Nguyen, Henry

Jaimien Delp
English 325

The stranger that gave me everything

His withdrawn eyes gave the impression that he was dead, his whole physique enveloped

by the bed, motionlessly and stagnantly merged with it, one of the few indications of life was the

pulsed breathing that came from his chest. Minutes passed without any sign of change in the

room, for it was dimmed, doors and windows closed to give him silence from the family farm,

and the only other furniture in the room was a short, stiff stool that I was sitting on. Although the

rest of his body seemed lifeless, his mouth still moved with the fervor of a heated political

debate, always commenting on what was floating through his head, whether it be about the state

of local politics, what he had for lunch that day, or anything else, really. “When your grandfather

was young, he was so smart, if you could even imagine that,” my grandma would always

chuckle, a rare glimpse of what life was like before they had kids.

And that’s how I spent my seventh grade summer, stuck in a silent solitude with my

grandpa, my Vietnamese shyly coming through in bits, fetching water at his request, and hastily

scribbling down every change that occurred, explaining the ‘diagnoses’ to my parents later.

We rarely consider how our lives are based on stupid, dumb luck. My dad was born in

Vietnam, second youngest out of eight kids. Arguably, all of their destinies were slated to be the

same, graduate from a rudimentary high school in rural Vietnam to work on the family farm and

continue that infinite loop, a safe, but easy life. My grandpa, taking matters into his own hands

changed this cyclical fate that our family was doomed to. Saving extra money for the boat trips,

working from the crack of dawn to the dim haze of sunset, and accepting the horrible fact that he

would have to give up his two youngest children, he put it all on the table. He gave up everything
he loved for the chance that his unborn grandchild-me, could have some ludicrous chance of

making something of himself in this world.

Twelve years. An eternity of time for my aunt and dad, finding a foothold in that

constantly toppling hierarchy of America, and my spry grandfather slaving away with manual

labor at the farm back home, aging his bones sooner than necessary, until they would see each

other again. The only stipulation of who got to embark to America was the two youngest would

go, they had the best chance of assimilating into the culture, young enough to have a full life

here, and yet old enough to still be able to cherish memories of what was home to them. Waking

up every day was a fresh reminder for my grandpa that his kids were off on their own, he

couldn’t help them for the first time, living 8000 hopeless miles away. ‘What if they can’t

understand english soon enough?’, ‘What if they won’t get jobs?’, “Will they make it?”. The

stories of a tireless, unfailing hero were recounted endlessly by my dad as I grew up, selfless in

his ideals, going beyond what was necessary to help others, and still mustering energy at the end

of his day for what he treasured most- his family. So hearing these grand tales of fortitude and

grit, my heart wretches within itself, twisting and contorting, leaving my heart raw and exposed.

I realize how vulnerable my grandpa must have felt, shouting somber prayers across the Pacific,

heard by no one except God, with the waves carrying his voice out as far as they could.

I lived two distinct lives, the ‘normal’ American childhood, and the unexplored

Vietnamese-American one. My daily nine to five, I spoke English throughout the school day,

shared in the inedible mush that is the classic American hot lunch, and shouldered on through

grueling sports practices, the cries of “Good eye!” from my teammates, and “You’re okay, rub

some dirt on it!” from my coaches being a warm memento of my childhood. While at home, I
spoke Vietnamese with my parents, chowed down on Vietnamese food, and spent my weekends

either at a Vietnamese party or getting ready to go to one. This dichotomy kept my life regulated,

and I embraced the rigidity of it, each life was its own.

But as I went through high school, the fixed fifty/fifty ratio of my lives gave way, and I

spent less time with my family, less time acting Vietnamese, and replacing that with the

‘hood-rat shit’ that highschoolers ​should​ do. The apathy wasn’t noticed, my parents were happy

enough that my grades stayed steady, and my Vietnamese was sufficient to woo the parents of

girls they were trying to set me up with. Each year, more important things stacked on my plate,

late nights were synonymous with indie acoustic music and scribbling down barely legible

answers for the next day’s homework, clocking out of those dull hallways way too late most

days. My dad and I were close, so when I wasn’t holed up in my room during the wee hours of

the night, we took out the coronas and let our minds wander.

