The American Dream

~Cathy is a Texas native, whom now resides in California. A graduate of Sam Houston State University. She enjoys spending time with her loved ones and her dogs. Cathy has faced many adversities in her life, and yet powered through with an unbreakable spirit. This is her story.~

I am the third child and only daughter of boat people. That is something I have always been proud of in my upbringing as a first-generation Vietnamese-American. My parents sacrificed everything they had and risked their lives to find refuge during the Vietnam war. Their pursuit of the American dream is what brought me to where I am today. I cannot tell my story without first acknowledging my roots.

As a child, I always got what I needed. This isn’t to say that I was spoiled in material things, instead, I would say that I was raised in a flourishing environment. I lived close to my cousins, had a solid set of childhood friends, stayed in the same school district from Pre-K to high school, and had the opportunity to travel the world. My parents put us in church school that doubled as a Vietnamese school – while I hated it, the result of this opportunity is that I am fluently bilingual. I got to celebrate American and Vietnamese holidays, which meant twice the presents (and twice the amount of quality time with family). Pretty solid childhood, right?

This bright and cheery childhood quickly turned upside down when I turned twelve. My mother collapsed at work one night and I remembered having to pick her up. Soon after that incident, she remained at home, in bed, and we tended to her needs. She was sick and this was all I knew. It was strange having her home since she worked multiple jobs and rarely spent time in bed (from what I knew). Months went by and she got worse until one day, someone finally had the courage to tell me that she had cancer. We moved her set-up around the house from the dining room to the bedroom to the living room so she could be more comfortable. I remember her smiling as I went to my first (incredibly awkward) school dance. I remember watching Full House or Family Feud at night. I remember watching in awe as she mastered games of Bejeweled on the computer. My mother was a kick-ass cancer patient, to say the least.

I remember the night my dad cut off all her hair because she was tired of dealing with it from chemo. I also remember her telling me stories about her journey to America. I remember the awkward conversation she tried to have about deodorant with me in conjunction with a warning about sexual harassment. She had a fish tank she loved and shared with my oldest brother as well. While I had a childhood full of family parties and vacations, it wasn’t until her last few months on Earth that I really got to know my mother. I always knew she was kind, loving, and hard-working because she worked endlessly, cooked for us, gardened for the whole neighborhood, and somehow always looked flawless. The day she died I can’t say that I was immediately sad. The best way to understand it is that I became numb.

There were rules at the funeral. Don’t cry too much, but don’t not cry at all. Smile at the camera pointing at you. Eat the food presented, but don’t let anyone see you. Greet all the people that come, even if you don’t remember them. I was so preoccupied trying to be the perfect grieving daughter without really grieving … and let me say that doing this will genuinely screw with your head. After the funeral, gears quickly shifted back home. All the household chores now fell on me, a twelve-year-old, lost in grieving. If something wasn’t done correctly or at all, I would get scolded. Time with the family immediately was eliminated. My father had isolated our family from the world. He did everything with “good intention”.

The next year went by in a blur as I finished my time in middle school and went onto high school. My hair had finally grown back by my freshman year and I was confident in the weird teenager I had become. Life started getting easier since I had a system to finish all my responsibilities at home and now had friends that could drive. It was starting to look up until it didn’t – the summer before high school started, we discovered that my brother had a brain tumor. It was like a repeat of everything I had done before from hospital stays to night watch duties at home. I was much more seasoned this time around; which honestly isn’t something I’m happy to admit. My brother made a speedy recovery and was soon back to work, school, and helping us live our lives, starting with being my chauffer.

On his 20^th birthday, I woke my brother up early and took him to his favorite restaurant with our friend; IHOP. He was happy and cheerful when I left for summer school that morning. I came home and his face was blank. On his 20^th birthday, he was diagnosed with cancer. He smiled through dinner that night and you wouldn’t be able to tell from the pictures that he was a dying man.

I started my story with acknowledging the sacrifices my parents made to get to America. While that is a vital part to my story, I have to make it known that my brother too, made immense sacrifices for us, for me. In the last few months of his life, he made sure that everyone around him smiled and laughed more than he probably did. He talked to me about religion, movies, food, and even threw me a surprise 15^th birthday party in the hospital. He forced everyone to take pictures with him and introduced me to the magic of onion rings. Three months after his diagnosis, cancer won and I lost my hero.

Contrary to the numbness that I felt when my mother died, when I lost my brother, I felt everything. Every pang of hurt and every tear I cried. I sobbed for weeks in my room and didn’t bother to eat. Every song or food or movie reminded me of him. I stopped going to school. I stopped responding to friends. My world stopped the day he died, and while I was told to stop crying at his funeral because I was making a scene, I couldn’t help but to completely fall apart.

