The Price Of Life

While doing my daily walk with my son today,
I was asked, “Who am I?”

It caught me by surprise, and I had to ponder.
It took me a minute to find the answer, because a series of thoughts rushed through my mind.
Of course, me being a father to a four-and-a-half-year-old, I chose the much simpler answer:
"You are Remi, my son."

But in truth, my mind was racing to find the answer to a much deeper question — a question of culture and identity.
An important question that deserves an equally important answer.

And this is how I got to the topic for the day.

Recently, Netflix aired its documentary about the Vietnam War, and I feel like it would be a good topic for me to talk about, since my American story — how I got here — is a direct result of that war.

My family — or most of my family — fought for the South of Vietnam.
And if you don’t know, most of the Vietnamese Americans you see here in the United States are from South Vietnam.
They are refugees of war, often referred to as the boat diaspora — people among whom thousands perished at sea.

We are from the losing side of a complicated war.

And you might ask, how does this tie in with the question my son asked me about his identity and who he is?

I lost my father’s father to a concentration camp post-war.
Countless great uncles. Uncles, and aunts.
All of my family’s homes — gone.

We went from a high-class family straight into poverty, due to a horrifying war rooted in politics.
But we were not the only ones.

While walking with my child today, I wondered how I would answer the question of identity and culture, if it were ever asked again when he’s older.

I would tell him:

“Your great-grandpa died valiantly, as he was worked to exhaustion, so that one day you could breathe.”

This war is a thing of the past — but it is the direct reason your American story exists.
Today, you are American.
But the path that brought you here is a Vietnamese one.

You see, son, our people suffered greatly.
Millions courageously died in the ocean — drowning, risking their lives — rather than stay behind.

Why?

They volunteered to journey on a small boat toward a stormy sea, to drift in the middle of nowhere, with no known destination, in hope that somehow, some way, a light would shine out of the darkness, and they would be saved.

Sadly, many did not make it and succumbed to the vast ocean, and others were taken by Thai pirates and enslaved,
but some made it — and their seeds are planted now in the American tree, to one day blossom.

They did it so that their children could one day become something in a place somewhere beautiful.

You will one day hear about this war and its different perspectives,
but remember — as bad as that war seems, and the loss we endured — always remember:

Without that war, I wouldn’t have met your mother.
And without her, we wouldn’t have you and your brothers.
We wouldn’t be here. Now. In this beautiful country.

This country may not be perfect, and it has its ups and downs.
But it is, without a doubt, the most beautiful place on Earth.

So live, live your life as if you have wings.

Your family endured pain, grief, and sorrow,
to find a foundation for you to fly.
But remember, you do not owe anyone anything.

This book is your own to write.
Your family may have helped guide you here,
 but your book and your story are yours to write, and yours to end.

It’s like the training wheels on your bike, and your father pushing you from behind.
One day, those wheels will come off.
And I won’t be pushing you anymore.
And you’ll be left pedaling on your own.
Just like how you’ll one day pedal alone through the intricate web of life.

But no matter where you are, just remember to never forget that your story is an American one — but the introduction chapter of your book is a Vietnamese one.

Like the Vietnamese Amanda Nguyen activist and politician said:
“My mom swam so that one day I can fly…”

So, Live your life, and live it fully — not just for yourself, but for those who went ahead.