where he was. He is not in his car. He is not driving. "You are here Dad, with Ngoc, your daughter, and with Lan, your wife, Dad," I cried to him. 

His eyes were glazed over, his face shaking with fear, searching the ceiling for answers for why his truck was driven into the river, and he would move only more frantically as water filled up his truck. He was drowning in his truck if we didn't get him out. All of this happened while he is in bed. My own eyes in disbelief at seeing my father fully delirious for the first time in my life.

Unprepared. I was unprepared. I'll always be. Disbelief. Every door closed now. I was staring at the forever, starting today. There is nowhere to escape to, but to be with my father, all of ourselves held there in the grip of his delirium. Stories he would continue to make at night, when Sundowners syndrome would hit. Where his own mind hurt itself and was cruel.

My mother would later share that that was a lot better than the previous night. I didn't believe her almost.

But I knew it then, as unprepared as I was to see my father fear the invisible scene playing out above his head. Gosh, those eyes, were truly glossed over. But as I saw that, I knew that there was only one road for me, as my father drowned in hallucinations.

My sister will continue to pursue her education. My mother will continue to be alone in the caretaking of a man whom hardly will get visitors. My career keeps me in Ohio right now.

I truly cannot let this be the vision of my family. A scattered pack in the midst of a forever need. To be what we need for each other. To take my mother home. To take my father home. To take myself home, while I give myself the room to thrive of course. But it is inevitable, especially when I have an elderly father, from the start. My fate was written.

My story was predetermined the moment my father realized how grateful he was to receive a daughter at 56 years old. The moments of sleep when I had a fever, that he would check my forehead hourly throughout the night, owning my discomfort as it it were his own. The moments of anger, him calling me the worst of names at untruths he believed in his head. The rice cooker and oven that I broke on the floor after it. The flames that he ignites in me. 

It is crazy how someone so cruel could be someone I love so much. He really is Loc Dien. Maybe because he makes everyone around him go crazy, haha. He is so possessive and easily jealous of my mother. He must know her whereabouts every hour of the day and if she strayed from anything she said, he'd be convinced she's cheating on him. So she must answer that phone or receive hell on the way home. My sister, who is the kindest, bravest person I must know, is sensitive to loud noises. Her mind blaring out sirens like mad, because of everything. And for me, it's how I'm sensitive to emotional changes in anyone. I believe that I could convince someone to hate me, in just one second. That people can do that to me, that nothing is promised. Not even friendship.

But to see the same man who never asked for hugs, cold like the father figure he admired and who loved him harshly, leaving bleeding lashes on his young back after my dad pranked the neighbors again, so in his sickest state, need hugs? It broke me. It shattered my walls. He raised both arms up, asking if we can hug him, like a 4-year old well-loved kid. It makes a daughter weak. So when I do, and I wrapped my arms around his thin jacket, the cotton all worn down, I could even feel his hospital gown beneath and beneath that, was nothing but a thin layer of skin above bone. I felt his smallness. And that made me cry too. He used to be the biggest thing I knew, you know? When Yen was just born and was teething and crying every night, I slept with my Dad. For years. Every night, I would lie on the crook of his armpit. My face to his chest. His scent of the full working day, the sawdust, the sun, the metal tools or the concrete, all of it, a comfort of the hard work he does to keep our family safe. My fingers tried to pull out the long hairs growing out of his nipples and if I'm ever successful, he would yelp. Every night was a new or old story of Viet Nam's history, our ancestors and what they did, the battles we won against imperial China, the use of music, a soldier playing his flute beautifully, to make the enemy cry and miss their families and turn back home, the story of the two Trung sisters who freed Vietnam from imperial China for all of 3 years -- the first to do so. Every story led to the same ending; he wished so deeply that one day he could fight for Viet Nam all over again. "If I could, I'd be reborn as a pilot. And re-win all the wars we ever lost." And he wished in the same story, that his daughters would bring honor to Viet Nam one day. That we would come to love the country we hardly knew about, except for the proof of its existence in his absolute, unwavering love for Viet Nam and the stories that must all be real, because he told them. 

And the birds. I didn't forget the birds. They miss him terribly. "Chim oi, chim oi!" The birds not understanding Vietnamese, but know that at those sounds, it must be a little old man who's about to throw rice. As do the homeless folks along Pease and Jefferson Street, around the downtown Metro hub. Every time his white Honda appears, he hobbles out of his truck, that gout haunting every step but not making him any less eager to hand out water bottles, freshly-cut cold watermelons, bags of chips, bananas, whatever else he got from the food centers to bring and share to immobile homeless folks, lying on the hot concrete.

If there's a hot day, he's out there. 

If there's a door, he's holding it open for everyone. 

He is a man of great generosity after all. It is the easiest thing to come to him: to give. And not think on it. 

Or to, without question, attend every orchestra concert in my middle school career, every soccer game in elementary where I dodged the dang ball and he bawled into his hands, every late night pick up -- even prom, at midnight, even if he was really tired. 

I could count on him. 

I could count on him worrying about me. Or Yen. Or Mom, over anything. I could count on him to measure my fevers, even if I am a big 22 year old now, he'd still touch my forehead at 3 am, before making his early morning coffee. 

I counted on him to be there, and maybe tend the garden forever. I counted on him to be well. 

I only wish for him to be happy. I wished for him to have friends, even as they dwindled. I wished for him to not cling onto his greatness of the past. I wished and always will wish for him to find happiness in the present. 

So when I hugged him, in the hospital bed, in the misery of his mind, the ache of his brain, the stench of cleaning agents and feet and unwashed bodies and floors that have never been mopped, I hoped that he could feel what I felt then.

In the embrace of father and daughter, in the man that she could count on for all 24 years of her life, I hoped that he found the happiness he wished for: that he could have gotten to hug his own father a second time.

So how lucky I am, how lucky he is, to have hugged each other then. I felt the heat of his balding head, nuzzle against my head. 

