This Is For My Mother

Brian Van

Dear Ma,

Throughout my college career, I have written for professors, teaching assistants and students.  I am now in my last year of college and I still haven’t written for the person who means most to me: you.  I must write to you because I want you to understand me and know my passion.  We always had a communication problem; your English sucked and my Vietnamese sucked.  We have trouble understanding each other, but I know that you suffered and sacrificed everything for me.  Your suffering caused me to both hate and love you.  As you can see, this letter will be in English, because English is the language in which I express myself best.  I know you won’t be able to read this, but just knowing that I wrote this letter makes me feel a little bit better.

First off, I’m not studying pre-med; I’m interested in Asian American studies.  This happened in summer 2009 when I, along with other U.C. students from all over the state, took a public policy internship in Sacramento.  I realized that many people, including the most educated in the world, did not understand our situation.  I had a miserable time and I have no interest in becoming a politician; but even though I did not find a possible career choice, I found a lifelong passion.

In the program, we had to take a public policy course in conjunction with our internship.  Towards the end of the program when we had to present our final papers, there were several students who claimed that Asian Americans were no longer oppressed.  Chris, a white guy studying economics at UCLA, said that Asians were least impacted by the economic crises in the U.S.  In his power point presentation, Chris flipped through slides with bar graphs and pie charts that showed Asian Americans having the highest household income and the most college degrees.  If those chicken-shits looked at specific Asian communities such as the Vietnamese community in the Tenderloin, the Chinese community in Chinatown, the Hmong community in Sacramento, the Southeast Asian community in Stockton, and many other Asian communities in America (rather than statistics in an air conditioned room) they would’ve found that many of us had been hurting long before the economy ever collapsed.

The “model minority” is a racial stereotype used to characterize Asian Americans and it says that we are good at school, passive, obedient, and successful.  The media loves manufacturing the model minority myth, and the myth created a split within minority activist groups in the 1960s and ethnic riots in the 1990s.  Pitting minorities against each other to prevent them from uniting is a strategy used by colonialist for centuries.  For example, in the sugar plantations in Hawaii during the 1800s, plantation owners worked hard to keep in place a hierarchical cast system between Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and Filipino laborers based on ethnicity so that they were too busy fighting each other to organize.  Tanya, a Black girl studying political science at UC Berkeley, had a very exclusive definition of minority in her presentation about drug related issues.  She said, “When I say minorities, I mean Black people and Mexicans only.”  In ethnic studies, we believe in pan-ethnic coalitions.  While we all experience racism in very different ways, we are all oppressed by the same system.

Growing up in a Vietnamese refugee immigrant family, I didn’t remember our situation being as simple as what the interns said.  I witnessed Asian addiction and poverty and believed that we should be included in discussions about drug and economic reform.  The fact that the students giving their presentations came from schools like UC Berkeley and UCLA, the top two public Universities in the world, meant that they were likely to be our future politicians and economists, and this scares the shit out of me.

When I said that Asian Americans were still oppressed, the public policy students thought of me as a joke, that I was some crazy socialist conspiracy theorist.  They either got angry and offended, or they thought I was trying to be cute.  I came into the program feeling proud of being accepted into such a prestigious internship, but left feeling ashamed when rejected by my peers.  I missed you that summer ma, you would have believed me.  This was when I realized that the model minority stereotype had undermined people’s perception of oppression and created underserved Asian American communities.  It has made people like you invisible.  If we do not put our issues out there, no one will.

I hit rock bottom that summer.  For two years, I had been studying statistics, biology, chemistry, economics and political science and empirical studies had a lot of validity to me.  When those interns scientifically disproved Asian American oppression, they disproved my reality.  I no longer knew who I was.  However, you are living proof that I am not crazy.

~~~~

You never told me what you did to feed and clothe me.  But I think I have enough information to know what you did.  I know that you worked in a massage parlor in the Tenderloin with other Vietnamese women.  I know that you worked at night and slept during the day.  You probably don’t know this, but I was afraid of the dark when I was five.  You were there to tuck me into bed, but you were never there to comfort me when I woke up in the middle of night.  When I woke up, the room was dark and empty.  I looked around the room and found myself all alone, I would cry while calling for you.  You never came, and I would cry myself back to sleep.  I did this almost every night.

