Dzung
Life sure is trippy sometimes. Take today. I’m sittin’ in a brand new ’75 Chevy Impala across from my dad. Two weeks ago, he was a Vietnamese general hopping a chopper to D.C. while I was in a friend’s bedroom smoking a bong. The end of the war thrust us into being a family again and he wants to “reconnect.” So, here I am forced to make nice and take a hike, a real one.
The car, a “token of appreciation” from the U.S. government, smells of establishment. Dad refuses to turn on the air conditioning. “It’s not that hot,” he says, as if it’s a fact. I roll my window all the way down to let the wind blow through my hair. Dad disapproves of the length. I'm pretty sure it was the first thing he said when he saw me for the first time in three years. Not “I’ve missed you, son,” or “I love you,” but “Your hair is too long.” I’m surprised he hasn’t made me cut it yet.
John Lennon’s Rock and Roll is burning a hole in my backpack. It belongs to my friend, Michael. We’ve only listened to it once, but he gets me and lent it to me for the day. “Mind if I throw in an 8-track?”
“An 8-track?”
“Music, Dad.” I snatch the tape, pop it into the deck, and crank up the volume. “Be-Bop-A-Lula” starts to play, but I fast forward to the next song. I sing along with Lennon, “No, I won’t be afraid—”
Dad hums along. I pretend not to notice. He stops. “I guess we have a lot of catching up to do. It’s been–”
I stop singing and mumble, “Yeah, three years of catching up.”
Vien
I’d rather be listening to Elvis Presley on the drive, but Dzung wants to play music from this John Lennon fellow. The music is more mellow than I expected, but it isn’t Elvis. I’m not yet used to the American highway with so many cars darting about instead of scooters. I have to pay attention to my surroundings. I studied the map and committed the directions to memory, but that’s only half the battle. Changing lanes at the last minute to make an exit excites American drivers. They honk their horns and yell out their windows. I can’t picture myself getting accustomed to such behavior.
I’m looking forward to spending time with Dzung in nature. General Taylor told me about Great Falls when we made small talk on the way to the embassy. I told him of my desire to reconnect with my youngest son, and he guaranteed me a Vietnamese American teenager would love the park, as would I. Hearing Dzung called a Vietnamese American for the first time caught me off guard. I know General Taylor had only good intentions. I’ll be sure to thank him for the suggestion if all goes well today.
Dzung has opened the window and his long hair is blowing in the wind. I don’t like his desire to look American. It reminds me of the hippies and protesters I’ve seen on television, the ones who fill the streets yelling about a war they can’t possibly understand. I wonder what Dzung thinks of the war. Has he lost his tie to our homeland, now that he’s seventeen and lived in a country screaming freedom for so long? I don’t dare ask. I plan to keep the conversation light today and bring up only happy memories. I’m not confident I know Dzung anymore. Boys change so quickly. One thing I know for sure, the bahn mi sandwiches his mom made will definitely help.
As Dzung sings to his music, the words ring out to me, “Stand by Me.” Such a simple phrase, yet it holds such depth. “Stand by Me. Is that the name of the song?”
“Yeah.”
“I like it. I would like to read the words later, when I’m not driving.”
“OK. I wrote them down in a notebook. It’s at home.”
“Later then.”
Dzung continues to sing as the concrete buildings are replaced by trees, and signs for Great Falls Park appear along the roadway.
Has it already been a week since we arrived in Washington D.C. and were reunited? I still wonder if sending him to the U.S. for schooling during the war was the best thing to do. I suspect I appear to be a silent giant to my son. I am silent, there’s no denying that. I need the silence to make sense of the fragments that remain in my life, to create compartments for them and file them where they belong. The silence moves me forward. I do not, however, feel like a giant. The end carried with it disappointment and defeat. I’m welcome here in this strange land, but never expected it to be my home. Part of me wants Dzung to know and understand that. That, and the fact that I may not have been there for him for much of his childhood, but I am here for him now.
Dzung
The morning after my parents arrived in the U.S., I woke up to the smell of Phò. I’d almost forgotten what it smelled like. Spooning the broth into my mouth brought back a flood of memories: visiting Nhi Phu Temple during Tet with my grandmother and getting “lucky money,” walking through Binh Yat market to buy dragon fruit, accidentally seeing the execution picture of four Australian men who died on the other side of Cholon, our neighborhood, and being forced to wear a boring uniform of khaki pants and a blue button-down to school. I wondered where my childhood friends were now. Did they fight and die? Or did their parents send them away like mine did? As I slurped the last bit of broth from the bowl, it hit me that I’d probably never know.