He was a very disoriented, little bird in that hospital. And later, the nursing home. 

All of his freedom, his past greatness, stripped away from him. Now chained to his bed or chained to nurse's orders. There is no "I". As if he had nothing. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to count on. His eyes were too unsteady to see words or letters, everything was shaking. Nothing to see here.

But in my arms, I could hold him still.

So then, I was exactly where I needed to be then. Just as the birds who wait for him. Or the neighbors who know him even better than his friends by now. Or my Mother, who pushes herself both working and caretaking him, a martyr. Everyone's figured out where they need to be.

I want my father to find his peace. To be at peace.

And I want to be where my family needs me. 

In a hug, holding each other still, to silence the demons in our minds. And to remember how lucky we are that we haven't lost each other and never will.

For, even the birds miss him. For, even the birds love him.

And wish imperfect, silly men like him, well.

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The song that I wrote this to: Shoot Me - Day6 Instrumental

a sentence that never ends

This is the sentence that never ends as I shall write here following the footsteps of Gabriel Garci'a Ma'rquez whom must be my favorite author of all time even if the stories do have a lot of dong and strange love stories of a dictator who was well older than 107 "since the last comet" and whom fell in love with the most beautiful girl in the poorest part of his country so much so that he risked getting shot every day in the public eye to travel to her home and under the watchful eye of her mother, showed the repulsed young woman any and all of his most remarkable trinkets while she held herself under a veil as far from such an eager and unsightly looking man, and it was my own eagerness that made me jump into bed every day for the last month as if I was watching a movie because even if I'd only read 3 pages each night, it would feel like his words would never be lost on me as I doomed myself into the same book over and over again that by now the edges are so, so worn that I had to reinforce its spine and edges with this gorgeous gold-black washi tape and now it looks like one of those Children's Golden Goose classics you'd get in the elementary school book order form so long ago but perhaps not as long ago as the dictator himself but oh how Ma'rquez weaves both the ocean and incoming of starfish into the palace and the deep passions an old man might have for all sorts of women that yes, fuck I'd have half a mind to throw the damn book against a wall for another rape scene I had to read but then the next pages would be back to mesmerizing again of the same dictator loving his mother so much that he would call out to her in the dark "Benedicion the mother of my death and the mother of my life, you are the end of me" and I'd be emotional when she died and he became a wispier, more deaf version of himself in a rocking chair overlooking the ocean and his kingdom but then we'd flip back to the great evils he committed and despite reading even the cannibalism scene which haunted me enough that I screamed out loud in horror with its image so fucking deep in my head I couldn't pull it out because it was the image of the dictator's closest friend and military general being served on a plate and garnished and decorated with all his medals and a flower resting on his mouth as if he was a barbequed pig simply because the dictator suspected his closest friend of treason so you can see that it was a scene I was more than happy to share at work with some of the most eager listeners whom I dearly appreciate now because there are some things that you can't just read and scream out loud about all alone to yourself on a Wednesday night, you've got to breathe it out loud or it would've suffocated you as it did to me but alas, this never ending sentence feels crazy like I can barely get a sip of air which is very much how my mind feels lately because when I've lived alone as I have these past 4 months to which I'd respond to myself, "how can it already be 4 months out here on my own?" I can safely say, maybe time has melded into a sinking bowl of mashed potatoes and I'm in a time bubble right now, the open ocean space between one island and the next island, and before I can find or build my own kingdom, I've got to be a "Life of Pi" character for a bit where I'm simply not reacting anymore to the day to day because now in this time bubble, I've lost myself in books with scenes too vivid for me to sleep alone with and gave me goosebumps straight into the morning and getting lost on phone calls with Ivanna about her new Hinge dates and Elise about the philosophy of affirmative action and where I answered my own question "What is the point of education? What is a flute for?" along Aristotle's lines of reasoning to answer the former and gosh, I have too many godforsaken messes in my life, all the little fires that start like the thin straight crack on the lower edge of my cute Subaru's windshield caused by my idiot self, for forgetting Erin's advice (my work mother, I call her in me head) not to fucking blast the defroster if it's too cold outside and so I heard my fuck up the moment I saw it on the I-77 and in the future, it will be me and this Subaru finding our own kingdoms along the ocean, where young people on ships have already landed and younger people are newly born, for when and where I began my life is so far from where my life is now and yes I first wrote this never ending sentence on the 19th of January, 2025 but today is the 8th of February and I have too much to share now because I learned last night from Marlon Wayan's stand-up, yes, his stand-up in Marietta, Ohio for his next Amazon Prime special in which he ended his beautifully 2-hour long set with the realization that hard things don't happen to you, they happen for you and I am as equally haunted by that sentence as the image of a long table of people nervously cutting into their former military general, because gosh, things have changed so much in the span of a month since last, where in a breath here, without breathing once, I truly lived it up this past month, attending a Drag Circus event with my baby mama down stairs and her sister, Maeghen and Austin, in the old bank Vault building where I dressed up in white lace, lacy white leggings, my shortest white skirt, my white and baby blue lingerie top, and just in that, I attended the event with the two gals who would admit more than twice that they'd need drinks in order to dance and eventually, us overlooking the balcony of events became too far for me and especially when the music started and one of my favorite songs of all time came on, I had to part them there and head to the dance floor myself, where I re-lived all that I am, all that I was, all that I ever wanted to be which was this overflowing fullness of beauty and self-expression that would be maddening to keep inside me and for the entire 3 hours that Drag Circus went from show to a full-on clubbing event, I danced like I was a drunkard but all I had in me was one drink and a half and for those who know me, yes, that's enough to get me giggly and so, so many times, I pulled Maeghen and Austin to the dance floor, and it felt unbelievable almost that just 4 hours ago, Maeghen was debating whether or not to join us after all because her terrible ex-partner had barged in last night and was so verbally awful that she called the cops and so with that to happen to her, she didn't feel like going at all and I said the one thing I did know about