K(NO)W HISTORY, K(NO)W SELF
trigger warning: drug abuse, childhood negligence, addict parents
"What are you?"
What am I? Well, let's see, I could list off the myriad of labels I identify with and stuff myself into the pretty little box you are so desperate to tie a bow on OR we could take a journey into my past... Ready or not, here goes!
My father dodged the draft and made the perilous journey across seas and refugee camps to join my grandfather in the States and satisfactorily "establish" themselves in order to sponsor rest of the family. My mother realized finally a blessing in the curse of being a mixed-blood abandoned daughter of an American soldier- $white guilt$ (and still lots of hard earned money) bought her and her immediate family "priority" to the States.
I grew up in a working class South Vietnamese immigrant family where neither parents recieved higher than a ~10th grade education (unless you count the School of Hard Knocks and Kriminals). My mom worked at a nail salon, a billiards bar, and a textiles sweatshop (one of my earliest memories is sleeping in a pile of soft stuff under her industrial sewing machine) My dad was a gangster and a hustler and since more risk= less hours, he also played the role of stay-at-home dad, though it was more like hang-out-at-the-coffeshop-with-dad.
Tight knit family on both sides and vibrant friendships manifest as all night karaoke ragers centered around a seafood hotpot on a tarp on the floor. We were poor monetarily, but we were rich in spirit and bellies! I remember the night before we got a dining table. My mom, dad, and I sat on the kitchen floor in our Garden Grove apartment. They were so excited, talking about how we would soon have a table to eat on, one step closer to the American dream. I was just excited about dinner.
During one of my dad's last, long stints in prison, I guess my mom got tired of being a gangster's wife. Do you know what it's like to drive that junky Honda Prelude to a federal prison with your five year old daughter, walk through security doors and desolate hallways to a sterile cold room full of sadness just to touch her father through 3 inch bulletproof glass? Sigh, by no means do I advocate or condone but I definitely understand why my mom left.
Mom remarries white guy from Texas. I eat bologna for the first time. Not only that, he introduces me to weird TOTALLY WHITE stoner food conconctions- like just melting cheese on top of potato chips? grilled bologna and cheese? vienna sausage and cheese omelets? We also moved to a less Viet (more Korean, Hispanic and yes, white) city and my mom worked at the nail shop more, leaving me with his white-trash food.
When my mom left the white guy/ my "stepdad", we all thought it was a-ok but bam! another meteor from the universe- my mom starts abusing drugs, some of the ugliest ones. We were also living in DFW at the time, far away from the help of any family. So basically I was left raising myself and my 2 brothers with a bare pantry and menial income and a mother who was never home. When she was home, she was using in the bathroom, with the door locked. I still can't decide if it was better when she was home, using, or when we didn't know where she was...
My senior year, I answered the door to a CPS (Child Protective Services) worker. I would never invite a governmental authority employee into my home (and the mono-culture of the US's social services-don't even) but when you're 17 and don't know any better and just want OUT, you gotta do what you gotta do. The next few months were a mess. My brothers and I were separated. My mother was ordered to stay away from us. I successfully numbed all thoughts, pains, phone calls with my own drugs of choice. I still barely remember that year.
After high school, I moved in with my estranged-ish (there's a big difference in seeing your father a few weeks every summer and being raised by him...) father here in beautiful Westminster, California, where I was born and raised, my home as I could never find it elsewhere. I was hoping to put the past in the past and start anew but that would've just been way too easy, huh? (and where would I get the material for my next zine?!)
Guess what, baby girl? TRAUMA DOESN'T JUST GO AWAY. _______________________________________________________________
So, what am I? I am a hell of a lot more than you think I am.