do you know the way to san josé?

When does memory begin?

What memory is it that I seek?

And where, on the thin border between

history and memory, can I re

member myself?

Memory begins with Ba Má, their images like photographs, their story like a movie, the kind found in the black box of a VHS tape, in an era when I have long ago gotten rid of my VCR.

All our parents should have movies made of their lives. Or at least my parents should. Their epic journey deserves star treatment, even if only in an independent, low-budget film. Beautiful Joan Chen in her prime would play my mother; the young heartthrob Russell Wong, my father.

So what if neither actor is Vietnamese?

We’re all Asians here.

Joan Chen did play a Vietnamese mother in the big-budget Heaven and Earth, Oliver Stone’s biopic about Le Ly Hayslip, a Vietnamese peasant girl caught in the whirlwind of a terrible war. Sexy Russell, with his chiseled cheeks and pouty lips, could have been a movie star if Holly­wood ever cast Asian American men as romantic leads. His slicked-back hair reminds me of my father’s in a black-and-white headshot from the 1950s, his hair agleam. I, whose unending obsession with the styling and maintenance of my hair begins at sixteen, should have asked Ba, when he could still remember, what hair product he used. I could try to fix my own hair in that same fashion, the way I tried on my mother’s gray sweatshirt after she died and discovered that I could fit inside its void.

In this movie flickering in my mind’s musty theater, the songs are composed by the legend Trịnh Công Sơn and sung by his equally legendary muse with the smoky voice, Khánh Ly. Their collaborations constitute the soundtrack of nostalgia and loss for Vietnamese exiles and refugees, played on cassette tapes at forty-five minutes a side, filtered through a haze of cigarette smoke and accompanied by Hennessy VSOP cognac. Wong Kar-wai directs in his typically moody, seductive way. The lighting? Dim. The mood? Romantic. The color scheme? Faded Polaroid.

And the actor who plays me? A cute little boy with big black eyes.

After the movie comes and goes,

he is never heard from again.

No one remembers his name.

Perhaps Wong Kar-wai and his cinematographer Christopher Doyle could cast their cinematic spell on our house by the freeway in San José, stained a dark brown perhaps meant to evoke tree bark, built from wood and shingle, stucco and silence, memory and forgetting.

Imagine the realtor’s shock when my parents, refugees not fluent in English, paid in full with cash.

For most refugees and immigrants, life is rented rooms or rented homes, overcrowded apartments or overstuffed houses, extended families and necessary tenants. Cluttered rooms. Bare lives.1 This is how Fae Myenne Ng describes immigrant living in her novel Bone. Her setting is an unexotic Chinatown, but at least it’s in coastal San Francisco. Who has ever written about provincial San José, an hour’s drive away, or shined the light of cinema on it? At least Dionne Warwick celebrated the city with a song: “Do You Know the Way to San José?”

Of course it’s not as good as the songs about San Francisco.

Our street didn’t even possess a name, like the Mango Street of Sandra Cisneros. Just a direction and a number, South Tenth, black iron bars on the windows. Our countrymen from the old world must have installed those bars, since they could not be opened from inside, trapping us in the event of fire. I blame our countrymen, always taking the shortcut. When some of them pour a cement patio for us, they forget to smooth it, leaving a surface with the texture of the moon.

With a classic San José flourish, the people who buy the house from us later pave the lawn for more parking. My mother used to recline on that lawn, posing to have her picture taken by my father. Our American photos are almost always in color, unlike most of our Vietnamese photos, where a glamorous haze illuminates my parents. My mother, on a grassy slope by a church, is resplendent in one of her many áo dài. My father, slim as one of today’s Korean pop stars, leans with his hip against his Toyota sedan.

His sunglasses have disappeared, dust blown away in all the lost detritus of our past. I could wear them now, be just as fashionable on Sunset Boulevard as he was with his automobile.

Most people owned only motorbikes, if they had even that much. Even today in the place where I come from, more people drive motorbikes than cars. As one joke puts it:

What do you call a Vietnamese minivan?

A motorbike.

In a black-and-white Nick Ut photograph on my living

room wall—not the one of Phan Thị Kim Phúc,

burned by napalm, running and screaming—

a man drives a motorbike, fleeing a battle,

two boys in front of him, wife behind

clutching another boy, two more

boys behind her, staring at

Nick Ut’s camera.