drag or simply, about going out, which was that "it could be healing as well, to put on something you feel beautiful in and be seen and be seen and be seen", and somehow that convinced her and there we were, walking in, the last to the ball before the great drag circus started and we stuffed down hot dogs while we enjoyed the incredibly short show and gosh back to the dancing, because eventually, Maeghen and Austin and I could feel like we connected to each other and that's why I love to dance, because when I dance with the right people, I actually feel a lot closer to you and can feel when you're insecure but in the same vein, I would know when you start to feel more sure and confident until Maeghen who was the most shy, danced so hardcore in the last hour, all of us found it hard to leave, so here is where I tell you that I never want to stop dancing, and I'll never stop dancing for anyone, because I feel so beautiful when I do and I feel so true to myself and so creative when I do, it's like I know exactly how to move to any song and it's something I can never escape so I hope I'll always have someone to share it with, my dancing and for that I do, I have miss Ivanna, Yen, Neha, and my new friends who definitely understand me now, and haha, more than a couple of folks came up or noticed me where I was, because dang, I do got thighs now, thanks to all the consistency and the only third space outside of work and my apartment that I could exist in on a mundane day, Planet Fitness lololol, and days after drag circus, I would celebrate Asian New Year at my mentor's home which she laid out the most amazing of dishes and we dived into each other's company like wine and no, I do not speak Chinese so I could not connect with her in-laws or her parents, but I did my best to show my respect, bringing flowers and cute snacks for Jing's little ones and together, we would eat all that was cooked by her parents, much of it prepared from the night before, and would have a 25-minute personal fireworks show where her husband studiously lit up one after one in the cold, and because we could only blow up one firework at at time, I took my time enjoying each and every one that was lit and my favorite was this bright blue-purple one that would look like a willow tree with the golden strings dropping down and gosh, it made me smile how warm Jing is to her parents and how open her heart is to invite me a week in advance and into her lovely home and at dinner, it reminded me of the Asian New Years I took for granted at home with family, because when Jing asked me what my family's New Year traditions were, the routine came to me easily -- when Yen and I were much younger, Vietnamese guests and families from all over would drive to our house so we'd have gatherings of at least 50 people who brought all sorts of foods and desserts and we'd have my dad's friends set up the karaoke ahead of time so that later, when we're all drunk and happy, we could sing and all the ladies would be in the kitchen giggling and helping out and setting up the food while the men outside would pour ice into the cooler and bring all their fancy wines and beers and then the gangsta Vietnamese would ride up to our house in at least 8 motorbikes and welcome the new year with us and then at some point, after everyone's still drunk, all the men would sit and stay outside to debate about the outcome of the Vietnam War and eventually, my Dad always being at the center of it, would challenge one of his rowdiest friends who's probably misspoken something to a physical duel, and there would be friends who were both intrigued with the almost-fights and those who would break it up and all the while, the women in their beautiful ao dais would make a plan to head out to the temple first and watch the fireworks together with Yen and I and so we'd go out there, get our little new year tangerine and fresh 1 dollar bill, after braving and breathing in the fumes of the red fireworks, the ones that explode on the ground, and smell like sparkly ash so that the next morning, we'd come back and shake a cup with a bunch of sticks and numbers in it and pray for an accurate and good fortune about the year ahead and so here we are, with that year ahead, where this year, my Mum called me excitedly that I have a really good fortune and that I will have a bright future ahead, no matter what I choose, which made me curl up into bed into a smile, and you can call me foolish for believing things like this but I do, I do, and you can't stop me, so my time at Jing's home was so lovely and the little kids reminded me of Yen and I so much, how we'd try to see how far we can go or do something until something messes up or catches fire and like us, the kids tried to make a bonfire with their fireworks and though it never worked, it was the hope that it would work that kept their efforts going at which, I smiled bigly, so that happened and the next days I would find myself at Har Mar Tavern with Austin and Kelly for drinks and it became much more than drinks when trivia came out and for 2 dollars a head, we played and were 2nd place and I screamed so loud oh my god, because of course your girl knew Victoria Desert was in Australia hehe, and us girls talked about all the silly stuff, all the intimate stuff, and even all the sillier stuff that when we left, I felt so connected and excited to see them again and I did indeed, pop into Kelly's home for her homemade chicken triviago... or something called trivallteri?? and this will be my first time using punctuation but yeah, it was really good and Kelly and I vibed about Roe v. Wade (of course we did) and I kept saying all night at her house, "I'm not a feet person, but I am definitely a paws person" when her giant dog, Mumford, slept with all his paws pointed to me and I felt like I was melting like any second, if I had coconut oil on hand, I'd rub some coconut oil to make his paws all moisturized and shiny and perfectly adorable wahhhh, the biggest of snoots, and her husband would later show me all the games he's made and all the designs that she helped with and gosh, they make the cutest pair, so I left with a happy heart then too, and a week later, after a whole week of leaving work late and doing my best on leading a project for project management, I came home to a big box in front of my apt, and curious, I read who it came from and it came from one of my favorite nail salon customers, Ms. Karen, who had sent me a care package for the winter because she'd heard of the storms that had passed and who still... teared up thinking of me whenever she walked into the nail salon, because she could feel my absence and that made me tear up too, because I've always loved her I felt, and I knew that she's always loved my Mum and she's just one of the warmest, sweetest of peoples who was the head of finance at her family's company and now pursues art full-time and isn't that the most beautiful thing to pursue? and she does it with all her heart now so when I painted my mama and baby whale for my apartment weeks ago during the first winter storm that I survived, I had to send it to Ms. Karen who gushed over it and I do have to admit, as I stare at this same painting now, I can't believe I did it, and so in her care box were an assortment of scarves and socks and warm pieces that I will bring with me to Kentucky this coming Monday and Tuesday, when I'm driving in a little bit of a snowstorm to get to my next rotations, but the biggest thing I haven't yet mentioned is how my heart beat so fast and my smile felt the biggest all year when after I texted her all the thank yous for sending me such a warm letter and a cute package that she responded with,

