Journey to America

In beginning Jasmine, by Bharati Mukherjee, her immigration to America made me reflect on my father's similar journey. My father is Vietnamese, born in Nha Trang, Vietnam, and he lived in Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City to foreigners) during the Vietnam War. When he was seven, during the middle of the night, his mother awoke him and his three brothers and sisters and boarded an American helicopter, leaving his father behind. My father describes the journey as never-ending. He says it was almost as if he forgot he had a destination, he just kept going somewhere. There were helicopters, trains, boats, more planes. He remembers spending several nights on an island with the scores of other immigrants. He remembers running around on the sand, sleeping in tents, and smoking cigarettes with his peers. He thinks it was somewhere in Hawaii.

Upon his arrival in America, he and his family were placed with an American foster family, somewhere in the Midwest. The family was just in it for the money, though. They had no intention of nurturing or loving on my father's family. In the morning for breakfast, the American children would get milk with their cereal, my father and aunts and uncles would receive water. The American shouted at my family in harsh tones, speaking louder and enunciating in a way that was not to make them understand, but to degrade them. I imagine they would say insensitive, digging comments. I imagine they would be like Half-Face, mocking them and saying things like, "I been to Asia, and it's the armpit of the universe" (116).

Luckily my father and his family were soon transferred into a far more competent and loving family. They gave my father his first impressions of America, which he remembers vividly. I grew up in America. I never knew anything other than wide paved streets and grocery stores the size of small villages. Jasmine says, 'I wonder if Bud even sees the America I do.  We pass half-built, half-deserted cinder-block structures at the edge of town, with mud-splattered deserted cars parked in an uncleared lot, and I wonder, Who's inside? What are they doing? Who's hiding? Empty swimming pools and plywood panels in the window frames grip my guts. And Bud frowns because unproductive projects give him pain.' (109). I feel that is the difference between my father and I. I will never even begin to understand what our country must have looked like to someone who lived ridiculously below the poverty line in a war zone all their life. Even though I have gone back and visited Vietnam and seen the differences between the two, there is a level of awe and wonder that I never possessed. I imagine his reaction to be similar to that of Jasmine when she discovers the shower. "I had never used a Western shower, standing instead of squatting, with automatic hot water coming hard from a nozzle instead of cool water from a hand-dipped pitcher. It seemed like a miracle, that even here in a place that looked deserted, a place like a madhouse or a prison, where the most hideous crimes took place, the waters should be hot, the tiles and porcelain should be clean, without smells, without bugs." (117). We have an old photo of my dad as a young child in Vietnam. He is sitting in an aluminum bucket, and his mother is pouring a bowl of water over his head. The Vietnamese shower.

My father talks about his discovery of Ponderosa. For those who do not know, Ponderosa is a hole-in-the-wall midwestern steak joint. Most people I know would never dare step foot into a Ponderosa for fear of germs and despicably low-grade meat. My dad's dream as a child was to be able to afford eating at Ponderosa. Although I am beyond thankful for my blessings and fortunate lifestyle, I do feel a sadness at the fact that I will never even begin to appreciate it for what it is worth, or feel awe for what God has given me like my father does.