The Sweet Vietnamese Man

***I've been working on a few projects for the past few days but have yet to complete any to my satisfaction! Sometimes I feel like words and stories have a will of their own and they drag you (regardless of how much you may resist) to the place where they want to go. I'm still fighting with my words, hopefully they will give in soon and find their way to me (I'm tired of giving in all the time ;) ) It is sort of similar to those creepy Ouija boards we used to play with when we were children. Remember those? All those stories of kids that tried to throw it away, only to find it back in their room (I bet their mom's put it there because they couldn't understand why their children kept throwing away a perfectly good game! Haha). But that's not the point. This post is about a sweet, old Vietnamese man I met last weekend (in case the title does not say this clearly enough) that is written with A LOT (see the capitalization? It stresses how much creative liberty was put into this) of creative liberty. As I was writing it, I began to realize the importance of Fathers, which is very fitting since Father's Day is coming up in 12 days. I thought about saving this for then, but quickly realized that Father's Day should be whenever you think about doing something nice and thoughtful, so here it is! ***

6/7/11

Adorned with enough rings to age a tree 7 years, the 66 year old Vietnamese man beside me exudes an appetite for life that is often missing in healthy, privileged 22 year olds. Newly retired, wrinkled hands passionately gesturing in the air as he describes his future plans. He’s going to travel to Italy and France, and then if time will have it, to the rest of the world. Attempt to catch up on the youth he missed out on as he worked full time and studied while trying to support a family. There is no regret in his soft black eyes. It’s refreshing to finally see a pair of eyes content with what life has dealt them. Eyes without anger at the late hours they had to stay up to study after putting the children to sleep.

He has three beautiful and successful sons. He worked hard to ensure their success in every aspect of their lives. He made sure their English was clear, not muddy like his. He convinced them to pursue professional careers and now two of his sons are doctors and the third a lawyer. However, he realizes they did it for him. His age and worldly experiences have taught him the importance of a stable occupation. His only desire for them is to live a more comfortable life, one lacking the financial worry that constantly wormed its way into his. Age has given him the insight to know that his grandkids will most likely pick a career that incorporates their passion, even if that means they will lack financial stability. He’s fine with that. He knows the importance of passion. He knows that as time goes on, values change. Whether he has had the opportunity to engage in this conversation with his sons is unknown to me. All I know is what I’ve been told and what I’ve observed.

His Cheshire cat smile fills the room. His radiant aura emits positivity. Despite the vast difference of our age—about forty years—we communicate with ease. He wants to share his life experiences. His wisdom, rightly acquired, gathers dust. His generosity towards me, his readiness to share the pearly white truths of life is flattering. I hesitate and he acknowledges that his truths may not be mine. But he’s still willing to share if I’m still willing to learn.

By now, he knows the best way to teach is through stories. He doesn’t demand my attention or respect, but earns it at the utterance of each word. He describes his youth, his struggles, his family history. He outlines for me his dreams. Up until recently, there had been no room for himself in his dreams. Isn’t that strange? To dream prosperous dreams for others? He talks about the sacrifices he made for his family, that his family made for him. What I like most about him, is his ability to understand inverse relationships. He talks of the love he feels when he visits his family, the colorful joviality that bursts from his children and from his grandchildren. Tears well up in my eyes as I think about my own family. The selfless sacrifices made by my own parents, unbeknownst to me. He doesn’t mention ingratitude. The thought doesn’t even occur to him—that his children might be ungrateful. Or perhaps he doesn’t care. He did what he wanted to, for those he cared about. In his eyes, I see the determination and grit of a father’s silent love—often underappreciated, frequently unacknowledged.