"Lots of love to you

My adopted granddaughter-just thinking

about you and the cold when we are so

spoiled in Houston (at least most of the 

time) hugs coming your way <3"

and I assume you see it too, don't you, "my adopted granddaughter", and god, I cried and smiled both in my Subaru, on the way to my consistent third space, but... yeah... I may not be there with the people who love me but it doesn't take away from the love that they have for me and by all definitions of love that I could explain myself by, which are family, friends, and romantic love, this new familial-friendship love that would encourage me to be her adopted granddaughter in a heart beat... how foolish I have been and lived to now experience such a new, warm, solid, and comforting love -- for all the love letters I've ever written and received only because there were constant reminders of each other's existences, the love Ms. Karen had for me was all encompassing, all enriching, for without seeing me, she is still reminded of me and I never disappeared, not in her heart, how beautiful that is, and what a gift of my life to feel it as surely as now, and I will continue to be there, to be worthy and show her my love for her in the next chapter of my life as I learn to expand all the definitions of love I ever thought I knew about, and accept, receive, show, and return all of it gosh, and last night, for this could be the last story or maybe a new story, but I bought a last minute ticket to the Marlon Wayan stand up in Marietta, because when else is a Wayan brother going to pass through Marietta ever again? and for my childhood to have been rich in White Girls quotes and last night to see the guy himself, I found myself in such a laughable position, sitting next to my previous supervisor and his fiance and their son while Marlon touches on the most raunchy of topics, lovemaking or not, and I held myself from laughing at all the wrong parts, best I could, and all I have to say is, it felt really good, really good to laugh for 3 hours straight, because I deserve it all, all the joy, worthy of the love, the gentle sweetness of self-treatment and dreaming because Marlon raised a good point, "Make sure what you do is what you love, so it'll never feel like work," and so I hope that one day, that day comes to, when it won't feel like that and I can feel light and purposeful and among people who get it, like the folks I ran into a couple days ago, the accountants for our insurance team, because I was walking in there to help them with a project they had and before I could leave, I admitted my celebrity crush was Henry Cavill, "he's both so brains and so much braun, oh my gosh, and he is such a nerd, building out his own PCs with glasses on ahhhh and did I mention he was such a braun?!" and I think I have a type, as clearly as Michelle, from accounting haha, would as well and together I think we'll be friends I feel -- I'm attracting a mix of women in their 30s and 40s and maybe that's where I am right now? because gosh, they GET IT, every one of them GET it and I fucking love it, when we just... get each other... and one day, perhaps, we can add in a little dancing of course. :)

I'll never ever want to stop dancing, not even on a bad ankle, not even with all the dizziness of a drink and a half, and not even if a creep was staring. 

I'm dancing.

5 Star Book Review: The Stardust Grail by Yume Kitasei

My Goodreads, if you wanna be friends. :) 

"The Stardust Grail" is not just an "Indiana-Jones" style adventure. It's so much more than that. I've rarely finished a book in the past 2 years, so with that said, this had to be the first book I've finished in a very long time, especially in 4 sittings.

Where do I even BEGIN? I will keep this spoiler-free.

A young woman who is now is a PhD student in museum studies used to be a museum thief for alien civilizations, performing heists on different planets and museums in order to return prized artifacts back to their respective origins. Isn't that fucking anti-colonial? AMAZING. Isn't it just? YES. And this time, her old alien-octopus best best friend's alien species is in danger, and it will be up to Maya Hoshimoto to decide if she wants to go on one last heist to retrieve the object that would save her friend's species, but in turn, that may "condemn humanity" if she ends up choosing her friends' species over her own. LIKE, THE TENSION?! EXSQUEEZE ME?!

Mark my words, Kitasei is one of the most imaginative and incredible science fiction authors out there. Not only is her world vastly believable and I could just tell, how beautiful it must be. I kept wanting to jump onto these planets myself where she describes there are only forever oceans. It's the kind of worlds one can only dream of (AND GOSH I DEFINITELY CAN'T WAIT TO DREAM MYSELF ON HER PLANETS ONE DAY LMAOAOAO) and sunsets, atmospheres, and different alien species that I can see so vividly. I've read Sci-Fi before so I'm not new to the genre when I say that her world building, unforgettable characters, character development, pacing, imagination (the fucking FUCKING DETAILS ARE ARTISTRY incarNATE. I CAN SEE EVERYTHING IN PAINTINGS AND ACHE AND MY MASSIVE BOOK HANGOVER RIGHT NOW is HITTING ME FUCKKKK), writing, and overall themes (AND SO MUCH FRIENDSHIP <3 the friendship == family theme ahhh) is down with the stroke of someone who has put incredible AND MASSIVE thought and is truly skilled at their writing craft.

Because why else did I find myself unable to stop last night?

But the thing that I really can't wait to speak more on is the complexity of her world, because on the backdrop of such incredible world building and interspecies relationships, conflicts, histories and lore. The complexity of humanity and the existential questions that Kitasei explores will continue to haunt me: Are we really appreciative of our current Earth right now as much as we are of the worlds beyond our Earth? Is it fear and misunderstanding of different (alien) cultures that lead to eruptions of war and genocide? Are we really so so other to each other that we cannot find a collective consciousness? And if there is a collective consciousness or if we don't share similar bodies or beliefs, what is the theory of common existence --- what is the common seed of understanding that no matter how different you and I are, might we share and might we always fully accept and see in each other?

Not only that but her exploration of class, the role that museums and educational institutions play in extending and justifying colonialism of other peoples' technologies, way of life, that through so much excavating and taking for the sake of "knowledge-gathering" and "science" (ESPECIALLY FOR ANYONE THAT SAYS "FOR SCIENCE"), the retrieved "materials" end up in museums, studied til they're ghosts of the objects they once were and unreturned to where they came from.