~~~~

American involvement in the Vietnam War has turned many Vietnamese women into mama-sans, and this includes women who escaped Vietnam and came here.  Ma, you only have a primary education from Vietnam, so I do not want to confuse you with jargon, such as militarism, that educated elites at my university use.  To put it more simply, it’s like America is a man, other nations are women, and prostitution is a disease.  Just think of American militarism as a rapist who gives every woman he rapes a disease.  Vietnam is not the only country where the American military established mama-sans, but there are mama-sans everywhere the American military goes.  Today, there are mama-sans in Korea, there are mama-sans in the Philippines, and there are mama-sans in Japan (fun fact: the suffix- san originates from Japanese and it’s attached to a person’s name or title.  U.S. soldiers first used the term “mama-san” in Japan after WW2).  I had a professor who visited Okinawa and Olongapo where American G.I.’s were based.  He told me how he saw these nineteen year old soldiers walking around like they own the place (which they do), thinking they’re the shit because they’re getting laid for the first time.  I wouldn’t be surprised if there are mama-sans in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Iraq and Afghanistan are societies where women have to cover themselves from hair to ankle.  Yes, American militarism can still spread the disease even if they wear a condom.  In fact, that’s where yellow fever comes from, American imperialism where White guys see Asian women as a bunch of whores[1].

~~~~

Because you worked at night, you were never there during the day to take care of me because you needed sleep.  You were always fatigued, not only because your job was physically demanding, but it was emotionally demanding, and you were depressed.  Kids can feel depression too, and I know this because I felt it.  I responded to depression by eating; I was a fat kid.  When I was hungry, you were too exhausted to cook for me.  I was seven years old, old enough to know how to buy things, so you told me to take five dollars from your purse and get something from the liquor store to eat.  I never bought vegetables to chop up and eat; instead, I bought things like Cheetos, Doritos, Ruffles, Kit-Kat bars, Snicker bars, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Coke, Mountain Dew and Dr. Pepper.  Instead of eating regular cereal, I liked breaking Oreo Cookies into a bowl, then filling the bowl with milk, and that would be my cereal.  When eating Eggo Waffles, I would drench them with syrup, so much that I could feel the syrup making a goatee when I ate.  You always told me to eat a lot, it doesn’t matter what, just eat.  When you were actually awake to cook for me, I always told you to deep fry everything because things that are deep fried just naturally taste better.

My second grade teacher was concerned about how I would only bring a huge bag of chips and a bottle of soda for lunch.  She told me to pack a sandwich and juice instead.  I listened to her and prepared my lunch for the next day when I got home.  For my sandwich, I spread a generous amount of Miracle Whip on both sides, then I put half an inch worth of salami along with two slices of Kraft cheddar cheese.  For my juice, I brought Kool-Aid.  Every time I took a bite of my sandwich, Miracle Whip oozed out on the other side, and I would flip my sandwich each time to lick the Miracle Whip.  When I was done with the sandwich, I picked up the plastic food wrap I used to pack my sandwich to lick whatever Miracle Whip that was left on it.  The more depressed I felt, the more I stuffed my mouth.

I had no friends at school.  The other kids would call me names like fat-ass, tit-man and the yellow school bus.  When we played dodge ball, being fat made me slow and a bigger target, so I was always the last one to be picked.  When there were an odd number of players, I wouldn’t get to play at all because nobody wanted me.  I cried, and the other kids just laughed at the fatso.  One time, I got so mad that I took the ball, ran into the bathroom, and threw it into the toilet.  This incident got me suspended for a few days.  I told you that I was sick.

Being fat made me miserable; however, you were so happy to see me fat.  When we went to the temple together, you always prayed to Buddha that I will grow fat and healthy.  After you tucked me into bed every night, you prayed that I will continue to get fat.  You bragged about my fatness to your friends.  You said, “Look how much I love my son.”  One day, I decided to interrupt your praying and yell at you.  I believed in a higher being at that time, and I asked you why you would pray that I will be fat, pray that I will be ugly and lonely.  I asked, “What kind of mother are you?”  You were confused, and didn’t understand what I was so angry about.

Now I understand that you came from a different culture of a different generation.  In American culture, the word “fat” has a negative tone and negative connotations.  In Vietnamese, the word “fat” means healthy.  When talking to a parent, calling their child fat would mean something entirely different in English than in Vietnamese.  You came from a culture of people who had experienced starvation, food shortages, and famine, where making children fat was a privilege every parent wished to have.  During the Vietnamese Famine of 1945, up to two million people starved to death.  Seeing me fat was what kept you going, made you believe that sacrificing your body served some purpose.  I realize this now Ma.

~~~~

On days when you had your period, you got to stay home with me at night.  While I was glad that you were there to protect me, you annoyed me more.  You turned on the heater extremely high.  I couldn’t tell if you were actually cold, or if you were feeling nostalgic for your homeland’s heat.  But the thing that bothered me the most was how you were awake at night (I know that this wasn’t your fault because your job ruined your sleeping schedule).  While you were awake, I would hear you talk on the phone, listen to sad Vietnamese songs or, worst of all, scratch your pubes.  The sound of you scratching put a nasty image in my head that kept me from sleeping.  When I told you to stop scratching your vagina because it’s a dirty thing to do, you would tell me that you were scratching your stomach.  I knew you were lying because I could hear that crunching noise that would only be made if it were pubic hair that’s being scratched; skin alone did not make that noise.  That noise would echo in my head and remind me the kind of dirty work you did, which made me angry.