One woman, this teacher, pulled me aside one day that I had to come to school. She looked at me sternly and told me to basically get my shit together (and if I didn’t, there would be consequences). I muddled through what I could and somehow, I was rewarded with a trip to Europe with her. I met a girl on the trip who completely turned my life around. By the end of the school year, I was involved in all organizations and while I was on the brink of dropping out, I was then on a track to graduate from high school at 16.

At this point in my story, you as the reader are probably thinking what a smart kid to be graduating so young and after so much. That may be partially true, but this is where I learned the most important life lesson: perspective is everything. I wanted to graduate from high school early not because my life-changing trip and wonderful teacher was so inspiring (I mean, it was). The rules I was told on how to behave at a funeral or how to grieve? These weren’t suggestions, they were orders. These orders progressively got worse and created a home environment that was unbearable to me. I remember the night that my father laid hands on me for the last time – I promised myself to get out of that hell; and I did.

August 2009, I walked into my dorm. College was far from home and scary, but I was finally safe. College was such an amazing experience for me – even starting at such a young age. I made amazing friends and joined great organizations. I had the typical ups and downs of relationships as well. It didn’t hit me until the last year of school though – the numbness and the simultaneous pain. As I reached the last final months of my undergraduate career, I realized I had no plan of where I was going afterwards. I wasn’t taught how to handle finances or land a full time job successfully. I was walking into my adulthood (post-college), blind. Then it hit me, I’d have to move back home. I’d have to return to the place that I so desperately wanted to escape because there was no other way out.

I smiled as I walked the stage and got my college diploma. Looking back on the photos now, you wouldn’t be able to tell that the girl in those photos was planning her way out of it all. Graduation, move out and temporarily stay at a friend’s while he’s on vacation, and then off myself. Why? Because they don’t teach you how to deal with this in school. They teach your pre-calculus and that having connections in the real world is important, but they don’t teach you the importance of life. Sounds silly, doesn’t it?

I was told how to grieve, when really, I was told how not to grieve. After their deaths, we never mentioned their names in our household again. Now, at the time of graduation they wouldn’t be there. At the time where people are getting engaged (as I had originally planned to), I wouldn’t have them there to witness me in my moment of joy. At that time, I was not only a first-generation college student but also the first in our family (extended included) to earn a college degree – the exact American dream my parents wanted for me – they would not be there. I was not to acknowledge them in my graduation speech or give them gratitude for my blessing. I was alone in a world that pushed me to be this amazing college graduate with absolutely nowhere to go … but backwards. It was supposed to be a happy moment, but instead, it was a realization that I would soon return to hell.

June 2013 – I had everything ready to go. I learned how to use a friend’s gun and how to access it from its safety spot. I wrote a letter and packed up all my things (since I was moving anyway). My friend was on vacation and would be home later that night. He would know what to do. I was ready to stop feeling the pain. 1…2…3.

There was a knock on the door. Reluctantly, I answered and was immediately dragged out of the house to spend time with my friends (since it was summer and all). I didn’t get a chance to pull the trigger and for that, I am forever grateful.

Life lesson: Family is what you make it, not what you’re born into.

My father was not a nice man, and my other brother, didn’t fall far from that tree. We were a disconnected family and in every way possible, dysfunctional. I found support and love in friends from high school, their parents, and even by “adopting” my oldest brothers friends after he passed. These were the people who showed up to my award ceremonies, band shows, and graduation. In college, I built a network of brothers and sisters that proved to me the reason behind God’s plans all along. The people I spent the night with instead of ending my life literally saved my life – and I doubt they know it to this day.

While the American Dream to my parents was to give their children a better life than they have (and they have), my American Dream is different. After my attempt, I have lived quite a life. I moved almost ten times in the last five years and chased a dream across the country. I’ve looked at everything with a fresh perspective and given the support and love that I have received to complete strangers. It took me years to finally put a name to what I have always yearned for in life, and that is love. Life is hard, it really and truly has the capability of torturing even the most resilient of souls out there. But love, which I see as genuine understanding and compassion, is what brings us back from the darkness. My parents didn’t even know each other when they climbed into boats and sailed into unforgiving seas – but their hope and love for a future child was what carried them along. My brother didn’t know he would die of cancer, but his love for others fulfilled his very last days of life. I dream of a world that understands that there is love out there – and no matter how hard it gets, they are never alone. I long for a future where it really does get better and what I’m learning now is that it starts with loving myself.

-Cathy

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