Through the act of taking, Kitasei re-imagines colonialism on the interstellar level. The taking and condemning of knowledge and resources versus the interdependent sharing of knowledge.

The reference to "The Whole" and how Auncle (our main character's octopus friend) can connect with the greater consciousness feels so Buddhist to me. That alien creatures can be so enlightened that they can tap into each other spiritually and talk to each other across generations, like Auncle can tap into slithers of the past voices of those before Xer through meditations and sleep. Is that a science in our bodies that we already have though? Gosh, isn't it so gangster of Kitasei to imply such beautiful existences? That we can exist amongst all pasts and futures and be so enlightened as a species, not as beings, but as a SPECIES. fuck.

<3

This book is ground breaking and I am just fucking surprised it's not spoken of more. Like, how can this book be on such the down low, because now I feel like I've found a gem.

The use of pronouns as well was perfect. Since alien species don't have traditional genders, many of them go by Xer or Heir, because damn, that would totally make sense! Just details on gender, and class, and consciousness that again, make Kitasei such a thought-provoking and spearheader of the re-imaginings of science fiction and humanity. HUMANITY.

I'm so glad I found this book in my local library, in a very Caucasian majority town ahhhh!! It was unassuming but the chances are, with a cover as gorgeous as this and a title as beautiful as "The Stardust Grail", I was instantly curious. The synopsis had me hooked just in the first 10 seconds of holding it and gosh, I just knew. I knew it would be a win.

I can't wait to read her other work: "The Deep Sky".

AND ALSO WRITE HER A BUNCH OF FAN MAIL.

Because oh my god. BIGGEST FUCKING FAN. I have so much to think about right now.

I also.... wow. I can still see the Wonder space ship and Auncle and the ocean planet in my head still. It feels like I'll be haunted forever.

a thankfulness

When someone asks you, "what if I become a bad boyfriend one day?" 

Believe them. It's a choice they're preparing for. 

It's a choice to slowly disappear.

So do it. Disappear.

There was no anger or resentment. Or hope. 

My face to the pillow, I did my best not to stay up wondering that long first month, because what was the point? Why did it matter if her name kept leaving your lips, or that she called you at midnight, and that you call her in the mornings before work? Why did it matter that I only cared now, long after the fact like one last laugh?

In being vulnerable with my sister and best friend, I shared that I had--

I had done the thing I said I'd never do on the last phone call in our lives ever:

which was to plead for someone I loved to stay.

"Because I want you."

Gosh, I'm so cringey.

If I had to give someone a reason to stay...

then they shouldn't stay at all.

I never want to do that again.

Fight harder than someone for what we should both equally want.

I felt very small in those moments, gripping onto the ship sailing anywhere, 

but back to me.

I respect myself far too much to do that ever again.

The only good that came of my own last words was how pure they were.

I fought honestly and bravely. No word left unsaid. Not even the word "love". I didn't even say that word like a coward.

I let myself love someone hard, even as he pulled away.

The moment came some unwanted day when I closed my own door and leaned against it.

I hope that in the next chapter of my long life, that someone will fight for me 

the way I did. 

I hope all the love I've given away 

will return as a tsunami, a nightmare tsunami. Too vast and too powerful to deny.

I hope that the someone I'll know in that future courageously 

loves me with a love rooted in responsibility, 

a love nourished with purity and abundance.

And when he whispers close, into the crook of my neck, "I fucking love you", that he says it easily, like breathing still air on an ocean planet, so loud and clear and inescapable that I would shake.

That I would know, it's the kind of love that would never betray my hopes,

and would remember me, all my favorite little things, 

like how very much I like to hold flowers on little strolls,

or how very much I love surprises and trains and midday Vietnamese coffee pick-me-ups,

how I want to be a little small bean, all the time, nose boops and cheek-to-cheeks,

how I like to comfort myself when I'm sad or what it means when I say that 

"I feel small right now".

The kind of love that belongs to me too easily that it feels like second home.

Grip and tug me back if I've gone too far.

Be too easy, too transparent, to really be part of real life. 

Envelope all the other loves and lives

I thought I ever knew about.

And I would have it as equally in return, ready to give again.

I'm not afraid to love. Ever. Haha. What a silly woman I am, if I was.

I'll always wear my heart on my sleeve.

I worked the last 3 months to reshape and conquer the last two feelings I had:

the sadness and love,

into one last feeling. Compassion.

Compassion for who were in those 24-hour diners. When I hugged you for the first time in that parking lot and I knew it was going to be you, for a short or long while, but I knew. 

A fire ball of laughter and hand holding and sweetness that made my belly so warm. In elevators and parking garages and university campuses and delighting folks near and far with my Television British accent. I treated you like my summer escape but then you became more. It was inevitable.

Eyes that saw me for who I was and who I wanted to be.

And if I have any hope now, it's the hope that we will be beyond happy in all the futures we'll have and cannot even begin to imagine yet. And hopefully, none of it together ever again. Because, I did love you after all.

As our ships dock in their respective places in the world, 

as the sun sets on ocean planets,

and as the last candle on the ship burns off,

I let my hands drop to my sides. I close my eyes and breathe in the perfumed night air.

A peach, coconut, salty allure against my black hair.

The moon would shine like a humungous speckled star. That anyone from any part of the world could see at the same time and want a name for.

And hear at that same instance, the whales so playful and so silly, and if zoomed closer, my heart beat.

And if I listened even beyond my heart beat, I would hear the last sound:

a thankfulness,

breathing freely.

after the storm

Dandelions grow, after the storm. 

Rain like wine, living in puddles, for birds to bathe in.

The thickest clouds gone, thinned down to nothing. 

After the storm, the elder on the front porch of a bright yellow house stops rocking in his chair. An "umph" on the getting up. An agile toss of rice to the birds below. "Shhrrrah" goes the rice. Two dogs play far from it, tossing each other in the grass.

