November 2004
Though rare, there are moments of peace and stillness in this town. It happens during the morning hours before Little Saigon earns its reputation of a suburban metropolis with bumper-to-bumper traffic, marked with billboards ranging from soy sauce to sweaty palm ads; an open tourist market except for those bearing the wrong flag. A meandering breeze breaks through my window, sending off the wind chimes I have set there to remind me that the comforts of a simple life are within reach. Cheap IKEA curtains throw a delicate pink light into my room. In truth, they are more Vietnamese than Swedish – marketed as European but made in Asia. Things are never what they seem. This posturing yet alluring glow, is it reminiscent of an idealized vision of the womb or the homeland or both? This is all I know of home, would I want to make war here? No, this is where I make love.
Yet everything else suggests an oncoming storm. First, there is the dismal state of public health. I have caught the virus that is going around – a combination of the head cold, stuffy nose, sore throat, achy aches – all converging into the flu (and conveniently, after the national vaccine supplies is cut off). The weather is hardly forgiving with the constant rain, winds, and thunder. People are fatigued, contagious, and dragged down by the burden of the upcoming national and local election. Are we in a state of mind to make sound decisions that could make or break our future?
My profile reveals a seemingly educated and empowered individual; however, I feel loss. All the tv ads and mailings slip my mind, which candidates should be elected and what proposition should be passed? How many Nguyens may end up on the school board? Having moved three times in the last year, I can’t even remember which city I registered under.
During our walks down Bolsa, now bombarded with political ads, my dog makes “deposits” by the signs of certain candidates. Apparently, she does not like Republicans. How disturbing that I am taking pointers from my pet, what kind of model citizen am I? Even worse, abusing a forum like journalism to express misgivings about the system, and what happened to the sex in this column!
And as the storm brews on the national horizon, it brews on the homefront as well. Meanwhile, my parents are worried over how much time I am taking off work. This is my fourth day of moping around in sweats, I might as well be playing hooky from school. “But I’m not feeling well,” I say. “Then wipe that grin off your face, you fake!” Such is the immigrant/ working class mentality that they feel a day off gives your employer every reason to fire you. I assure them that I am simply not replaceable; that any legitimate company allots for something called sick time. Still, my upbringing has ingrained in me a fear that if I fall behind, the world doesn’t allow second chances. Could my annual review reflect an unaccountable number of sick days?
Within my family, each of us has lost jobs, stayed with horrible ones for the sake of security, and waited out fate for new ones. There are times when we were more like day-laborers. I would drop my father off in a lot where he could find temporary work, spending the morning shuffling in the heat with other disfranchised men.
A likewise, white-collared version was the months I spent at a temp agency. They would make promises to place me at a real job (a real home) then pull the contract from underneath, herding me toward a new company – each time offering an apology, until it would happen again. Was the exchange of my dignity worth the paycheck at the end of the week?
It would have to, my parents taught us. A trade-off, not dissimilar to the reality of surviving in this country.
There is something else going around the air and it’s catching on quick – anxiety and hope, bringing a growing urgency. Who will win the most powerful seat in the world – President of the United States? And will he keep his promises? Otherwise, what is the point of voting, of citizenship, and of working if not to contribute to a better quality of life and society? I would like to think that the results of this upcoming election will resonate from Orange County to the global community.
What’s the report from Little Saigon? Coffee and baguettes served on every corner. A new Viet Weekly appears each Thursday. And one last race: Miss Vietnam USA will be crowned in Long Beach. However, the traffic lights on the intersection of Westminster and Magnolia keep malfunctioning. Blinking in and out on us. One moment, causing a back up all the way to Bolsa; the next moment, suddenly turning green and we rush forward with our lives. We give into the convenience of collective, political amnesia; pretending that whatever changes or setbacks emerge from this election are only minor disruptions, like broken traffic lights.
November’s come, a wake-up call, and there’s no time to sleep in.
