July 2004
“I have two Chinatown moods. Times when Chinatown is a terrible place to live in. Times when Chinatown is the only place to live in…”
—Frances Chung, poet
If you haven’t noticed lately, it’s been difficult to get around Little Saigon. The foundation of mega-boulevards like Bolsa, Brookhurst and Westminster, have been gutted up and blocked off. For what new urban landscape? The reason eludes us drivers. The only thing we know is that it has gotten even slower.
This is a town where you can be a transient Viet, but when it comes to navigating the streets, two kinds of folks emerge: those who live here and those who visit. Those who live here know to take Hazard and Bushard to cut through traffic. Those who live here know which intersection creates instant karma with red-light cameras. Those who live here know where to park at Phuoc Loc Tho. Hint: it’s not at Phuoc Loc Tho. Those who live here know how to move amidst immobility. Those who don’t live here – are at a loss.
I belong somewhere in between. My family always lived on the outskirts of Little
Saigon and the weekends were when we visited Viet Town. I remember seeing Bolsa girls whose beautiful yet hardened faces made me admire them and made my father say, “Don’t you ever become one.”
I remember attending Tet Festivals, marathons at Miles Square Park and being part of the first Little Saigon Clean-up crew. We were high school students marching down the boulevards, adamant about a cleaner community. While at it, we stopped by Pho 54 to demand more noodles, less soup.
With friends, I loitered the food courts, arcades, Sanrio stores and strip malls – rarely buying anything. The worst customers can often be the most reliable. There were those places whose services were unclear at first – herbal medicine counters, immigration offices and coffee shops. Although coffee shops turned out to be exclusively male, I like to think their reach goes farther. At night, the glaring neon signs are a reminder, to an otherwise somber Bolsa, that we are still awake. Something about those years, both exciting and far way, made me build Little Saigon into a place of infinite possibility.
Now that I've actually moved to Westminster, I indulge in the antics of Viet Town all the time. After six months, I can say this: once you have finished your business, filled your tummy, and visited your relations – there is nothing left in Little Saigon.
I would not have come to this conclusion if it had not been for massive construction that has left The Bolsa fragile – all four blocks seem to be collapsing in on itself. As one of those who returned to make a life – I am starting over and at a
much slower pace.
Nights ago, I was so hungry I headed for the nearest fast food chain, Lee’s Sandwiches, which never closes. After ordering a baguette and avocado milkshake, I waited in the tiny parking lot. Of all the places that could be happening in Little Saigon, Lee’s at night is jammed with people – young, old, drunk, sober — all of them up and out of their cars.
Much like a block party, Lee's lot area had become a little trashed. Straw wrappers, cigarette butts and half-eaten food piled and spilled out of the bins onto the walkway. I leaned against the glass walls and watched people brush pass me again and again. The most reassuring thing about this random gathering? Like myself, everyone stood around – under the open sky and stars – like we had no place to go.