A familiar truck passes the small home on Japonica Street. Two little girls sit in the back. A dark hand holds a lit cigarette and darker lungs puff out smoky breaths.

The red truck moves on, along with the girls in it, who both wonder similar things about that elder on the front porch. "The bird-feeding elder. I wonder what he's thinking outside on his chair, even when it's so hot."

5 years passed since. Then 10 years pass.

Long after the elder is gone, no longer on that porch, a stranger to everyone involved, the questions linger. "Was he ever waiting on anyone, past 5 pm?"

The older girl, Ngoc, at 11, learns about imperfect memory. The more you replay a memory, the less accurate it is each time. You keep cherry-picking the best and worst parts, until that memory is no longer true. As time passes, memory transforms into story. A fiction film.

A story best served on a blog.

The littler girl, Yen, just knows she doesn't want to be like her older sister, who's always living in her head. Yen wants to do the thing, act the thing, become the thing. Nothing moves if you keep thinking. Things move when you act on it. And live so well that there's no one's validation to achieve but her own.

So what does that old man on the porch ponder about? How does he live his life?

As if time has slowed? As if you don't have to move or act on anything, as long as you have a place on your own porch?

What joy could there be, sitting there feeding birds every evening? So that two little girls can wonder about you when you're no longer there?

***

It's Ngoc here. In 2025. 

I don't have my own porch. There's too much snow to feed birds on a day like today.

At least 4 inches of snow now. Enough for my county to label it a Level 3 Emergency. "If you're on the road, you're going to jail." Enough snow for my bank to call it a Snow Day, for me to stay home.

My little Subaru is blanketed in white. I don't have a shovel. It's 22 outside.

I haven't turned on the heat. 

I don't need heat right now, when tea did the job. I made myself brown rice green tea. The aroma of the rice is nutty and the green tea is caffeine-y. Thanks to Cayla, I now have a water kettle to make it. 

For many seconds, time slowed as I hovered above my tea. Its scent, the sight of snow outside, my favorite blue sweater draped on me -- I'm in my own body enjoying this amazing tea.

Snow has fallen all night. And snow will fall all day today. And I don't have a shovel.

I opened all my blinds. All four corners of the room, I have a bird's view of my neighborhood. How beautiful in white this little place is.

I'm in a movie town. Truly. You'll have to visit me. I'll show you.

And though it should be too cold for birds to be out, they are. 

They were literally playing in the snow. Perhaps the softest, fluffiest parts of the snow.

Which reminds me, it's official. 

Maeghen, Austin, and I are going to a drag show circus. I got so excited, I even invited my landlord with me, who though did not accept the invite, is excited to hear all about it after.

I didn't know Marietta was the kind of town a drag circus would pull through.

Gosh. 

Wow. 

I don't know a lot of things.

I can't wait to FEEL YOUNG AGAIN.

For now, I am accessing the "old man on the porch" in me and enjoying this movie-snow-white town. In the comfort of my apartment.

My new pink gaming chair, fresh from Cayla's apartment too, haha. I'll be on it today playing League, with new friends I made on the bus ride home from Columbus.

It seems I have a knack for it. Making new friends, new plans wherever I go.

Which is very much, the old me. The girl who always had a plan. Always had a place to be and a person to be with. 

Today, the newer-ish me, I am simply here. In my lovely apartment. My clean, clean kitchen. Gosh, how proud I am. How waking up, walking into my clean kitchen to make this damn good tea and just so fucking thankful to yesterday's me for being a good girl.

I am the goodest girl.

GOOD BEAN.

*sigh*

After the storm of getting to Marietta, I'm finally in the fun part. The part where birds play in the puddles left behind.

The part where the old man comes out and enjoys the tea of his own mind. The tea of our Southeast Houston neighborhood. The tea that is the sun, his own dogs. Perhaps replaying films of a life well-loved.

Just like I am, enjoying the tea of my still-here Christmas Tree. The tea of having all my painting utensils ready, a beautiful calendar to write on. The tea of pretty washi-tape to reinforce the edges of my books. The tea that is the snow, so abundant, that I can be home today. 

Haha, this reminds me of my high school days. There was a freeze that lasted so long that we had 2-3 days back-to-back snow days. It was the best.

The absolute best, waking up, and getting news that we can stay in bed as late as we wanted. Young little beans, Yen and I.

So I did. I smiled hard into my pillow today, after texting my boss that I can't make it, and her quick response that, "Agreed. Best for tomorrow then! Stay safe!"

Oh, I'm safe alright. ^--^

commercial banking

They're all so freaking smooth. One at a time, handing me their business cards, as they sat down. 1, 2, 3, 4.

I was starstruck. 

Too bad I'm just as prepared.

"Shawn Mount. Marketing and relationship manager," I said, smiling.

Shawn looked back at me surprised, "Why, yes I am," shaking my hand firmly.

"Aaron Smith, 2 time President's club. AVP," I turned. 

Aaron smiled, "Haha, yes I am," shaking my hand, "this one's different, guys." And the men laughed.

"Steve Warren. I'm actually unsure about this one," I laughed, shaking Steve's hand. 

"Steve. No need. I'm just a lowly portfolio manager, ha," he said, also firmly shaking my hand.

"And Jason Hatcher. You must be the king of these three."

"That, I am," he agreed. Everyone laughed, a chuckle that sounded like money at the golf club.

The kind of laugh that I've made too many jokes about, here it is. 

And I am dizzy.

From the 5:20 am drive here to the disorientation of actually remembering all their names and roles. 

Why do I try so hard?

Yes, why, Ngoc?

The conversation went in and out and I felt it slowly blossom in my chest, this feeling that I've stood out. That I'm right, I usually am about my own preparation: "There can never be enough preparation. Just one more hour, scroll their LinkedIn's. Study SBA loans. Study the role. Something will come of it."