In a flickering single frame of memory, a family employee drives me to preschool on a motorbike. You stood in front of him on his Vespa 50, my father told me a few years ago. I wish I had a photograph of me with the wind in my hair, a perfect shot for Wong Kar-wai to capture as we zoom past sun-browned men pedaling their xích-lô or driving three-wheeled Lambretta taxis. Seat belt? Car seat? Helmets? Ha! This was Việt Nam!

If I were to ask Ba now if he remembered this

memory, I’m afraid he would say

no. So I stay silent.

Ba is the family documentarian. His camera recorded our first house in a middle-class suburb of Harrisburg, where we lived for our first three years in the United States, but he did not memorialize our second house on a busy two-lane road in the middle of the city: redbrick with renters upstairs, white parents whose little girl plays with me on the couch the previous owner abandoned in the yard. My brother and I share a room, him listening to seventies hits like “Hotel California,” which Vietnamese males of his generation were required to memorize. I call the kitchen the “chicken,” making my father laugh during that brief interval when his English was better than mine.

South Tenth was the third house, another step toward the blinking red neon sign of the AMERICAN DREAMTM beckoning us forward across the dark plains of this republic. My parents crossed those plains by jet after hearing about San José, California, from their good friend Bác Quý, who had fled with my mother from our hometown. Warmer weather, better opportunities, many more of our countrymen. So, in 1978, we moved.

Thank God.

Just kidding, Harrisburg.

I don’t even believe in God.

No, I really am just kidding, Harrisburg. I was happy with

you—state capital of Pennsylvania!—but a seven-year-old,

so long as someone loves him, can be happy anywhere,

even if it is only fifteen miles from Three Mile Island,

site of the worst nuclear disaster in the United States,

the meltdown occurring a year after we left.

And so what if San José has a song and you don’t, Harrisburg?

No one needs directions to San Francisco.

Dionne Warwick herself admitted, It’s a dumb song2 and I didn’t want to sing it. Still, her song won a Grammy, sold millions, was a global top ten hit in 1968. While people sang along to their home hi-fis or in the comfort of wood-paneled station wagons, American soldiers commanded by a Mexican American captain murdered 504 Vietnamese civilians in Mỹ Lai, three years before my birth.

My country continues killing innocents.

On the day I first revise these words, the

“Pentagon Admits to

Civilian Casualties3

in Somalia for Third Time.”

The victim is Nurto Kusow Omar Abukar, dead

five months earlier in the town of Jilib, in a strike

targeting members of the Shabab,4 an

extremist group linked to Al Qaeda.

Nurto Kusow Omar Abukar, eighteen-year-old

girl, initially reported as a

terrorist5

by AFRICOM, killed by a GBU-69/B small glide

munition manufactured by Dynetics, which

provides responsive, cost-effective

engineering,6 scientific and IT solutions to the

national security, cybersecurity, space, and

critical infrastructure security sectors.

My brother says he knew one of the children, a

former classmate.

Years later I visit Sơn My, as the Vietnamese call the

village of the massacre. Cement pathways wind

through the village, marked with trails of footprints

symbolizing the absent dead, the living ghosts. I am

careful not to walk in their footprints.

A decade after Dionne Warwick’s song climbs the charts, I arrive in San José, watch a public service announcement about the city accompanied by her song, and think, This is so not cool, even if I myself was definitely so not cool.

Those who find their way to San José may drive through East Santa Clara Street, the digestive tract running through the city’s potbelly of a downtown. On a small, shady appendix of a side street, Bác Quý has opened the first Vietnamese grocery store, Bác Quý who never marries, who never has children, and who bestows on me hundred-dollar bills for Tết. Má helps her for several months while Ba works on an assembly line. Then Ba Má open the city’s second Vietnamese grocery store . . . two blocks away.

That must be the definition of friendly competition.

Located on East Santa Clara Street, the store is the belly button of the city’s potbelly. My parents call it the SàiGòn Mới, fusing the westernized “Saigon” and the original “Sài Gòn.” Not translating SàiGòn Mới must be an assertion that we are here because you were there. Not translating might even be a sign of defiance, but I do not understand this yet. I simply accept that this store is for us, for people who need no translation, yet who must exist only in translation every time they meet the Americans surrounding them.

When my brother graduates as valedictorian of San José High, the San José Mercury of 1982 profiles him and describes Ba Má’s SàiGòn Mới as a

miniature department store7 overflowing with

bolts of silk and Vietnamese books in

addition to Indochinese groceries

and American junk food.

A miniature department store!

Why did I never imagine this humble

enterprise of my parents in this manner?

