"I'm from Thai Binh, but I've lost my roots."
"You don't go back?"
"I've been there just once. The bus ride made me sick. I will never go back."
"Never?!"
"Never. I will never go anywhere again." The mother of three smiled.
A Vietnamese would identify with his ancestral province or village, even if he's never been there. Saigon-born, I still declare myself a person from Nam Dinh or, even more specifically, Bui Chu, as did a Philadelphian I met two years ago on Kensington Avenue. We established a bond.
A settler nation founded by immigrants, with thousands more arriving each day, the United States is populated by people who have forsaken their roots. Not only that, they're reluctant to establish new ones, or prevented from doing so, in their new nation. Thanks to constant demographic upheaval across the land, hardly any American neighborhood, much less city, can retain its social identity for more than a generation.
Whitman sang of the open road, Kerouac free jazzed across America and the road movie has become an iconic genre in this seemingly endless land of mesmerizing mirages. Swooning, swaggering and flexing, Americans barrel down their once-well-paved, multi-laned freedom way, towards the always beckoning, sunset-lit horizon, right into an oceanic, paradisal grave, as Chinese belch, fart and laugh.
My hamlet, Ea Kly, is actually the United States writ tiny, for it was virgin land just four decades ago, according to the Vietnamese, although the Rade were already here, and it's now overrun with outsiders. At our recycling plant, we have an old man, Cuc, who was among the earliest Vietnamese settlers. Since Cuc only makes eight bucks a day, one might expect the dark, wiry man to dwell in a simple shack, but no, it's a well-built, high-ceilinged and reasonably spacious house for two, with a bit of land around it. The flat roof is an ample courtyard with concrete railing, and there's a side veranda, though held up by just one pitifully thin Greek column.
Inside, the furniture is of a heavy wood. Invited into his living room, I stared at a framed photo of some impressive looking man in a military uniform, "Wow, who is this guy?"
"That's me!"
"That's you?! I thought it was some big shot!"
Laughing, Cuc flashed his many brown teeth.
"So where did you serve?" I asked.
"Right here. We fought the FULRO. We got rid of them all!" He grinned. "I'm lucky they didn't send me to Cambodia. If a hundred men went, two came back. They killed us every which way, poisoned our food. I'm lucky."
"So did you get land here for your military service?"
"You don't go back?"
"I've been there just once. The bus ride made me sick. I will never go back."
"Never?!"
A Vietnamese would identify with his ancestral province or village, even if he's never been there. Saigon-born, I still declare myself a person from Nam Dinh or, even more specifically, Bui Chu, as did a Philadelphian I met two years ago on Kensington Avenue. We established a bond.
A settler nation founded by immigrants, with thousands more arriving each day, the United States is populated by people who have forsaken their roots. Not only that, they're reluctant to establish new ones, or prevented from doing so, in their new nation. Thanks to constant demographic upheaval across the land, hardly any American neighborhood, much less city, can retain its social identity for more than a generation.
Whitman sang of the open road, Kerouac free jazzed across America and the road movie has become an iconic genre in this seemingly endless land of mesmerizing mirages. Swooning, swaggering and flexing, Americans barrel down their once-well-paved, multi-laned freedom way, towards the always beckoning, sunset-lit horizon, right into an oceanic, paradisal grave, as Chinese belch, fart and laugh.
My hamlet, Ea Kly, is actually the United States writ tiny, for it was virgin land just four decades ago, according to the Vietnamese, although the Rade were already here, and it's now overrun with outsiders. At our recycling plant, we have an old man, Cuc, who was among the earliest Vietnamese settlers. Since Cuc only makes eight bucks a day, one might expect the dark, wiry man to dwell in a simple shack, but no, it's a well-built, high-ceilinged and reasonably spacious house for two, with a bit of land around it. The flat roof is an ample courtyard with concrete railing, and there's a side veranda, though held up by just one pitifully thin Greek column.
Inside, the furniture is of a heavy wood. Invited into his living room, I stared at a framed photo of some impressive looking man in a military uniform, "Wow, who is this guy?"
"That's me!"
"That's you?! I thought it was some big shot!"
Laughing, Cuc flashed his many brown teeth.
"So where did you serve?" I asked.
"Right here. We fought the FULRO. We got rid of them all!" He grinned. "I'm lucky they didn't send me to Cambodia. If a hundred men went, two came back. They killed us every which way, poisoned our food. I'm lucky."
"So did you get land here for your military service?"
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
3
2
1