My parents told their story of gunfire and couriers bringing messages, of gathering belongings and sneaking through Saigon, of not being able to say goodbye to friends, and looking out the plane window at the jungle below. I heard them, but didn’t really listen. Of course I was happy they were safe. In history class, I watched the news report of the last helicopter lifting off from the American Embassy and wondered if my parents were inside. I waited for the “we have something to tell you” from my caregivers during our weekly update from Vietnam. I know it must have sucked for my parents, but all I could think about were those left behind. Those who weren’t four-star generals. Those whose grandfather didn’t own half of the Mekong Delta. The Americans who’d been abandoned.
These first few days were a blur. Instead of going to school, I had to pack my things and move into a ranch-style house in Alexandria with my parents, until we could find our own place. Mom promised I could finish out the year at Sidwell Friends, and the year after, since it would be my last. Within 48 hours, we were living like Leave it To Beaver. Every night, we sat down after dinner as a family and watched the news, Mom with her hand covering her mouth, Dad as silent as a statue in his new LazyBoy recliner, and me knowing better than to say a word.
The hike was Mom’s idea. After the Friday news, she said, “You and your dad are going on a hike tomorrow. It will be good for you both. I hope you don’t have any plans.” Which meant, if you have any plans, change them. Dad nodded and said, “It will be nice to spend some time with you, son. It’s been so long.” I really had no choice.
There are maybe a dozen cars parked in the lot when we arrive at Great Falls Park. I grab my pack and jump out the car onto the hard pavement. I’ve heard of this park from friends. I spent most of the last three years studying. Even in summer I went to extra classes to catch up to my classmates. The Kellys were great substitute parents, but as graduates of Princeton and Harvard, they didn’t go hiking, or do much of anything outside. They buried their heads in State Department work, read books like Catcher in the Rye, and played an occasional game of Monopol. They asked about school every night at dinner, but other than that, they pretty much left me alone.
I hear the roar of the falls from the parking lot and hurry along the path to find it. I’m so far ahead, Dad calls out my name. I turn and see him fiddling with a park map. Typical.
I wave. “I’ll be at Overlook One. There’s a sign,” and take off. I had to come on this damn hike; nobody said I had to be attached to him like a leech.
I make my way to the first falls. I’m grooving on the raging water when from behind me I hear, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Wicked,” I reply, “and powerful. Read the sign.” I point to the warning sign featuring a man in red slipping backwards. They’re everywhere. It reads: Warning! Steep Drops. Stay on platform. No swimming! Rapids are Dangerous.
“My friend Michael told me people die here every year. They ignore the warnings.” Dad’s face looks blank, as always. I’ll never be able to read him. I take the opportunity to run ahead again. “I want to see from farther away. There must be another overlook.”
The second overlook is larger. More people are hanging out, oohing and aahing. I climb a boulder in the middle of a wooden platform. From up here, I can see a full view of the falls. Two small girls giggle as their father takes a picture. Did Dad take pictures of me when I was young?
A young couple turns around to leave. The woman whispers something to the man and points in my direction. I’m used to this by now, but it still stings. I watch as they scurry up the trail, almost running into my dad. They exchange words with him.
“Get used to it, Dad,” I say as he enters the platform. “You can dress like them, but you’ll never be one of them.”
Suddenly, the girls’ mother calls out from the end of the platform, “Ewww, honey, is that a hawk?” The man rushes to her. A hawk is pecking on a baby rabbit. Before he stops them, the girls run to look and their giggles turn to tears.
“Stop him, daddy. Please stop him,” they plead.
“I can’t, girls. It’s nature. The weak get eaten by the strong.”
His wife gives him the eye, “Come, girls,” she says, “let’s get some ice cream.” They beat it toward the visitor center.
My dad pretends not to notice the family and the dead rabbit being devoured by the hawk, but I remember him as a man who misses nothing. Instead, he stares at the falls like he’s tripping on acid or something. “It does look better from farther away,” he says.
I’m still thinking about the man’s words. “He’s right, you know. The man. The weak do get eaten by the strong.”
