Moonlight in New York City

Moonlight in New York City, the city that never sleeps, drunk on neon, night life frenzy, and light pollution, makes me sad. It makes me sad, because it is alone in the night sky, bejeweled with marvelous shadows of asteroid wars, beautifully lit, and forgotten in the cacophony of blinding lights. I was shocked to find that the moon is not so important in America, when I first arrived here. In Vietnam, it is all about the moon, an island in the sky, the light in the dark, and Nha Tra, the beautiful goddess that lives there.

I was young when I left my country, only four years old, but I held on tight to the few memories that toddlerhood could afford. Memories of the obnoxiously sweet taste of moon cake during the moon harvest festival; memories of my mother’s loving embrace as the children released their colorful hand-made lanterns onto the river and into the tropical night air; memories of all the villagers in the small village of Tra On, huddled together by the bank of the Mekong Delta. The children said quick prayers under their small breaths, that the light would eventually make its way to Nha Tra, and that she would be delighted enough to grant their wishes of toys, new clothing, luck, and prosperity. O goddess of the ocean tides, moonlight, and beauty, we said, please grant our wishes. Little fantastic dots of light afloat on the river, occasionally bumping into each other and permeating the night air with the scent of candle wax and hopeless innocence, hopeless because there were only rags for clothing the next day, hand-me-downs, rice with salt for food, and straw huts to return to. I am so glad I left before I could understand the immense destitution of my condition, an understanding that can only come with age and repetition, an understanding with which my parents were well acquainted.

When I was four years old, a U.S. government program known as the Humanitarian Operation (HO) made an offer to my father. The program’s purpose was to provide immigration services to former South Vietnamese soldiers that fought alongside the United States during the Vietnam War, and were captured as POWs by the North Vietnamese after the war ended in 1975. Persecuted for ten years as a POW, my father gladly accepted the offer to come to America, the Land of Opportunity. I will never forget the tears in his eyes when he told my mother. It seemed as though our lanterns had finally reached the moon goddess. Six months later, after all paperwork had been filed and documented, after all the goodbyes were said and all the tears were shed, promises of letter-writing, and eventual return, the six of us, my parents, my three older brothers, and I boarded a plane, excited and scared. On the plane ride, we dreamt only of streets paved with gold, mansions, Ford automobiles, education, a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, a better life.

It was the winter of 1994 when we arrived in New York City, a representative from HO bringing us to a little apartment in Ridgewood, Queens, and we called it home. No more sticks to live in; monsoons couldn’t hurt us here. We stayed up that whole night, shivering, because we possessed no warm clothing, still with only rice and salt for food. But we were strong, courageous, filled with a sense of liberation. We were finally here.

Mommy and Daddy got right to work, enrolling me and my three brothers in school; my father enrolled himself in a free English and basic data entry class, and my mother took care of household chores. Winter shrieked and howled all around us, unbearable for people of the equator and hot sun. We had never even seen snow, or felt its powdery cold. White, we called it, because we did not know what other name to give it. Indeed, what a beautiful white it was, a snow white, a powder white, white like the moon, white like innocence, white like hope. And yet, hope we quickly lost, as we instead felt a creeping sense of desperation. We could not learn the language quickly enough, our tongues unable to wrap around F, J, X, W, Z, Th like in thought, phonemes nonexistent in Vietnamese, R’s at the middle and end of words – we only begin our words with R’s.

Our resources were quickly dwindling. Unfortunately for us, the Vietnamese community here in New York City was sparse and unwelcoming. School was worse for the children. Unfit for big slanted eyes, flat nose, high cheekbones, black teeth, frail emaciated bodies, weird names like Thinh, Phu, Long, or Ly. Childhood was cruel. Eventually, my parents found a Vietnamese friend who helped us find a temporary job to tide us over while my father worked hard to learn English and obtain his degree in data entry. The job was simple. We borrowed money to purchase a sewing machine, and had materials delivered to our homes. We would assemble the materials and make neckties, bowties, hair ties, cummerbunds, brooches, and flight attendant scarves. The nights were long and cold, as we each found ourselves having to work hard to prevent homelessness. We children did not dare mention homework. Any homework assigned I endeavored to do as quickly as possible within the classroom. With twenty four ties and twelve cummerbunds earning us a single dollar, our dreams were shattered as education was secondary to survival and we were faced with challenges of a lifetime. I was only four years old then, and for the next nine years of my life, I would spend all my time outside of school working with my family to make ends meet. We didn’t know it then, but it was child labor and sweatshop labor at its finest. And for this, we were grateful.