A huge tent city was going up, and that's where I stayed for a week before being moved to Fort Smith, Arkansas. There, a blue grass band showed up one day to play for us in the theater. When a Vietnamese guitarist tried to jam with the Americans, he was shouted down after two songs. The all-Vietnamese audience wanted to hear unalloyed blue grass.
On April 30th, my father fought his way onto one of the last two ships to leave Saigon. Carrying more than 3,000 refugees, the Truong Xuan [Eternal Spring] made it to international waters before stalling. On May 2nd, a Danish ship rescued everyone and took them to Hong Kong.
Forty-three-years-old when he arrived in the US, my father's first job was as a janitor in a hospital. He spent three years studying for the bar exam but could never pass. By 1978, we had already lived in Tacoma, Salem and Houston before settling in San Jose. My dad ended up owning a series of grocery stores and restaurants. He also got a real estate license. My father made millions but died worse than broke at age 83 because he became addicted to betting on NFL games. On his death bed, he said to me with genuine astonishment, "That was pretty stupid."
In 1975, a huge number of ordinary American families sponsored Vietnamese into their homes to assist them with assimilation. This extraordinary fact is totally forgotten, but just think about that for a minute. A black family in Mobile, Alabama sponsored my aunt, her husband and their four kids, so that's six strangers they had to put up with and help for several months. The stereotypes of ordinary Americans as louts and racists are often pushed by the American media themselves to deflect blame from our evil elites. A doctor in Vietnam, my uncle continued to practice here and ended up working for many years in Angola Prison.
If mere immigrants can sometimes pose as refugees, many refugees are also mislabeled as just opportunistic fence jumpers. Near my Philadelphia apartment, there's a Korean owned-bar, Wings and More, that caters mostly to Mexicans. A sign on its wall, "NO ESCUPIR EN EL SUELO GRACIAS." There is no English equivalent asking patrons not to spit.
Recently, I met in Wings and More a 36-year-old Mexican. Humberto is a beefy dude with moustache, whisker and slicked back hair. On his arms are tattoos of the Virgin of Guadalupe, "Hecho en Mexico," tragedy and comedy masks, a stylized puma and something I couldn't quite see. On his neck is "El Rey."
Leaving behind a wife and two children in Mexico City, Humberto came to Philly in 1998. By 2000 or so, his wife had found another man, but Humberto's mom didn't tell him about it until 2002, "When she said, 'I must tell you something. I have something to tell you,' I knew something was wrong. Then she told me. She said, 'Do not drink.' She knew I would drink to not feel the pain."
In 2003, Humberto returned to Mexico to try to salvage the situation, but his wife wouldn't even let him see their children.
"My wife, she was an angel. She still is. She was my everything. I came to the USA to make money to build us a house. Now I can't even see my children."
Humberto has spent 17 years in the US, nearly half his life, yet he has only been back to Mexico once. In Philly, he rides a bike to deliver pizzas.
"I said to my mother, 'Don't die before I can see you again.'"
Besides me and Humberto, there were six other men, all Mexicans, in Wings and More that day. "Humberto, there are never any women in this bar."
"I know. They cannot come in because they get attacked."
He didn't mean that literally, of course. He just meant these lonely drunk guys would pay her way too much attention.
Fights do break out there regularly. Cops have been called.
When Vicente Fernà ¡ndez' "Por tu maldito armor" came on the juke box, Humberto sang along with tremendous feeling, "Por tu maldito amor / No puedo terminar con tantas penas..."
On April 30th, my father fought his way onto one of the last two ships to leave Saigon. Carrying more than 3,000 refugees, the Truong Xuan [Eternal Spring] made it to international waters before stalling. On May 2nd, a Danish ship rescued everyone and took them to Hong Kong.
Forty-three-years-old when he arrived in the US, my father's first job was as a janitor in a hospital. He spent three years studying for the bar exam but could never pass. By 1978, we had already lived in Tacoma, Salem and Houston before settling in San Jose. My dad ended up owning a series of grocery stores and restaurants. He also got a real estate license. My father made millions but died worse than broke at age 83 because he became addicted to betting on NFL games. On his death bed, he said to me with genuine astonishment, "That was pretty stupid."
In 1975, a huge number of ordinary American families sponsored Vietnamese into their homes to assist them with assimilation. This extraordinary fact is totally forgotten, but just think about that for a minute. A black family in Mobile, Alabama sponsored my aunt, her husband and their four kids, so that's six strangers they had to put up with and help for several months. The stereotypes of ordinary Americans as louts and racists are often pushed by the American media themselves to deflect blame from our evil elites. A doctor in Vietnam, my uncle continued to practice here and ended up working for many years in Angola Prison.
Recently, I met in Wings and More a 36-year-old Mexican. Humberto is a beefy dude with moustache, whisker and slicked back hair. On his arms are tattoos of the Virgin of Guadalupe, "Hecho en Mexico," tragedy and comedy masks, a stylized puma and something I couldn't quite see. On his neck is "El Rey."
Leaving behind a wife and two children in Mexico City, Humberto came to Philly in 1998. By 2000 or so, his wife had found another man, but Humberto's mom didn't tell him about it until 2002, "When she said, 'I must tell you something. I have something to tell you,' I knew something was wrong. Then she told me. She said, 'Do not drink.' She knew I would drink to not feel the pain."
In 2003, Humberto returned to Mexico to try to salvage the situation, but his wife wouldn't even let him see their children.
"My wife, she was an angel. She still is. She was my everything. I came to the USA to make money to build us a house. Now I can't even see my children."
Humberto has spent 17 years in the US, nearly half his life, yet he has only been back to Mexico once. In Philly, he rides a bike to deliver pizzas.
"I said to my mother, 'Don't die before I can see you again.'"
Besides me and Humberto, there were six other men, all Mexicans, in Wings and More that day. "Humberto, there are never any women in this bar."
"I know. They cannot come in because they get attacked."
He didn't mean that literally, of course. He just meant these lonely drunk guys would pay her way too much attention.
Fights do break out there regularly. Cops have been called.
When Vicente Fernà ¡ndez' "Por tu maldito armor" came on the juke box, Humberto sang along with tremendous feeling, "Por tu maldito amor / No puedo terminar con tantas penas..."
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