Creaking accordion gates protect the storefront, protesting every time they are opened and closed. Long tongues of sticky yellow paper dangle from the ceiling, studded with dead flies. White rice in fifty-pound sacks is stacked to the rafters. In the back, a butcher hacks at fish and meat while I stamp prices in purple ink on cans of grass jelly and lychees in syrup. Soy sauce, oyster sauce, nước mắm, and mắm ruốc in a sickly shade of purple. Coco Rico coconut soda in green cans. A machine for grinding coffee, whose aroma mixes with the rice. JVC stereos with cassette players in boxes behind the counter, which my parents send home to our relatives, who sell them for cash.

Why do they need cash?

And why can we not just

send cash if they need it?

My life with Ba Má

defined by questions

I never ask.

Under the glass counter are Chinese martial arts paperback novels, translated into Vietnamese, which my brother can read but I can’t (and never will). I am eight. I can (and do) eat all the Chinese doughnuts and fried sesame seed balls I want, as well as Danish butter cookies in blue tins and sugary ladyfingers and chocolate-covered cherries that pop and ooze in my mouth.

I have not tasted any of them again since the

days of the SàiGòn Mới. What would

happen if I ate a chocolate-covered

cherry now? Would I remember

all I have forgotten or

tried to forget?

I have everything I need but almost nothing I want. I don’t want Catholicism, but my parents enroll me in Saint Patrick School a few blocks south, a Vietnamese boy wearing Irish-green corduroys and an Irish-green cardigan with a shamrock on its pocket.

I have never worn corduroy or Irish green since.

Every morning, after the Pledge of Allegiance, we recite a Hail Mary and the Lord’s Prayer. I know the Lord’s Prayer by heart and never imagine I can forget it, though as I try to recite it now, I realize I can get only so far as

forgive us our trespasses as we

forgive those who trespass against us.

I have forgotten the second half.

In another Polaroid of memory, I receive First Communion in Harrisburg. All children look cute receiving this sacrament, the little boys with clip-on ties, the little girls in white frocks. I must have been pretty adorable, walking solemnly down the aisle, cupped hands extended to the priest for the sacred Styrofoam, eager to wash down that morsel of Christ’s Body with my first sip of Christ’s syrupy Blood.

The red wine

fails to seduce.

I turn out an atheist.

Don’t tell my father, who

gifts me a bottle of monk-made

sacramental wine every Christmas.

Ba’s Catholic name is Joseph, same as mine. My mother’s, Maria. Like many other immigrants and refugees before them, Ba Má become human sacrifices, throwing themselves onto barbed wire so I can walk across their backs into this strange new world. They work relentlessly, almost every waking hour, almost every day of the year except for Easter, Tết, and Christmas.

Every day their own

station of the cross.

One way I know, now, that they loved my brother and me is that they only occasionally made us work at the SàiGòn Mới. This is why, one Christmas Eve circa 1980, when I am nine, my parents are at the SàiGòn Mới while my brother and I stay home.

At the SàiGòn Mới, Ba would be dressed in shirt and slacks; Má, in blouse and slacks or knee-length skirt, perhaps with a matching jacket. In the world outside our home, they are always neat, presentable, semiformal, with no trace of their rural origins. Superheroes in disguise as parents, they are saving us, not with the Hollywood derring-do of helicopters and fast cars and supposedly witty repartee, but from a secret headquarters disguised as the SàiGòn Mới.

Soon they will come home, to a kitchen with a dishwasher they never use and a dining room with a linoleum floor and a chandelier with six glass shades for lights, one of which I break on the first night we move into the house because I am so excited I run around the house screaming and bump into the low-slung fixture. My brother sweeps up the broken glass, and my exasperated father berates me. Tonight my brother and I wait for my parents in a house that had been perfect and new until I broke that shade. I am watching television.

Through the windows of my sandcastle of memory,

I can hear the ocean of amnesia, perpetual, invincible.

When Ba Má come home, exhausted but perhaps pleased that they are, once again, their own bosses, they will prepare dinner for their waiting children. In later years, my father describes my otherwise dutiful brother as a picky eater, in contrast to me, who eats everything my parents make. Perhaps being a picky eater is my otherwise responsible elder brother’s way of resisting his obligations. Perhaps I intuit that to prepare a meal is to show love without ever saying I love you.

