Accelerating into Walls

We were driving along 280 when my dad decided to part his wisdom on me.

I'm sure he had been meaning to talk to me all day; he was the first to see me - he stood in the garage as I pressed the door opener and edged my car in. He held me tight and scolded me for not picking up his calls. In truth, he might have been wanting to tell me how he felt for a very long time. His story had resonants of advice that he has been dropping me for the past few years.

We were driving along 280 when my dad pointed at the looming black whirl of clouds and thought that they were the sign of death.

What he told me afterwards was in a mix of Vietnamese and broken English with a Chicano accent. I decided to translate that into a more becoming and understanding basic English. This is what he said:

How old am I this year? Forty-four. How can I already be 44? Of course, you're 21 this year. You and I have gotten old together, eh? Eh eh? You're at the age when you are gaining wisdom, but you haven't fully changed. You have so much more to learn. Life is so precious. I remember myself at your age. I was in love with your mother. I had just arrived in Santa Ana. With the remnants of a letter, I took off in search for her. With no job, no money, no car, I arrived at her house on my bicycle, having taken half a day riding many miles. By the time I arrived, my bike had received a flat tire and one of my sandals had fallen apart. I was tired, sweating, and a mess. As I pedaled up the driveway to your godmother's house, your mother was getting ready to climb into a car. I pulled alongside the car, breathless and calling her name. She gave me this look of spite and resentment. And I knew. She is a beautiful woman. At that age, she had many men at her beck and call. They were wealthy, educated, and handsome. I knew. I took my broken bicycle and went home.

That summer, I left with my brother to New Mexico. I worked 10-hour days to make ends meet. In the mornings, I sat for two hours in an ESL class. That's when I met Esperanza. I was standing outside of the classroom one day and she smiled at me. And I thought, "oh God, oh God." She smiled at me. Her mother was in the class with me, taking ESL. She said, "hi." I had so little English. I asked her where she was from. She said, "here." I was surprised, "Where were you born?" "Here." I learned so much English from her. Possibly most of my English. I didn't know why she was with me. I had no money, no license, an underpaying job. And no English. I always rode a bike to her house.

One day, I borrowed a car from a friend. Without a driver's license, insurance, or even a social security number, I drove it. As I was rounding around the corner, the handle of the door unlatched and the car door flung open. Scared and panicking, I misjudged and slammed my foot on the gas pedal instead of the brakes. When I woke up, I was staring at a crumbled wall fallen over my car. The owner of the store ran out - "how the hell did you do that?!" I eventually worked for that man. He owned a plumbing store, and over many weeks was I able to pay that debt off.

Esperanza loved me. I didn't understand why. We dated for over six months. And I didn't even know her name. I just called her "Baby" or "Honey." In bed, six months, and still I didn't know her name. One day she said, "Thanh, what's my name?" I paused. "Well, Baby...?" And she yelled at me. She really loved me.

At the end of the year, I left with some friends. I didn't tell her why. All I knew was that I didn't want to settle down. I was 21, I didn't want to get married.

A few years later, I came back. I went to the bar that we all used to hang out at. Her brother was there. He asked, "why did you leave her? She loved you." He told me that she was now married with a kid. All I told him was that I didn't want to get married.

I traveled a lot and moved to many states. I was in the Virgin Islands for a while. I had a lot of girlfriends, though they were short relationships. They lasted six months, one year. I had Mexican girlfriends, Indian girlfriends. I once had a white girlfriend. She was huge. Over two hundred pounds. But she had a pretty face. I didn't care much for them. I didn't want to settle. I wanted to keep moving. Eventually I got tired. I was hanging with a group of friends who weren't very good people. I didn't like who I was with. After getting out of prison in South Carolina, I ran away. I ran away back to California.

I loved your mother. When you were three, I visited her. She begged me to take her and you with me. At that time, I didn't have a job. If I couldn't take care of myself, how could I take care of you and your mom? I just patted her on the back and told her to be a good wife, and maybe your father would change, maybe he would be better. How could I have known that he was going to beat her and nearly kill her? I didn't have the means to support her. Not then.

I don't want to speak out against your father, Cindy. But I know from your mother that he didn't treat her right. He was a selfish man. He lived the way men do in Vietnam: he made your mother stay home to cook and clean and take care of the children, to have no say, he didn't allow her to work, and she wasn't allowed any sort of independence. He had all control over his money, that whatever she wanted or needed was scrutinized, and he was stringent on his money and never gave her any allowance. His rationale for his own actions and personal dealings was that it was his money and therefore he was allowed to do anything he wanted. That is the man you want to watch out for, Cindy. You don't want a man who scrutinizes and controls all the finances. To place that much importance in money will make your life full of greed, selfishness, and materialism. Finances are to be shared by both man and wife. It is a problem with many couples.

If I took Mom and you that day, Tom and Anthony would never had been born. And you were such a mean child! When I hugged and kissed Mom, you glared at me. As I tried to pick you up, you pushed me away aggressively and started crying loudly. You pointed at me and asked, "who is this man?" And I can tell in your eyes, you said, "what the hell is he doing here?" I love Mom. Whenever I saw her, whenever I called her, I get this fluttering in my chest. I know that she's the only woman I could ever love.

I'm glad I didn't take Mom that day. We were both young as you are now. When you are young, you have this fire inside you that makes you angry with your lover. You always want to flee, to explore, to have your own space. I'm glad that Mom and I didn't come together until we were older. We wouldn't still be together if we got together back then. Now, the fires have cooled, and it's easier for us to let things go.

I worry about you. You make attachments to your lovers. You diminish space and you live with them. I know that you want to flee sometimes, that you want to be with others. It's okay at your age to have many lovers, to explore, to understand and want more. It's more common for men, but it's just common for your age. It's just harder for women because it's easier for them to get hurt, emotionally and physically. You might accidentally become pregnant. And I'm telling you! Do anything, but don't be with child! Your fire is still high. You and your lover will fight a lot, because you will have your temper before your genial experience. If he insults you, the only thing you know is that you're being mistreated and you just want to leave. That's why at your age, you just want to break up all the time. I want to tell you that at your age, you shouldn't grow attached. You need to follow what you want to do, have fun, gain experience. Because if you weigh yourself down, you might just be living under obligation, convenience, but there might not be love. Not love like Mom and Daddy. Don't look for love now, Honey. You need to understand yourself first. Control the fire. Eh eh?

I love my daddy. I was surprised about his story. I knew that my mom tried to leave my father so many times, but I never knew that she tried to leave with my dad. I often feel really sorry for my parents, whenever they tell me their stories of confusion and struggle in America. But I know now that their story certainly has a happy ending. With me.