Yasuko Thanh - Mistakes to Run With
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![Also by Yasuko Thanh FLOATING LIKE THE DEAD MYSTERIOUS FRAGRANCE OF THE - photo 1](/uploads/posts/book/142744/images/9780735234420.jpg)
Also by Yasuko Thanh
FLOATING LIKE THE DEAD
MYSTERIOUS FRAGRANCE OF THE YELLOW MOUNTAINS
![HAMISH HAMILTON an imprint of Penguin Canada a division of Penguin Random - photo 2](/uploads/posts/book/142744/images/Than_9780735234413_6p_all_r1_Page_ii_Image_001.jpg)
HAMISH HAMILTON
an imprint of Penguin Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited
Canada USA UK Ireland Australia New Zealand India South Africa China
First published 2019
Copyright 2019 by Yasuko Thanh
Patrick Geary quote is republished with permission of Princeton University Press from Phantoms of Remembrance: Memory and Oblivion at the End of the First Millennium by Patrick Geary, 1994; permission conveyed through Copyright Clearance Center, Inc.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Thanh, Yasuko, author
Mistakes to run with : a memoir / Yasuko Thanh.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 9780735234413 (softcover).ISBN 9780735234420 (electronic)
1. Thanh, Yasuko. 2. Thanh, YasukoChildhood and youth.
3. Authors, Canadian (English)British ColumbiaBiography. I. Title.
PS8639.H375Z466 2019C813.6C2018-902404-6
C2018-902405-4
Cover design: Terri Nimmo
Cover images: (front) Alex Waber (back) Picsfive / Shutterstock.com
![v532 a For my children All memoryis memory for something PATRICK GEARY - photo 3](/uploads/posts/book/142744/images/Than_9780735234413_6p_all_r1_Page_iii_Image_001.jpg)
v5.3.2
a
For my children
All memoryis memory for something.
PATRICK GEARY
AUTHOR S NOTE
Many of the names in this work have been changed to protect peoples privacy. Frances is a composite, but the events are true facts.
Chapter titles are based on Buddhisms Eighteen Levels of Hell.
VANCOUVER , 1988. Im seventeen, sitting on an overturned milk crate in the July heat.
My best friend Frances rubbed her toes through the leather of her stilettos. She was black, half Native, and didnt know her real father. People said his name was Fergie and that he was from Barbados. This is all anyone knew.
Although Frances was prettier than the other girls on the track, Japanese dates rarely took her out. No matter that she spoke a little of their language, learned while working at Bradleys nightclub, which catered to Asian businessmen with thick wallets. If she and I were out on the corner together, chances were Id catch a date first.
My hot-pink tube top shimmered in the sun. I sucked a frozen strawberry juice bar, monitoring my tan through my sunglasses. Id flung my six-inch heels aside; they lay in the shadow of the Korner Kitchen coffee shop. I slathered my legs with baby oil, careful not to spill any on my miniskirt.
Five years before, the local newspaper in Victoria, British Columbia, where I grew up, had published an article about my academic, athletic, and civic achievements. My place on the school math team had earned us a spot in the Gauss Contest. Id won a French public-speaking competition that sent provincial finalists to Ottawa to meet the Governor General, Jeanne Sauv. The article featured a grainy picture I hated: skinny face, acne, poodle perm. My parents had saved the clipping and, before gluing it into the pages of a family scrapbook, had sent photocopies to aunts and uncles in Europe.
I need at least four today, Frances said. Her pimp wasnt known for setting quotas. I figured she had rent to pay.
Id already made three hundred dollars that morning and stashed the money in my bra, where the folded bills scratched against my breasts.
Frances often worked double shifts to earn what I did in three hours. At the age of seventeen I was convinced of the righteousness of my behaviour, which showed what a person could do when not intimidated. I ate lobster, drove a Camaro. I wasnt a victim. We smiled from the curb at the men who drove around the block, waved, beckoned with our index fingers, manufacturing a sweetness for even the circle jerks who ogled our flesh through their car windows but never stopped to take us out. This was part of the job, smiling while covering up our fear.
At the age of fifteen, within the space of two months, Id gone from losing my virginity to performing half-and-halfs on the street that cost two hundred bucks, half blow job, half lay. Another year of work had brought me to Vancouver, to this point now, deep in the summer of 1988.
Id never had a violent date like Frances whod been kidnapped, bound with rope, held captive in a garage, and forced to eat dog food before being set free two days later. Another friend had been attacked, her head split open, by a guy driving a station wagon with a childs car seat in the back. Shed tried to block the blows while yelling she was pregnant but he beat her unconscious with his crowbar anyway. I saw her in the Korner Kitchen two weeks later: shed returned to work with her arm in a cast and seventy-two stitches in her head.
I remember thinking I was lucky. I remember thinking I was careful. Such things could never happen to me.
The previous year, in September 1987 when I was sixteen, a psychologist wrote to my probation officer in my case file: Her responses on the Rorschach are the type of responses that might be expected from a neglected and deprived child and leave me wondering about the adequacy of care that has been provided by her parents, even in the most basic physical areas.
In a city known for its trees, I grew up on a street with none. Victoria, 1974. My father, a Vietnamese national who spoke four languages and had a degree from a Parisian university, found work in a shoe store, a far cry from the financial industry and the bank hed thought would employ him. Before immigrating to British Columbia and settling on the west coast hed studied business management. Hed met my mother in Europe when he was twenty-seven and she was sixteen. Handsome as Bruce Lee, he promised a ticket away from her home in dour grey postwar Germany. They came to Canada in 1970, a year before I was born. My mother had fantasized about riding escalators in glamorous North American shopping malls, but what greeted her in Victoria during those heady days of Trudeaumania was more grey. Rain. A rooming house. More rain. My father found himself walking to the shoe store next to a bowling alley to sell pumps to women who couldnt understand his thick accent and asked him to repeat What size do you take? My mother still spoke to me in German at home. During the afternoons, when the sun shone on our balcony, we played school. She practised the English phrases shed heard on TV while I sat cross-legged next to her, writing Mama, do you love me? in an orange exercise book.
When my brother was born, in the winter of 1976, my parents gave him my room. I was relegated to a flip chairHer responses leave me wondering about the adequacy of carethat unfolded into a kids bed a few feet from the front door. I didnt understand why I had to give him anything, to share anything. Why didnt they put
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