On one of your nights off, when I was eight years old, you were in a good mood and decided to do something nice for me.  You made goi cuon, a traditional Vietnamese food.  You set up grilled beef, rice vermicelli, vegetables, sauce, rice paper, and a tray of water on the table so that you can show me how you roll the goi cuon.  After you rolled one, you held it in front of me to eat.  I paused and looked at your fingers.  You said, “go ahead, eat it, Ma makes goi cuon very good.”  But I couldn’t stop staring at your fingers.  The sound of you scratching your vagina came into my head and made me disgusted.  You then proceeded to stick the goi cuon in my mouth, and immediately I spat the food out.  I yelled, “I don’t want it!  You scratch your pussy all the time, and now you got it all over the food!”  You slapped me in the face.  I got even angrier, so I slid my arm across the table, knocking the food you prepared for me all over the floor.  Then you pushed me against the wall and slapped me in the face multiple times until my cheeks were bright red and swollen.  You said, “I work like a slave for you, given you what I never had, and look how ungrateful you are to your ma” (you worked as a slave for me Ma).

You went to your bed, lied down and turned on your sad Vietnamese music.  I sat against the wall crying for a while.  Eventually I felt bad.  I gathered the food on the floor back into the plates and on the table.  I took some towels to clean the rug.  I didn’t do a very good job at cleaning, but I did my best.  The sauce stained and had a strong smell.  I pulled you out of your bed and said that I was sorry and asked if you can teach me how to roll goi cuon so I could make it for you.  You said, “Only if you cross your arms, kneel and tell me that you are sorry and that you love me.”  I did as you told and that night, you and me, mother and son, had a family dinner.

~~~~

When Amy was born, I was nine years old.  I wanted to give her the emotional support I didn’t have.  Amy had a problem with wetting her pants until the third grade.  Kids always made fun of her for it.  On her first day of second grade, I was still on summer vacation before my first year of college.  Her school called home and said that they needed someone to bring her some fresh clothes because she just peed in her pants.  When I got to the school’s office, she was wearing the new white dress that I bought for her first day of school.  The dress looked adorable on her, even after she urinated on it.  She was sitting on a stool sobbing with her head down and shoulders clenched.  The receptionist pointed to a room where I could change her clothes.  I took off her dress, wiped her with a wet towel, and put on her some new clothes.  Amy looked at me and said, “Now I won’t have any friends again.”  I did what you would have, but couldn’t do for me.  I hugged and kissed her on the forehead.

~~~~

Ma, our experience as Asians in America is much more complex than what those public policy interns think.  When I tell my peers about my summer internship experience, I tell them, “I am not mad at the other interns; I do recognize that Asian Americans make up forty percent of the University of California.  There are that many of us here, yet we are unable to put our issues on the table.  We have no one to blame but ourselves.”  Seventy percent of me believe this is true; the rest just wants to slap all of those summer internship kids.  I’m nice mostly because I’m trying to recruit people to my side.  When scholars attend UC Berkeley, they attend a university where ethnic studies was invented, they attend a university where forty fucking percent is Asian American, yet they never took the time to know us better.  How dare those so-called “progressive college students” at the internship simplify your, along with every other women in your situation’s, experience?  This letter to you is a fuck you letter to everyone else.

You call me every night to tell me you miss me.  Before, you escaped Saigon, Vietnam.  Now, you want to escape Little Saigon, San Francisco.  You tell me that you can’t wait till I graduate so that I can buy a house somewhere quiet for you and me to live in.  In America, it is a taboo for adults to live with their parents, but I will do it for you.  When I go back to the city on holidays, you and I don’t talk much.  My ability to speak Vietnamese has diminished and I spend most of the time at home with you in front of my laptop watching Hulu and YouTube.  While using my laptop, you would occasionally stand next to me and put your hand on my shoulder.  Usually I found that distracting and shrugged your hand away, but now I will hold your hand on my shoulder.  Your sacrifice has caused me to feel depressed, but it has also made me realize my self-worth.  You sacrificed everything, including your body and soul, for me.  The summer internship made me realize that it requires more than just curing physical ailments to help our communities.  We must also cure our soul.

You can’t read this letter, so you can’t fully understand my passion for social justice.  But writing to you makes me feel better because it reminds me why I study what I study.  I study for you.

Love,

Your son