Vien
Dzung jumps out of the car before I finish parking. He rushes toward the entrance like the excited little boy I once knew. I hurry to the entrance and grab a park map from behind a plastic holder. I want to go into the visitor center to read about the history and ask what type of birds I should look for in early spring, but Dzung is almost out of sight. I call out to him. He yells back; he’s heading to the first overlook. I make my way up the steep trail, admiring the trees. They’re so different than the ones at home. The sound of the falls is almost deafening as I enter the first platform. Dzung is leaning on the railing at the closest vantage point. I curse myself for not bringing a camera. I move close to him, but far enough away to let him have his space. The power of the water overwhelms me. I know the raging water goes farther downstream and turns calm like a sleeping baby. Nature always fascinated me, the way it changes without explanation; it has lessons to teach, if we listen.
I think about my own power: how I fought diligently to keep my country free, how blood was shed at my command, how in the final days I was forced to admit my limits. How, despite my efforts, in the end, everything I knew was gone. I should have been angry at the Vietnamese. I should have been upset at America. Instead, I’m hunkering down a stone’s throw away from the White House with a son I no longer know—a son who seems more American than Vietnamese.
I don’t notice Dzung is no longer next to me when I hear him call out, “Dad, I’m heading to the next platform. See you there.”
He starts down the trail again, as if the next waterfall is going to disappear if he doesn’t get there in the next few minutes. For a moment, I wonder if it would kill him to wait for me.
When I make my way down to the second platform a young couple nearly runs into me as they scurry up the hill. The woman’s arm brushes against mine. The man takes her hand and pulls her toward him.
“I am so sorry,” she says, looking me straight in the eye before putting her head down. “I didn’t see you there.”
The man grumbled, “Linda, let’s go.”
At the next platform, Dzung is sitting on a rock. He says something to me about what I’m wearing, but I can’t make it out over the sound of the rushing water. I go to the railing to experience the second waterfall. Not far from me, there’s a family having a heated discussion. I wonder why people would come to such a serene place and not focus on the beauty around them. Before I know it, the family makes their way up the hill, leaving only Dzung and me behind.
I walk over to him, thinking this would be a good time to have a conversation about the park and hear his impressions of it, when he jumps off the rock.
“Dad, let’s go.”
I compose myself. “OK, son. I’ve studied the map. Let’s take the River Trail along Mather Gorge. We’ll find a place to rest and eat along the way.”
I see from the map the terrain is going to become flatter. With no more falls to see, Dzung will probably slow down. I’ll be able to keep up with him instead of constantly watching him disappear ahead of me. At any rate, he’ll have to stop when we eat, and it will be more natural to talk over food.
Dzung
The River Trail winds its way along a gorge with scenic overlooks, each one with a warning sign. Between platforms, trees stand like rows of soldiers awaiting orders, but an occasional bare patch makes venturing off alone possible. I can’t help but think how easy it would be to take one wrong step off the trail and crash into the river below. The thought of exploring beyond the trail both thrills and frightens me.
At a fork, Dad guides us away from the water toward a sign that says Patowmack Canal. We walk silently, listening to the running water and birds. I begin to wonder how we’re supposed to be catching up without talking, but if Dad’s going to hike like a monk, I can, too. Besides, I don’t exactly know what to say. I’m curious how much longer this reunion is going to last, so I cave.
“Do you have a plan, Dad or are we aimlessly following trails?”
“I always have a plan,” he replies.
“Well then, where are we heading?”
“There’s a quarry ahead, just over that bridge. I’d like to find a rock to meditate for a while. We can eat too.”
My dad: great war general, Buddhist, and yoga lover. God, how my friends will laugh at him.
I stop at the end of a bridge, reach into my pack for a red bandana, and put it on my head. I take a big swig from my canteen and watch as my dad wanders up the trail looking into the trees. I make a mental note to add bird lover to his list of weird behaviors. As he crosses the bridge, he leans over the rails to inspect the supports below. I wish he paid as much attention to me.
Vien
I see Dzung stop for a drink and follow suit, watching as he covers his head with a bandana. American soldiers would cling to this simple cloth like children embracing a favorite toy. The thought that I saved him from the realities of war made me proud as I put my canteen away. “Only about a quarter of a mile more,” I say.