If they return home in the blue cargo van that Ba uses to fetch goods for the SàiGòn Mới and that he parks in the driveway, they will enter through the front door. If they return in the white Ford sedan with its burgundy top and trim, they park in the garage and enter through the garage door. They take off their shoes at the door and change into their casual clothes, a white T-shirt and shorts for Ba, a nightgown for Má. Too tired to care what they look like, too pressed to have the time to shop for tracksuits or sweatpants or whatever else American working parents are supposed to wear at home. Their sons are the only eyewitnesses to their vulnerability, to their flesh, to their occasional short tempers.

Ba Má will share the kitchen with its Formica countertop and fluorescent lights. Ba is unusual for a Vietnamese man, doing half the housework and cooking, as well as the mending, sewing, and alterations, having once been a tailor. He makes the curtains and hems my jeans, while Má irons creases into them. My classmates tease me for being so fresh off the boat as to wear creased jeans.

Ba deserves credit for doing much more than most Vietnamese men while also declining their vices—smoking, billiards, alcohol, mistresses, whiling away time with male buddies in homosocial cafés where the patrons suck on both cigarettes and nostalgia. But Má deserves even more credit just for doing what is expected of her as a Vietnamese woman, the triple shift of working outside the home, doing the chores, and bearing the children.

Má is not a great cook, but it is not for lack of talent, just lack of time. In her retirement, she masters a few elaborate dishes, like the jumbo shrimp in garlic sauce that appears every time I visit for dinner. But at the end of 1980, her repertoire, and my father’s, is simple. The meal they would have made that Christmas Eve would have had three courses, as always: a vegetable side, like stir-fried rau muống or sliced cucumbers in a vinaigrette; a simple soup, most likely canh cà chua, the tomatoes blistered by the hot broth, flavored by a handful of tiny dried shrimp; and a meat dish, oftentimes the boiled organ meat of cows and chickens, served with a weak dipping sauce of nước mắm, diluted by water, or salt and pepper floating in a puddle of lemon juice.

I chew and chew without protest, perhaps because I know no better, but I probably do. I can see the meat loaf and roast beef and casseroles that white people eat on TV. I chew and chew because I love my parents and know no other way to repay them than to eat what they cook and to attempt to be what they say I must be at nearly every meal: good, obedient, respectful. I interpret these commands to mean: Do as I am told. Be quiet. Ask no questions.

When Ba Má have the time, they will fry a half dozen or more pork chops in caramelized soy sauce and sugar, my favorite. My father makes sure I eat two or three or four, more than he takes for himself. The centerpiece of the meal and table is the squat, capacious National one-button rice cooker that does only one thing, make white rice, unlike the fancy Zojirushi I own now that also makes sushi rice and porridge. The cute Zojirushi with its smart chip belongs in an anime cartoon and breaks down easily. The analog National endures like everything else Ba Má own. Like Ba Má themselves.

Perhaps, because it’s Christmas Eve, Ba Má will bring home a bottle of $3.99 Cook’s Champagne from the Lucky supermarket a couple of blocks from the SàiGòn Mới. The Champagne gives me a headache and makes me think for decades that I do not like Champagne. But Christmas Eve dinner never arrives. Instead of the pop of the Champagne bottle, the phone rings in the kitchen, and my brother leaves me where I am, watching cartoons in the living room. I am laughing when my brother reappears.

Ba Má have been shot, my brother says.

Perhaps I laugh the way my

nine-year-old son does now

when watching cartoons:

uproariously,

enraptured.

Ba Má have been shot, he says again.

I

What’s the matter with you?

stop

Why don’t you say anything?

laughing.

Don’t you feel anything?

Honestly, no.

Is numbness

a feeling?

Your brother, seven years older, is crying.

You keep your gaze fixed

on the television, saying

nothing, which you

will excel at.

You have no memory of how you sleep that night, or of how or when Ba Má return from the hospital the next day, but you know they soon go back to work. Mere flesh wounds cannot stop them, or so you think at the time. Ba Má are inevitable. Ba Má are immortal.

Easier to think of them in this way, or not to

think of them at all, than to imagine them lying

on their queen-sized bed on their return home,

nursing wounds, maybe even weeping, terrified

of the next day and night at the SàiGòn Mới.

Your family never speaks of this incident, just as you will never speak of so many things, just as you never cry for the stigmata you do not ask to see and Ba Má do not show, wounds awash in the red neon light of the movie of their lives that no one will make.

Too bad you become a writer instead of a filmmaker.

Now you live in Los Angeles. When you

tell people you’re a writer

no one cares.