[...]
I sat on a platform up on the hill, surrounded by trees in their spring blossom, looking over the pond at Bennington College, listening to the gentle voice of Arturo Vivante blending with the morning air as he lectured on Tolstoy's great novel, War and Peace.
I felt like one of the characters in Tolstoy's story - in a different place, and a different time-victimized by the same destruction of life. Birds flitted round a hollow in one of the trees. I heard the little ones calling to their parents for nourishment. Now and then, the mother and father flew in and out of the nest with some worms dangling from their mouths. Beneath the tree, squirrels scampered about, chattering to each other, some searching for a companion. They ran and stopped, lifting their heads as if they were listening to the sounds of spring. Across the platform stood the red admissions building - people called it the Barn. At the window, the bees danced on the flowers, making the petals quiver; the dusty pollen flew lightly in the air.
From the bushes, a family of ducks marched like a small squadron toward the pond, the father and mother ahead, their chicks following behind. When they reached the water, they swam slowly to a large pool among the reed bushes where they flapped their wings and splashed each other playfully, happy in their freedom.
Through the golden rays of sun, I noticed gossamer drifting out of nowhere into empty spaces. From the other side of the campus I could hear the noise of the lawn mower running, now loudly, and now quietly, the smell of freshly cut grass filling the air with fragrances of change - maybe the warmth, maybe the passion of spring fever beckoned me; maybe the sun shone exceedingly bright; maybe the hope for change, like life, was ignited again. All of a sudden, a light blue butterfly wandered in front of me, twittered around my book, and then flew towards the sky into the sun's warmth.
I left my mother, my family. I had a family-a father, mother, brothers, and sisters. We had such a happy family even though there was pain, we had each other and we shared the bitterness of life. Now, each of us had taken a different path. Nine of us were refugees scattered around the U.S. trying to make a living and holding on to our lives. We left our parents and two older brothers behind in Vietnam. I tried to sponsor them after I came to the U.S. but I could not beat the odds, the bureaucracy, the government, especially when I did not have money and power. What have we done or completed? Were we just a bunch of people who betrayed our parents, especially our mother? Am I the one who left in the middle of the game? Am I the one who gave up?
I received a letter from my mother. She wrote: "Your uncle and my two sisters have just died all at the same time and I attended the funeral. Everyone my age is gone now. My eves are blurry, and I don't know when I'll become blind. After the war, I'm left with only eleven children. I count on my fingers to make sure how many of you are left - but where are you? What has happened to you? I wish I could see you before I die. In spite of my blindness, I could touch you and listen to your voice..."
There was something stuck inside my throat, something pressing heavily upon my chest - maybe because I hadn't had a chance to cry. I kept thinking of my mother. She never went to work - she stayed home and took care of the family, but the household job seemed to last a whole day. Every night, I heard her footsteps, the flip-flopping of her sandals, walking into our room, listening to our breathing or restlessness. If my sister or brother tossed and turned she would light the candle and go into our net to search for mosquitoes until she assured herself that we were comfortable enough to sleep. Sometimes she just sat at the side of our bed and rubbed our backs or fanned us on a humid night. After we were asleep, she checked us all again and again. When I was sick, she brought me food and medicine. She held us when we cried or called out after a nightmare or a spanking from my father.
If the battle outside drew near, she would hide us in a corner of the house while my father and older brothers rushed to gather provisions, ready to evacuate. Often, my mother walked over and stood near the windows, peering through the city's darkness, listening to the shells drop here and there upon the city. With every shell explosion her heart went out to her children, wondering if they were safe, if the army had been attacked; then she sighed and stepped away from the window, wishing her children, were still young and happy the way we were before the war. I heard my father sneezing and calling to my mother, asking for coffee. Then they comforted each other, telling themselves not to worry-"Who knows about life?' Their voices became softer and softer.
It was my old house, our family house - where we had grown up, bathed in the warmth of family love, listening to my mother's voice. The divan was there where mother used to sit. All those lively scenes from yesterday come back vividly.
Mama, what am I to say now? Perhaps the only pain we have is that pain of distance from family, far away from our homeland- the pain of your son who is still alive after that long war. The roughness of her skin, dry with wrinkles showed the hardship she had to suffer, as she paid the duty of a daughter-in-law, the duty of a wife, and the duty of a mother. How can I describe that life in words?
[JADE NGOC QUANG HUYNH, South Wind Changing, Saint Paul 1994, pp.303-305] |