The quarry is peaceful and free from other people. I retrieve two báhn mì sandwiches wrapped in tin foil and two bottles of Coca-Cola from my pack. After biting into the soft bread and chewing the marinated pork, Dzung says, “I forgot how much I’ve missed mom’s lunches.”
At last, the moment I was hoping for presents itself.
“She’ll be happy to hear that.” I pause, “We’ve both missed you, son.”
“I know.”
“I trust you’ve adjusted to life here and have made friends?”
“Yeah, a few.”
“I’m proud of how good your English is and how seriously you’ve been taking your studies. But life is not pleasurable without others to share it with.”
“Most kids are nice to me, but I have a good friend, Michael,who doesn't care where I’m from. He was my lab partner last year in Bio and we’ve been hanging out ever since.”
“I would like to meet him sometime.”
“Sure. I’ll ask him. He’ll probably be cool with it.”
I sense Dzung getting antsy with the conversation. I want his full attention to tell him how important he’s been to me, so I don’t hesitate. “I thought of you every day, son. When I prepared to meditate, I cleared my mind by thinking about your smiling face and how pleased I was that you were safe.”
“Hey, speaking of meditation,” Dzung says as he examines the park map. “You’re going to meditate, right? Mind if I take a short walk down to Sandy Landing to give you some space?”
“Ok, but don’t be long. I won’t be meditating for more than twenty minutes.”
As I watch him run down the path, I admire his easy adjustment, wondering how adjusted I’ll be in three years. Will I still pine for home, or will I be calling myself a Vietnamese American?
I spy a flat rock perfect for meditating and bend to take off my hiking boots. My joints hurt more than I’d expected, but I can still tolerate the added pain from the lotus position. Once I start my mantra, I’ll dismiss it anyway.
Dzung
Sandy Landing is just a ploy for me to get away from Dad long enough to smoke some weed. For the last mile, all I could think about was what a groovy place this is to get high and chill. I scramble down a steep, rocky trail, but the effort pays off. I’m finally alone. I pull a joint and matches out of my pack and light up. The Potomac River flows smoothly, swirling around rocks here and there. It’s pretty cool to watch. I feel at home here. I doubt Dad ever will.
I return as Dad is putting his hiking boots on. I’m about to show him the cool walking stick I found, when he stops, one boot in midair. I wonder, what now?
“What’s that I smell?”
We stare at each other for the first time in years. “I don’t smell anything.”
“Don’t treat me like an idiot. I’m your father. I know that smell. How do you think the
American soldiers dealt with what they had to deal with each day?”
“You mean they didn’t mediate?” I blurt out. “Get with it, Dad,” I say as I toss the walking stick into the nearby brush. I fling it so hard I lose my balance and fall into a small pile of old logs. One goes flying.
That’s when I hear the buzzing. It grows louder before I feel the first sting on my arm. I look down as the bee darts away.
“Dad, help.” I manage to get back on my feet, but a swarm of bees is circling my head. One lands on my face, stinging me on the cheek. “Ouch!”
“Run there,” Dad commands, pointing to a tree nearby. “Use your pack to shoo them away.”
I do as Dad says, then watch as he takes what’s left of his Coke and pours it down his arm. The bees land there, shaking their butts in excitement. A monotonous drone fills the air. The bees lap up the soda, stinging my dad repeatedly as I watch helplessly. My dad simply closes his eyes and sits there as if in a trance. When the bees are satisfied, they fly away leaving silence once more.
“Dad!” I say, staring at his arm– red and starting to swell.
Vien
I open my eyes and laugh. Strangely, the sting of the bees replaces the ache of my arthritis. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt. On Dzung’s face, a sting below the right eye causes his cheek to puff up. I’m certain it hurts, but Dzung says nothing. Maybe he’s more of a man than I’ve given him credit. I’m not so sure I was so brave at his age.
“We’d better get back and see to these stings,”
Dzung turns his attention to my backpack. “Look, Dad! A wood thrush.”
I’m pleased Dzung remembers my love for birds and talent for identification—a talent Dzung obviously shares.
I turn to see the brown speckled bird stand on my pack pecking at crumbs. We’d heard bird songs throughout the hike, but this simple, native bird is the first to show his face. When I turn back, Dzung is standing by me.
“So it is. The next best thing to a dove, don’t you think?”
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