Despite my dizziness, I managed the entire day. 4 separate one-on-ones with each commercial banker. In one day. Huntington, West Virginia. My little car putting on miles. 

Ne-Yo's "She Knows" played non-stop on loop for 2 hours. So that I can own every thought in my head for more than a second and not worry that the song that plays won't be one that I won't like.

The thing is, I've been excited about commercial banking for weeks now. They're the biggest bucks in a bank, bringing almost a billion dollars in new money per year. Just 30 bankers.

It's a sales role. I know. But these guys are all about the details.

I mentioned my family's business ONE time and they all remember it. "We have 6 chairs. It's just my mom and one other person. We're a hole in the wall but we focus on only doing what we do best. Our one-on-ones."

And all 4 of them remembered eveyr detail. In every 1-on-1, they each remembered the 6 chairs and that it was just my Mom and one other person. They each hypothesized correctly that if we were to open a new salon, it would be around the same size and that the PPP loan we took out in 2020 was only enough for rent and not much else... wasn't it?

"Yes," I replied each time. Surprised.

These guys are at a whole other level.

And in each one-on-one, I did my thing. 

I didn't try to only show how much I already knew coming in.

I focused on having conversations that they'd remember for themselves too, showing my personality and how I deeply cared about the mechanics of their roles. Because I did. 

From understanding their prospecting process, to the way they managed community relationships, to only providing services that a client actually needs, to understanding their work life balance, to the business meetings that could happen impromptu at any time. 

A commercial banker is a forever advisor to the business itself. 

At lunch, the 3 of the 4 walked with me to the business bankers Christmas party. I just went through there a month ago, and already, I saw so many familiar faces that couldn't wait to hug me. 

As the king of business banking, Ken Short, introduced me to the Christmas gathering, asking, "Who in here has already met Ngoc?"

So many of them raised their hands smiling at me. I grinned back.

Shandele, Jason, Cassie, Logan (Subaru guy!), Michael, Muhammad, Darryl, and others. I went around hugging everyone, like a little celebrity.

Logan kept his gaze steady on me, eager to speak, but at every turn, there was always someone that I was in the middle of conversation with.

His smile grew when I finally turned to him. He asked, "So, your Subaru. Did you end up going to get that oil changed yet?"

"Oh my gosh, not yet! But thank you for that Subaru dealer recommendation. I'm going to go there hopefully very soon."

"They're good folks. There's nowhere else I'd take it in this area. Are the guys taking good care of you?"

"They are haha. They are," I said smiling. 

Michael behind me, one of my first interviewers for my job now, stood up and said, "Ngoc, oh my gosh how are you liking it so far?"

I gave him a big hug. "Michael, my god I'm so well taken cared of. Seriously, and Columbus is just, Columbus is unspeakably awesome. I love it there?!"

Jason tapped me lightly, signalling that we had to go.

And so we left. 

I felt so loved. I couldn't stop smiling. I didn't feel cold out in the 30 degree weather. I forgo-ed my jacket for our short walk to the next restaurant.

We headed to lunch with an attorney who was a COI, a center of influence, to us. She waited for us and quickly hugged everyone. And I knew instantly, she was a good bean.

And I'd have thought that a business meeting would be more business-y, but we ended up only talking about our hobbies, what we're reading, what their kids are up to, and all sorts. I introduced myself properly and pushed the unspoken agenda, that my company really takes great care of its employees. So much so, that there's a professional development program that I left home for.

Haha, here I am. :)

On the walk back to the office, each gentleman took their turn speaking with me. Politely. Towering above me, older, wiser, they all offered me different bits of advice. Showed me different reasons of how they got here.

I felt easy here too.

A young woman who once went to a traditionally all-women's college is now standing, however briefly, in an all-men's world. For a second. And they took good care of her. :) 

I told my new friends, Ben and Bridget, this very thing about commercial banking.

"They're flashy. They're shiny. The moment they walk into any space, they can survey the entire restaurant and know exactly where they need to be. Who they need to speak to, how that conversation's going to start and where it should end up. All the while. All the while!! Having jokes, non-stop, to make someone laugh. They're not commercial bankers if they can't make someone laugh. And they do that all the damn time."

My last one-on-one was with Aaron. A graphic designer, sound engineer, a volunteer at the local drug recovery center, and here, at Pebo. I asked him for any feedback he might have for me, after our deep conversation about all things banking, but also about the Vietnam War, about basketball, and my family's nail salon.

He responded, "After my 8 years of this program, I have to say, and I was planning on telling Jason this as well, you have got to be the best PDA that's walked through commercial's doors. You're very intelligent. You ask all the right questions. You're thoughtful, very prepared. Already, you knew about all the different SBA loans. Doing your homework like that and also knowing who everybody is like this morning, I think if you want to be here one day, you will absolutely kill it. I'm very excited about where you're going to end up."

I wanted to hug Aaron. But we simply stood up, a firm handshake. 

When a man shakes his hand firmly, unafraid of hurting yours, that's when you know, he sees you as an equal. That's how I know that that's a good man.

I rest my case.

Your girl, Ngoc, is doing shiny things. Learning about shiny things. 

Prepared, packed, one suitcase light. A black dress.

Later, she'd head back to the hotel, only to head back out into the night. She remembered the bookstore that the others had passed without a second glance. She headed in exactly there, bundled up against the cold. She walked in empty-handed. 2 hours later, she walked out with more books than she could finish before June.

Smiling. 

Gosh, I'm very proud of myself.

I try hard, I try hard all the time. And I get tired. I'm scared of burning too bright. I'm nervous about not being liked.

But how could I be nervous about that? If I'm so... I'm so good at being me? 

And by being myself, my true self, I can create a lot of joy already.

And hopefully, I don't only focus on gratification from work, but god, does it feel DAMN GOOD when it's words of affirmation from work. FUCK.

fuck. :P

-----------

As much as this adventure has felt like a real adventure, I really can't believe I'll be home in less than 5 hours. 

