by Theresa Le - 7/08
Viet translations and mp3 by Minh-Nguyet. :)
She was more or less a social worker; at least the things Di Hai did reminded me of one. She visited a lot of people and they had one thing in common: They were either sick or homeless. I knew for a long time she was visiting the poor and the sick, she had told me, and I had asked her, pleaded with her, to take me along. I watched as she left the house on certain days, watched as she reached her hands inside the gate to carefully lock the door before leaving. My eyes curiously followed her and wondered where she would go this day. She thought I was too young to come with her. "When you're 12, I can take you", she used to tell me.
I was brought up a Catholic, praying in front of the altar of Mother Mary every day before school. The prayers were good for me because this was the only time my mom would give me money, enough to buy a little snack during recess at school. The altar was also my aunt's dresser; inside she kept her belongings and a little notebook which she scribbled after each “visit”. I never read it, never needed to, because one day she decided that I have begged enough, and that she would take me along with her. She told me I need to start a journal. Inside it I would write: The good things I did today.
That started an adventure that forever changed my life! I not only saw poverty, I actually talked and listened to the poor people. At first I was quiet, shy and observant, but as the people saw me, the little girl with a bob haircut who was non-threatened to anyone, they started asking me questions which got me talking. The people lived in dirty corners of some alleys, small, wet, hot, smelly... Their "houses" were made of cardboards, nothing to shelter them from the rain. One time, I saw Di Hai lifted the cardboards and I could see people lying underneath; from time to time I would find a child too. I often wondered what they ate when they barely had clothes to cover their bodies. My heart ached for them! I noted these things in my journal.
Another time, when my uncle took us out to lunch, a child guided his blind father into the restaurant and begged for food, they were quickly shooed away by the customers. They were hungry and without money and asked if they could eat the leftover that someone had left on the table. My heart tightened and felt angry at people who made them leave. The next time I went to eat with my uncle, I ordered a big bowl of noodle soup hoping the little boy would show up, and to my excitement he did! After a few bites, I made excuses about a stomach ache and how I couldn't finish my soup. I endured listening to my uncle preached to me for having bigger eyes than my stomach but my reward was the little boy and his blind father had a decent size, still hot, bowl of soup to eat.
I was on a quest looking for good things to do to add to my journal.
Despite what the French Vietnamese Catholic nuns at St. Paul thought of me, (and they thought I was the most devious, menacing child in 5th grade!), my journal filled up with "the good things I did today". I should add that I think the St. Paul nuns were mean (and mean is still a nice word to describe them) and some of the mean teachers deserved black ink squirted from my pen onto their dresses!
I continued to follow Di Hai around to different corners of Saigon. But there was one time that struck me the most; it was when Di Hai took me to a hospital.
It was before 1975, I was 10 or 11, and the Viet Nam war was raging, the country – North, South - torn apart. Bullet shells scattered the sidewalks in front of my house, the neighbor kids and I used to collect them for fun. Small shells, big shells...They would show up the next day, even after we cleared all of them the day before. The nights were not still, there were flares in the sky, rat-tat-tat of gunshots nearby, bombs exploded in the distance, airplanes rumbled in the sky... The radio morbidly announced names of dead soldiers; my grandmother listened endlessly to see if she recognized any of the names. Images of mothers wailed holding their dead babies, wives holding husbands…reoccurring on televisions, with the Theme from Exodus playing the background. To this day, every time I hear that song I still get flashbacks!
I saw numerous wounded soldiers lying outside that hospital, apparently there were not enough room for everyone to be inside. Di Hai told me to stay put as she crossed over the lawn to talk to the soldiers. I could hear them moaning and see a lot of red on their bandages from where I stood. It was hot, the flies were buzzing and the mosquitoes were merciless. I stood helplessly looking at my small hands, wishing I could do something for the soldiers who seemed to be in so much in pain. My aunt returned shortly, "Too scary for you to go near…too bloody…missing body parts", she panted, “Even I am scared.” I could see the pain in her eyes. I prayed to become a doctor. I prayed I could ease the soldiers’ pain. Never would I forget that burning desire as I stood there, “God, oh GOD! Let me do something to help! Let me BE somebody who can help!” For many years, that image of wounded soldiers dangled in front of me, pushing me to study hard.
The Fall of Saigon in 1975 made us leave home and left Di Hai and my grandmother behind. It was a very sad day for all of us and many people’s lives turned upside down. I was a few months shy of being 12 when I left Viet Nam.
My journal of good things dwindled after I came to the States. America was big, everything was big, big houses, big roads, big cars, big yard, big refrigerators...At the time, we were the poor people who needed help since we came here with nothing, and we had to be on welfare and tried hard to rebuild our lives. People were visiting us, not the other way around. My journal consisted of “I did my homework…” far different from “I visited the poor, 3 times today.”
I picked up playing the piano again at 13, paying for my own lessons with money made from babysitting the neighbor's children. I joined a band at 16 and played for 10 years straight, donating the money I made to the church. I didn’t mind, I loved playing music. Since I’m quiet by nature, the piano became my best friend as it could speak and express my feelings for me.
I never made doctor and I was so crushed. I was disappointed with myself. I did so poorly in Biology and Chemistry that I had to pick Computer Science, not because I like computers, but because it was the only degree at George Mason University that didn't require a natural science to graduate.
Years went by, the dreams of becoming a doctor evaporated and playing in the band was the thing of the past, but the yearning of helping the poor and sick never ceased. My heart and soul are of a gypsy. I dream of music and peace, and helping the poor. Mother Theresa was my all-time hero.
It was only a little more than a year ago that I found myself playing music again in a "band". This band has no name, it couldn’t give itself a name, and it couldn’t agree on a name if someone suggested a name for it, but it would accept playing music for charity in a few heartbeats.
All of a sudden, I found myself not just playing a lot of music again, but playing music to raise money for the poor! I even traced the money trail by going back to Viet Nam to see that the poor children get their sandals, bicycles, to see that the students get their room and board and to see that the people who want to be doctors are given scholarships to finish their medical education, so they can go on to help the sick.
I have come full circle!
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Saigon was so crowded when I visited this past July. It’s been 10 years since I last saw my Di Hai. Poor Di Hai, she was so excited to see me that she could not sleep the night before. She is now 81 and still so beautiful. I told her stories of my family, my siblings as she sat, intently listened.
“Do you remember you used to take me to visit the sick and the poor?” I asked her, to which she said yes. I cried and was so delighted that she remembered that part of our lives, that precious window of my childhood I hold so dear to my heart. I had feared she would not remember, as she seemed to be losing her memory.
“I don’t need to be a doctor to help people”, I said to her. I can help people with a smile and a song. I am happy and content.
I ought to know better, Di Hai wasn’t a doctor either, neither was Mother Theresa or the Dalai Lama, but one can see the lives they’ve touched. Their journal of “good things I did today” would have stacked up in volumes. Di Hai not only taught me love, compassion, kindness, empathy by living a good example, she provided me with the opportunity to exercise these traits with other human beings! It is in the giving that I receive and find much happiness. I consider myself blessed. I’m forever grateful for what she had instilled in me.
I held Di Hai, I held her hand for a long time and kissed her. Best things I’ve done in years!
Theresa Que-Huong Le, July 2008
Written for Di Hai, with much love.
Viet translations and mp3 by Minh-Nguyet. :)
I mourned him as millions of people around the world.)
He loved the media and took advantage of it to broadcast peace and love. I remember news about the Berlin wall being brought down, reuniting East & West Germany, and later read about the significant roll he played in it. I remember the news when he was shot, and I remember the news when he seeked his shooter and forgave him.
