Memories

I remember fleeting images playing on the edge of my unconsciousness--the unlifting darkness, the damp cold tinged with the sticky, salty sea air, the sour smell of vomit, the sound of moans and groans. I was drugged when my parents took me out of Viet Nam on the night of our immigration by boat. We were to sail to an island we referred to as "Galang" and wait for our immigration papers to arrive before we could safely take a plane from the Singapore airport to complete our journey to America, where my maternal grandparents waited.

The entire journey took over two years. I could just imagine how terrified my parents were every step of the way, never knowing whether everything would work out according to plan, whether all three of us would end up alive, and together. As soon as we got on the boat to begin our sea voyage, the women and children were smuggled under deck. A lot of us got seasick in the belly on that ship--some, like my mother, had never braved the open seas.

She had told me stories of the immigration, how she sewed gold and jewels into the lining of her shirts to keep them safe, how, on occasions when she had to part ways with my dad, there was the fear of never being reunited, how she had to barter back her wedding band when they stripped everyone of jewels during one of the "routine" security checkpoints. In America, where I'd grow up to sneak out of the house, play hooky from school, and meet boys in secret, I would still never experience an adventure remotely close to what she put herself through to ensure my freedom and liberty.

My parents had to leave practically all of their possession in Viet Nam, so I only have a handful of black-and-white photos of our past. Now I am a photo nut, taking pictures of routine outings from some subconscious desperacy to preserve the moments, knowing that so much of the early years are forever gone.

There is one picture that I took with my parents. They sat me on the ledge of a dragon-shaped boat and stood on either side of me. I don't remember where this was taken, or when. Apparently, bell-bottoms were in.

In another photo, I was standing among red flowers in the night, holding a pink balloon on a stick. I was wearing overalls in both pictures--my mother must have thought those were cute. She said she always bought the latest fashions for me.

Selective memories flash through my head like glimpses of windows on a speeding train. I can recall textures, sounds, colors, smells. That we had stairs in our house because I'd use the banisters to pull myself up when our family dog would tug at the hem of my clothes and implore me to play some more with him. That on hot days, my nanny would fan me to sleep as I irritably rolled from one side to the other, searching for a cool spot on the two enormous body pillows that flanked me. That we had tiles in our house, not carpet, and I'd move from one tile to another and let the coolness seep through my bare feet. That my nanny would feed me a breakfast of noodles before leading me by the hand to see my parents in their general store, and that I'd demand for her to roll the noodles around the chopsticks before I'd eat them. My indulgent mother, chasing me through the streets while trying to get me to take another bite of my dinner of rice and bananas (the only thing I'd eat). The fishing nets for sale at my parents' store, different colors and sizes. The taste of a lychee, half-peeled for me to slurp up its cool, sweet juiciness. The leathery, moist skin of a freshly-washed rambutan. I have no pictures to aid recollection, just the memories themselves, stories from my parents, and the power of my imagination to make those stories come alive.

Some family or friends had said that our old house was confiscated by the government after we left and was converted into a travel agency. I don't know if it's still that, or if it underwent a second reconstruction since then. I wonder what I'd find when I once again pace the streets of my childhood, whether I'd be walking the same streets of Saigon or completely different ones. I wonder what new memories I would make, what new photos I would preserve for future generations.