“Henry, start packing for after the graduation party,” “What for?” I asked, quizzically.

“We’re going to Vietnam!” my dad proudly exclaimed. He told me about a comment I made

months back in passing, how I needed to see gramps before I set off to college, to tell him that I

began to make something of myself. Four years since I had last seen him, dealing with academic

heartbreak, having girlfriends, breaking up; I’ve changed so much, and for the better.

“How are you today, Grandpa?”

“I feel good, haha.”

“How’s the TV show?”

“It’s good, I watch it everyday.”

 And the awkward wave of silence washed over the conversation, as usual. So nothing

really changed after all, I guessed.

Sitting in the cab back to the airport, the hollowed silhouettes of my relatives waving

goodbye faded in the horizon, and on my distant island in the back seat, I wept. Globs of tears

puckered from my eyes, each sniffle matching the rhythm of the uneven country road, I had

never felt more ashamed in my life. In the plentiful moments I had with my grandpa, our

conversations were as mundane as watching paint dry. I ached to know so much about his life, a

topic largely unexplored, but the words were caught in my throat, reeled away from ever leaving

my mouth, because of the language barrier, as I rarely ever spoke in Vietnamese about topics that

far into the past, the conjugations escaping my head, and unable to formulate the right sentences.

“What were you like when you were my age?”, “How did you meet Grandma?”, things

that any self respecting grandkid should know, dumbfounded me. And still, knowing that I might

not ever see my grandpa again, I couldn’t summon the courage to tell him thank you, for

everything that he was, all that he gave me. Having respect for one’s elders is quintessential in

Vietnamese culture, and I honored my grandpa as best as I could. But even in that respect, I

sometimes held a soft resentment for him, for never attending birthday parties, recording piano

concerts, or just being there when I needed anybody other than my parents. This selfish idea died

out quickly, as I realized that maybe I should be the one resented. I never sent out those birthday

invitations, never told him I played piano, never asked for his help.

I thrust myself into the now foreign Vietnamese culture I held, quietly vowing to speak it

as much as I possibly could at home, embracing the food we ate, and jumped into the

Vietnamese student group at school. In the back of my head, this was all a silent homage to the
man who gave up his life for mine, trying to take in even a bit of the culture that made him so

selfless. The way of life there encouraged people to work earnestly, so that those after them

could have more opportunities, a way to decide their own path instead of simply slotting into a

designated role in the community. But, my grandpa worked too diligently at times.

Although my grandparents lived in a mostly rural farming town, the nearest hospital to

them was a twenty minute moped ride away. But when my family came back to Vietnam after

my high school graduation, we endured a tedious and lengthy trip to Ho Chi Minh City,

Vietnam’s capital, with the purring of moped engines and the glimmer of neon lights eventually

waking me up, a sharp dichotomy from the acres of rice paddies that we began the trip from. My

grandpa was put into one of the best hospitals in the city, possible because of my dad’s well

paying job, and a ludicrous exchange rate that favored the American dollar heavily.

“Is this really it?” I whispered to my little sister, as the dreariness of the place wore me

out. The walls were mostly a flat shade of blue, speckled with bits of unintentional white from

the paint chipping, the usual arid and sterile smell that I recognized from hospitals was more of a

sickly sweet odor here, as if someone rubbed medicinal oil everywhere. We hastily marched up

flights of stairs until we reached my grandpa’s floor, which was eerily absent of life. As we

navigated through the messy layout of rooms, I remember peering through some of the windows

that looked into the rooms, and many of them were barren.

