Kien Nguyen - The Unwanted : A Memoir of Childhood

COPYRIGHT 2001 BY NGUYEN-ANDREWS, LLC

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First eBook Edition: November 2008

ISBN: 978-0-316-05005-0

TO MY MOTHER, WHO GAVE ME LIFE

AND

TO FRANK ANDREWS, WHO GAVE ME A SECOND CHANCE

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The Unwanted is the memoir of my childhood and adolescence in Vietnam. It springs from my vivid memory of those years and is augmented by the recollections of my mother and my brother.

Alexandra Bennett and Scott Morgan, for inspiring me to write my story.

Judy Clain, for giving me a chance to be a writer.

Fiona and Jake Eberts, for believing in me from the first day we met.

Elaine Gartner, for being there.

Michaela Hamilton, for helping me find my voice.

Peter Miller, for your lion-hearted support every step of the way.

BeTi Nguyen, for being my loving sister.

Jimmy Nguyen, for helping me walk, the path of memory.

Ilona Price and Jason Goodman, for your generous enthusiasm.

Joann Russo-Tabeek, for feeding me many free meals at your restaurant, Paninoteca.

Lisa Sharkey, for giving me the encouragement I needed.

Milan Tinan, for the greatest friendship a writer could ask.

Special thanks to everyone at PMA and Little, Brown who has helped bring The Unwanted from memory to bound book.

And especially to Loan, wherever you are. I will never forget you.

Nhatrang, May 12, 1972, 7 P.M.

I remember that night quite well. It is my first memory, and the happiest one from my childhood.

The familiar smell of pig roasting on a spit wafted from the kitchen. My mother made cheery noises as she ran from one hallway to the next, giving orders to the help with a hint of pompous confidence. The moist summer air evaporated into a transparent mist all around me due to the kind of heat found only in Nhatrang and only in May. And what I remember most of all is the sense of festivity all around me as the last rays of sunlight disappeared into the ocean, just a few hundred feet away from my window. It was my fifth birthday.

My childhood home, in order to accommodate my mother's passion for living near beautiful beaches, was situated by the water, with the waves murmuring at the foot of the house. The mansion was comprised of three stories and over twenty-four rooms, including at least eight bedrooms. All were furnished with expensive Western furniture thrown together by my mother's own design. And both to give the house personality and to honor my grandfather's last name, Mother named it Nguyen Mansion. From the numerous stories I was told growing up, mostly by my grandparents, I came to understand that my mother built the house during her pregnancy with me, motivated by the idea of having her first baby in her own home. Mother painted the outside of the house the color of eggshells, and, much to her consternation, I always thought the house was just a simple white color that had aged poorly with time. From the main entrance of the house to the front gate lay a large reddish marble pathway that encircled the garden, which housed a kidney-shaped pool. Our gardener, Mr. Tran, had been hired through an agency, and his job consisted mainly of planting and maintaining the many exotic species of flowers around the front part of the house. My mother, in an effort to shield the inside beauty from the outside world, constructed two enormous iron gates, as well as a high barbed-wire fence covered with thick vines, to obscure all within their boundaries. In the old days, I used to play with my toys in the garden while the children playing on the other side of the gate watched me with fascination. According to my mother, those children were either too dirty, or I was too clean, for my association with them. In Vietnam, rich children like myself wore sandals to protect their feet from the dirt and the heat, while poor children like the ones from the other side of the wall ran around barefoot.

That afternoon, before the celebration, much of the activity was centered in the kitchen. I was flying through the crowded rooms with my arms out like an airplane and making buzzing sounds, bumping into people's legs to simulate a crash. My brother and I had made up this clever plan to get treats from the help. Unfortunately, everyone seemed too busy to notice me. In the middle of the main kitchen a group of chefs stood around an enormous table, decorating a gigantic white cake with bunches of red roses, brown vines, and green leaves made from heavy whipped cream and food coloring. On the other side of the room, barely visible in the dark smoke, live fowls awaited their turn to be slaughtered; their frightened cackles rose over the impatient sizzling of the pork. A few steps away, a group of my mother's maids hovered over the busy stove preparing the main courses. One of the women turned on the ceiling fan as her friend strained cooked noodles over the drain. The fog from the boiling water swept up from the pot, adding to the heat in the room.

Looking for a new victim for my airplane game, I spotted a young caterer's apprentice. He was about ten years old and of diminutive size, with dark circles under his eyes. Running through the kitchen with a big bowl of whipped cream, he crashed into me. I knew how fearful our servants were when it came to my mother's wrath. While the boy was making sure I was not injured, I reached into his bowl for a handful of cream. Before he could recover from his shock, I laughed and ran off, lapping the sweetness from my hand.

Upstairs, I decided to take a peek inside my mother's bedroom. She sat regally at her makeup desk, fully dressed in a pale evening gown that glistened under the orange light like a mermaid's scales. Her attention was focused on brushing her long hair, which rippled down her arching back, jet-black and wavy. My mother was not a typically thin Asian woman. She had heavy breasts and round hips, joined by a thin waist. Her eyes, big and rimmed with dark mascara, concentrated on the image before her. Years spent watching my mother gaze at herself in the mirror had convinced me that she was the rarest, most beautiful creature that ever walked the face of this Earth.

My presence startled her. She took her eyes off her reflection, looked at me, and smiled, showing her white, straight teeth. At times I had sat for hours in my mother's bedroom while she confided her beauty secrets to me. I would listen earnestly, not to what my mother said, but to the mesmerizing sound of her voice, always full of wisdom and intelligence.

Her smile faded into a slight frown as she said, Look at you. What is that all over your face?

I touched my cheek and felt the remnants of the whipped cream. Licking my fingers, I answered her, It's for my cake in the kitchen. Can I come in?

She nodded. Sure, come in. And then came the scolding. What a dirty boy, eating in such a manner. Why don't you wait till dinner?

I sat on her bed and looked at her curiously. Using a small cotton pad, she was pressing white powder onto the backs of her hands.

What are you doing, Mommy? I asked.