Houston, agh. I really do love Houston.

I can't lie anymore. I hate Houston in the summer, like a simmering hell. That won't go away. But I love Houston in December. Our 60 degree weather. No mosquitoes. Just walks and sweetness and non-stop cuteness.

I miss having all the things to do on a weekend. I miss all the things that make me feel young. 

Marietta is beautiful. I love my little walks as I put a playlist on. The leaves beneath me watch me dance and twirl and mis-step and trip. And I'd always feel safe, for the full mile back to my apartment, but... 

Houston. 

When I see that skyline as I land, I'd know where my heart is. 

And loyal to. 

So while I'm mildly dissociating and can't believe I'm where I am today,  at least in the quiet of Marietta, I can focus on what my heart wants to make.

For all that I've worked for, maybe it's not important where my heart is.

One day, I'll tell someone that this was the chapter of the heart making what it needs to make, not about where the heart needs to be. 

:)

Dear Ngoc!

Hello myself!

I have a very soft spot on me. The spot right in the middle of my chest, beneath my collarbone. 

I did the thing where I put my hand to my chest and felt my own heart beat again. I did it twice today. And when I felt my own heart beat for its own life, I grinned so big. I didn't care if I was rained on as I took my time walking to my car. Just, thankful that I made it to the end of the day. Thankful that I did a really good job, and how great that feeling is, when I know it so well deep down that yes, of course. Of course, I did a great job. I replayed what my supervisors said inside my head again, and then I smiled all over again.

Here she is. Your words of affirmation girlie.

Lately, I take my time.

I take my time walking around the block during lunch, with my hands bouncing against my hips and a permanent slight smile on me. Like I'm listening to that song I really like, because I am, fool. I take my time talking to my colleagues, who are all growing on me. I think, wait, I know, that I'm liked. I know it's a silly small thing to realize, but it means so much to me. That my company is enjoyed. That I make people laugh. It means a lot. So I always take my time with them.

I take my time making the drink in my hand last. Bridget's story makes the drink feel lighter. Is it just me, or are the lights making me feel all pretty? All cozy...? A town so small that you're bound to meet 3 of your coworkers in it, so I take my time leaving the bar. Bridget leads the way to a seedy dance floor in a seedy bar. No one but us in it. 

It's a Friday night in Marietta. I didn't expect that.

But we danced anyways. 9 PM became 11 PM. The alcohol in my system diluted, and with my mind as sober as ever, I danced harder. Running around as if my ankles are fine. And so did Bridget haha. I felt like the young miss I always was. ^-^

I take my time getting back to my car, careful not to forget the ledge out the door.

"Do you need me to walk you back to your car?" she asked. 

I shook my head sleepily and happily. "Thank you but I'm okie hehe. Tonight was great! I'll see you in Columbus. Thanksgiving!!!"

And there ya go. That's how a girl's trip is made. On a Friday night outside a seedy bar on a street in a small town where there's no body but two girls who just sober danced an empty dance floor.

I take my time driving back to my apartment. They've wrapped lights and leaves around each light post. 

If I was actually tipsy, you could convince me I was in London. Gosh, London. That's a whole other story. I've already told that one lol.

Beyond my social outings and the significant reduction in shopping because I do not want to live pay check to pay check T___T, I feel like a sponge lately. A TOTAL SPONGE. 

Risk management. Oh my god. 

I like it a lot.

I like a LOT.

I really enjoy working with customers but I was always in reacting mode.

I want to be in initiating mode now. My mid-20s are gonna be for initiating MODE :D And the team -- I think they really like me. :)

And I'm thinking about further education funded by my employer. It's very possible and your girl might have a trick up her sleeve sooner or later. ^-^ Life is too short! Life is too short.

And life is too short not to be in three-way calls as many nights as I should be. Ivanna and Yen are both doing their make-up, all cute and dainty, while I update them about our future Columbus weekend trip. Thanksgiving is gonna be very sweet. My supervisor invited me to her Thanksgiving. <3 Oh my gosh, I feel so hugged. WAH!

Not everything is wonderful. Not everything is sweet.

But when things are sweet, they really are sweet. Just gooey caramel on my skin. Sticky condensed milk left on the edge of my cup. As I scheme. And scheme myself into my new life here. One day, I'll be a local. One day, I'd have walked these hills and under these trees enough times that someone recognizes my silhouette and chases after me.

In a good way? :D

Elise will tell you that I'm good at scheming. Ivanna will tell you that I'm good at finding a good hotel within budget. Yen will tell you that I know how to talk to boys. Mom will tell you I'm bad at not eating enough citrus.

You know what's crazy?

I sat right next to someone who was sneezing and coughing Covid like crazy for an hour. I washed my hands really good after that. And every morning for a week, I drank orange juice.

3 weeks later. And that worked?

So Mom's right. ^--^ I can never drink too much citrus.

I'm 24. I'm living on my own. I'm a good bean doing better beans than I imagined. And people remember me. And that feels really warm. Really gentle.

Like tonight, as I returned the can opener I borrowed from my neighbor's sister, Austin. She remembered I played League. She took a sip of my Viet coffee that I sent it along with and smiled. She gripped my three snack bars in my hands along with my hope that she'll more than enjoy it. That she'd love it. Or seeing the way my colleagues at the Thanksgiving potluck today enjoying my Vietnamese coffee. It just makes me feel... <3

This little letter to myself is me hoping that I'll always remember the good things.

Because good things do happen to me. And because I deserve them all.

And I deserve all the quiet in my head, after the day is over. I deserve all my reading time. My calling and walking time. My time in my new favorite blue sweater. All my time talking with my new friend. And all my time re-reading old diary entries while I realize how long this journey has really been.

This long journey of designing and creating my life from scratch. All those years ago. Just as I am, today.