If the quality of the room was an indicator of my grandpa’s diagnosis, the doctors would

have said that he only had a few days to live. The room itself was cramped, and dingy without

charm, with a lack of furniture that implied visitors were rare. Thankfully, my grandpa was

recovering well, having suffered just a minor heart attack, and after days of being cooped up in
my cousin’s crowded apartment, we were set to go back home with my grandpa. I couldn’t stop

myself from wondering what that local hospital close to the family farm was like, because if the

conditions at a respectable hospital were so grim, how bad were things over there? My mind

envisioned an image of bleak grids of cots, and soft groans of pain, like a scene out of a war film.

The mood shift when we returned to the farm was clear, apprehensive worries of death

were wiped away as my grandpa gradually recuperated strength day after day, and our premature

adieu to him morphed back into a family vacation. It was relieving to finally see genuine smiles

from my parents again, as conversations with them had felt short-changed, my grandpa’s future

occupying the bulk of their mind. And for the first time in a while, I felt relieved too.

I was pretty enamored with the idea of medicine, even while I was young ‘diagnosing’

my grandpa when he was sick with other ailments on my earlier visits back to the homeland,

struggling through practice MCAT exams with my older brother, and excelling in biology and

chemistry in high school. There was such a beauty to medicine, working through the complex

puzzle of the body to save another human, the delicate fragility of life dependent on the doctor.

But I couldn’t shake off a gnawing sense that I was only pursuing this to somehow please my

parents, or to follow my brother’s footsteps.

That trip to Vietnam gave me assurance that I desperately needed, and a resounding

belief in myself formed. I realized that my grandpa’s situation wasn’t uncommon, that a lifetime

of grueling labor will inevitably tax the body, and most of the elderly I met there were left

paying back that tariff. The nights in Vietnam were the best, as the sweltering heat faded away,

and the cool breeze lulled people to sleep there, my thoughts were unencumbered by the droning

of cars, of civilization. So with only the beaming moon, and the chirping cicadas awake with me,
I started to think about the fleeting aspect of life, and its sense of beauty and finiteness. How

people know that they only have a certain amount of life to give, yet still put everything down

for their friends and family to live better. How these Vietnamese farmers, offer up their bodies so

that their ancestors could avoid a life riddled with physical pain. The Japanese call this concept

‘mono no aware’. The Vietnamese call this concept ‘love’. And because of this love, I found my

resolve, to become a doctor and eventually give back to those who gave everything to me, as

most people who finally got an education left that small farming community as far behind as

possible.

I’m twenty years old, my main focus in life is school, I have a job, not out of necessity,

but to pay for indulgences like fancy food, or to supplement my hobbies. I live in a

well-furnished apartment with functioning water, I’m able to drive a car to wherever I need to

go, whenever. But when my grandpa was the same age, he didn’t have any of that. His focus in

life was working on the farm, his job was his livelihood, and it paid for the bowl of rice he’d eat

every day, and to keep clothes on his back. He lived in a shabby shack with six other family

members, with a community water well fifteen minutes away by foot. His family shared two

mopeds to get around, when they had a sparse chance to drive into the nearest city.

My grandpa never expected a thank you. He’s selfless, kind, compassionate, caring,

standard for who I strive to be someday. I’m not an overly emotional person, but to a tee,

everytime I hear someone’s story about their grandparents, I tear up, regardless of how I felt just

moments earlier. I’ve been harboring so much guilt in my life, because I never know how to say

thank you to my grandpa, for indirectly being the reason for all that I have in this life. But this

essay led me to an answer, of finally solving this question of “How do I tell him how I feel?”.
So I’m translating this essay into Vietnamese, and sending it to him back at home, so he can get

an insight on what I’ve been thinking my whole life.

Grandpa, I’m grateful for everything you’ve given me in this life. I hope to make all that

work with it one day, I hope that you’ll be able to see me graduate from medical school. I don’t

think I’ll ever be the man you are, but I’ll try my best to live with the same values you do. I’m

sorry for being a terrible grandson, for never calling you, for leaving you in silence so many

times, and for never thanking you. I hope that you can finally understand how much you mean to

me.