The sun in Orange County was not nearly as brutal as Vietnam’s, but that didn’t keep Americans from complaining. Tâm was working on a farm not far from Westminster, California, a city in which thousands of Vietnamese refugees were settling. The farm was owned by a Japanese family whose grandparents had crossed the Pacific at the turn of the century. She appreciated the irony of working for one of Vietnam’s fiercest enemies. Her father, who had suffered at their hands during World War II, would have been horrified. But in the United States former enemies shed their animosity. They were all Americans now, each with the goal to become rich and prosperous.
The hottest months of the American summer were about the same temperature as the coolest months in Vietnam. The farm grew strawberries, beans, broccoli, flowers, and other crops with which Tâm was familiar. The biggest problem was irrigation. With a desert climate, rain was intermittent and undependable, but farmers had huge motorized water-dispensing machines that advanced across an entire field. Tâm had heard of such machines but never seen one, and it made her realize how advanced American farming was. With the exception of Da Lat, and some spots in the North, Vietnam still struggled with its farmland, either waterlogged or contaminated from Agent Orange. Was this was the benefit of capitalism? The ability to control the elements? All for a steep price, of course.
The Japanese owners were actually third-generation Americans and paid her more than the so-called minimum wage, the lowest amount, according to the government, that employers were required to pay workers. It was ten times her wages in Vietnam. Then again, everything here cost ten times more. It took time for Tâm to adjust to the scale. Everything was bigger and bolder.
Tâm rented a room in Westminster, which was already being called “Little Saigon” due to the crowds of South Vietnamese living nearby and re-creating what they missed most from home. She wasn’t sure it was a good idea for her to spend time in Little Saigon, so she kept to herself, with one exception. She signed up for a class in English.
It was in that class, held at the Westminster Catholic Church, that the teacher, a young, earnest university student, told them about educational opportunities.
“There are state universities all around us, depending on what you choose to study. There is also a two-year college, if your English needs improvement.” He reeled off half a dozen schools by name. “And you should know that California residents are treated preferentially, that is, before students from other states.”
Tâm found it hard to believe. There was so much more of everything in America. So many choices. Even in education. She decided her goals for the next year would be to buy a motorbike so she would not be dependent on others for rides, and to apply to night school at the closest two-year college. She registered for a library card and quizzed herself on her English skills by checking out children’s books with pictures and simple words.
In the fall of 1976, almost a year after she’d arrived in Southern California, she was invited to spend a day at Disneyland by the owners of the farm. It was an annual event for farmhands and their families, a thank-you for their hard work. Tâm had watched Disney movies at her Catholic school when she was very young, and she recalled Mickey Mouse in vivid detail. But she had no idea what to expect.
They “carpooled”—an American term she’d learned—to the nearby park and were given tickets to see whatever they wanted. Even before they entered, Tâm was stunned by the image of Mickey Mouse’s face in flowers on a gentle rise near the front gate. Apparently, the flowers that formed his face changed depending on the season. Today violas for the black and alyssums for the white made a dramatic rendering. She smiled in amusement. Only in America would thousands of flowers be used to create a cartoon figure. She felt as if she’d been transported into an alternate universe.
That feeling continued as three-dimensional Snow Whites, Donald Ducks, and human-sized stuffed animals shook her hand; rocket carousels promised rides into the future; pirate ships took her back to the past; a monorail glided around the park; puppets danced. The tune of a song, “It’s a Small World After All,” wouldn’t leave her head. Two years earlier she would have denounced the attraction as an example of capitalist excess. Indeed, it was exactly that, but watching children and adults enjoying themselves made her rethink her rigidity. The Americans had an expression one of the farmhands had taught her: “Live and let live.” She could live with that.
That evening the farmhands, two of whom were Vietnamese in addition to Tâm, decided to go to a newly opened Vietnamese restaurant in Little Saigon. Tâm didn’t have the chance to bow out; she was in someone else’s car. Although she’d worked in a restaurant for years, she had rarely been a customer. The scents of ginger and coriander mingling with lemongrass and mint hit her as they pushed through the door. She was content to lose herself in the aromas of the past, the aromas of home. She ordered curry and vegetable rolls. She was waiting for her meal to arrive when a woman came over from another table and motioned to Tâm.
“You are Nguyễn Trang Tâm from the Mekong Delta, yes?”
Tâm stared. The girl looked familiar, but Tâm couldn’t place her. A wave of fear washed over her. Friend or foe?
“My name is Hue Lanh. We were in Catholic school together. You were a year ahead of me.”
Friend. Tâm let out a relieved breath. “I remember.” She was safe. She tried to be affable. “When did you get here?”
“I was in what the Americans call the first wave. My brother was an officer in the army. I work in a shop down the street. You?”
“I came about a year ago. I work on a farm a few kilo—miles out of town.”
“You have a sister, Mai, right?”
“Yes, but we have lost touch.”
“Really? I may be able to help. In Guam, I ran into a friend we both knew. Mai was sent to a refugee camp in Pennsylvania. She wanted to settle in Chicago.”
“Chicago?” Tâm was surprised.
Hue Lanh nodded. “She has a son. He is half-American.”
Tâm jerked her neck back. “What? How do you know?”
“I don’t recall.” Hue Lanh smiled. “What about you? Will you go there and reunite with her?”
“I don’t know. I am studying to be an agricultural engineer. It is a rigorous course.” She shaded the truth just a bit.
“How interesting,” Hue Lanh said in a voice that clearly meant the opposite. “You always were the smart one. I am so glad you made it out. The reports coming out of Vietnam are dreadful.”
“That’s what I hear,” Tâm said. “It is very sad.”
“We are the lucky ones. Well, Tâm, it was wonderful to see you. I wish you well.”
“And to you.”
Tâm sat down, disturbed and distracted. Her appetite vanished. Mai was here in America. How had she managed to get to the States? And why Chicago? She’d heard the weather was unbearable, with snow as deep and high as the roofs of cars. She supposed it didn’t matter anyway; for her Chicago was as far away as Vietnam. She could not afford to visit. Nor she did know what sort of reception Mai would give her. Tâm had torn the fabric of the family into shreds; she doubted it could be repaired. She expected to be alone for the rest of her life.