2008 Woodie Awards
Playing favorites
From Vietnam to the United States, memories abound
Chau Nguyen
Issue date: 2/19/08 Section: OpEd Page
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In Vietnam, I monopolized his time and affection. By the time I was five, he had welcomed eight other grandchildren into the world, but I was the first grandchild he could cradle in his arms, sing to in Vietnamese and spoil with what little he had.
When we came to America, he made sure I never forgot where I was from. We talked to each other in Vietnamese-whoever spoke English in the house had to smack themselves on the mouth. We listened to Vietnamese music and ate Vietnamese food. We prayed together in Vietnamese. After all, a family that prays together in Vietnamese stays Vietnamese together.
Well into his 60s, he was a tireless worker. Regardless of what he was doing-whether it was mopping floors or stocking produce at the local grocery store-he would stop to hug me and slip me a few dollars for candy when my mom wasn't looking.
Over our first few months in America, we packed three generations of Nguyens into a minivan like sardines on the way to church. While others were fighting over window seats and car sickness bags, I had a permanent seat on my grandpa's lap. With his strong arms wrapped around me and his hands clasped together as my seat belt, I felt safe. Together, we watched the cars speed past.
Eventually, we watched as cars sped past as my grandpa steadily crawled down the road at 20 miles per hour on our way to the library for school projects or the grocery store for Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. For Christmas, he drove me to Kids'R'Us and bought me the pair of jeans my mom said I didn't need. He wanted me to look good for school, regardless of the cost.
Every week I would peer outside my window, waiting for his burgundy four-door to come and take me away. Concerned about him being on the road in his old age, my parents didn't like him driving a lot and told him they would take me instead. He came and drove me regardless.
In August 1999, I could no longer look forward to seeing him pull up in my driveway because a car accident had left him paralyzed from the neck down. He was left looking like a character out of "Frankenstein." Metal bolts sticking out of the four corners of his head, a breathing tube protruding from a hole in his neck, his strong arms lifeless at his sides.
At Good Samaritan Hospital, I watched my grandpa lie helpless and immobile in his hospital bed, dependent on more than just his faith to survive. I could tell it was killing him. It was killing all of us.
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