An Answer to your Question of Almost a Century
by Thy Ngo
Written in honor of my grandfather
Your blurred face stares at me across the weathered table as the sun
bears its heat through the blinds. From your gentle voice I hear the words:
“Thầy, I want to know your story before you are gone.”
You are asking me to give you my history
and fill your vessel with my wisdom while
I have survived 94 years. You, my youngest son,
the playful one, came with my 10 other children to this southern land of marshes to
celebrate 100 years of life I have not yet reached.
You’re afraid you’ll see my grave before
the digits strike three.
Here I am fulfilling your plea, recounting my life’s story. A narrative incomplete in my decaying
memory, yet more vivid than my fading knowledge
of birthdays and your children’s names.
I was only four years younger than you:
48 when I made the journey.
I hauled you and your siblings onto the rickety boat
that would take us to safety.
My heart grieves each day with the guilt
of not having left sooner—for your mother,
shot dead at the point of a gun,
could’ve been spared to care for you, son.
You and my little Lien had not even lived a decade. But my steely
exterior hardened by pride refused to let go
of the place I call home, fervently wanting my children to grow
on the rice-fertile plains in the land I was born, being comforted
by the waters that rocked my soul to sleep.
I desired for your eyes to wander at the docking of boats
come dawn, the sea calling with the whispers of a hundred cá lung linh.
But my love was lost, and I was left to be alone—
to be the nurturing hand
to nourish, to feed, to care
as a grieving man.
The journey to the frigid place across the ocean tumbled with the tides of my grief.
I couldn’t lose sight of you—my children—or my spirit would be lost. So I
summoned courage from God and God’s Mother through our Fathers and Hail Marys,
recited under my breath as I nudged your sleepy body to repeat.
I urged you to hold on tight to your sisters and brothers,
watching as the frantic, innocent eyes of my youngest son
searched for a sign of the sun. We pleaded to Heaven as our boat was tugged by God’s ocean and
I held your warm chest to my aching heart.
We crammed into air-tight bedrooms in the snow-cold
land of Chicago where I watched you
play with white boys and chase
wild rabbits with blunted knives. When my shift at the school ended,
I brought home day-old donuts for dinner,
staring with the weight of a rock in my stomach as
my children ate stale cakes like they were from Heaven’s bakery.
“Don’t worry, kids,” I jested, “I washed my hands after cleaning the toilets.”
I used your laughter to fill the void of losing my love
as I soothed your empty stomachs with almost-expired sweets
passed along to me in pity.
I watched in silence as life stole your mother
from you and then your white-boy friend when we migrated South
to Louisiana: a name I still can’t pronounce.
I worked night shifts as you wrapped
your tongue around a dialogue and
befriended Black kids on the block.
The landscape here is sun-charred and humid,
reminding me of my rice-fertile home across the sea but
without the comfort of the ocean
luring me from sleep come morning.
Only 15 years passed when you left your Black friends behind.
It was you who made the choice, this time—
not the soldiers in the marshes
or your weary father with softening bones and a hardened facial expression.
You moved with your brothers to a land of sunshine where you
settled close to the ocean and had two children.
You never returned to the country where I nourished your fragile life
52 years ago,
my lungs breathing in the salt of the ocean
that bound me to decades-long grief.
I don’t remember the name
of the little girl you now tell to kiss me on the cheek and say, “Happy Birthday, ông nội—
thank you for telling me your story.”
But I am glad you came to see me, asking
to record my story in youthful memory
before my digits strike three.