The family
Christmas party was held each year at the home of one branch of the family,
that is, at one of my aunts’ or uncles’ homes. Newer, more spacious homes were
favored over cramped houses because there was a lot of family to accommodate.
Definitely over fifty, possibly over a hundred easy. That meant that some
uncles and aunts had not held the Clan Christmas party at their house for a
long time. It had been ten years for my mother. This was a long time,
considering my parents’ house was big enough and she was the second oldest of
twelve (the eldest daughter). Her only bigger brother still lived in Vietnam. That’s
how my mother became the decision maker in our family. Her older brother was
still in Vietnam, and he was a priest, which meant, he belonged to the
priesthood. So, even were he in the States, he could not have a hand in the
daily decision-making of our clan. And with a clan, daily decision making,
especially during the first years in America, required a daily presence in the
affairs of your family. That constant presence in every aspect of her family
was natural for my mother. (My mother’s immediate younger brother had passed
away in Vietnam during the war and incidentally, was also a priest.)
The Clan
Christmas party at my parents’ house ten years ago was a hectic affair, as
family affairs tend to be. It was hectic because my parents had just moved into
their new home. It had not yet been decorated. My mother was still sewing the
curtains the night before the party while the rest of us were busy cleaning the
house. For some reason, our house could never achieve that immaculate look of
other houses, not even when we were giving a party, and the house was brand
spanking new! There was always something out of place, off kilter, or that
needed to be picked up off the floor. For instance, my father had a set of
tools, black and yellow striped screwdrivers. The Philips head was on the
dining room table. The large flathead was on my father’s desk in the den. The
small flathead was on a shelf in either the family room or the bedroom
adjoining it via a shared bathroom. It migrated from room to room depending on (I
assume) usage, but I never saw my father or anyone else using the small
flathead. I just noticed that the screwdriver moved from room to room as a
wealthy Bostonite chose a winter or summer vacation destination. My mother was
happy that Christmas day. She was excited, energetic, invigorated. She finally
got to show off the two-story house she always wanted but didn’t get until all
four of us left home.
That was ten
years ago. My parents never held the family Christmas party at their house
again. Neither did my mother attend any of her clansmen’s Christmas parties. And
Christmas is a very important time for Catholic Vietnamese. Shortly after this
Christmas party, which was attended by all eleven surviving siblings, and was the
high point of our family, my parents and my Uncle the Priest returned to
Vietnam. My parents returned for a visit. My uncle returned to continue helping
the poor. My uncle, who had the opportunity to flee the Communists before the
fall of Saigon, who joined the seminary at twelve against my grandparents’
wishes because he was the oldest male, remained in Vietnam even after the fall
of Saigon. By choice. To take care of the poorest of the poor. Of course my
grandparents could not be prouder of him. He was the family sweetheart. If
there is one consistent thing about a clan, it is that they cannot agree on
anything. We only stand as a united front against the world. That is what
elevates a very large family to the status of a clan. My Uncle the Priest,
after over two decades, had finally been allowed to come to the States to see
his parents, ten siblings and at that time, thirty-something nieces and nephews.
Like many great empires, the downslide of our clan came on the heels of its
zenith.
After that
great Christmas celebrated at my parents’ new house, the next spring, my
parents went with my sister Mai and my Uncle the Priest back to Vietnam. Mai
went with them. Thuy was too busy with her residency. She did not have kids yet
so could not have that excuse. I had already went to Vietnam several years earlier when my father’s oldest
sister was faring poorly and she wanted to see one of her nieces or nephew. If
I had known that I could have used school or my postdoc as an excuse, then I
would have had a lifetime of excuses. But I didn’t want an excuse. I love
traveling and use any excuse to travel! But some people, they have to travel to
the well-trodden places, you know, Rome, Paris, and God forbid they travel to
out-of-the-way places like Da Lat, as Lonely Planet suggests. Better to go with a travel group for
protection against the foreigners in case you ever get homesick. And Vietnam,
Vietnam is too poor a place to go when you’re a physician, but somehow Thuy
made it to Rome all right. It’s more glamorous with the pope. In Vietnam, it
would’ve only been my uncle the priest. I made it to both Vietnam and Italy years
before because I don’t discriminate. To this day, my brother the priest and
Thuy have yet to visit Vietnam once. They make it to Rome enough. Too busy with
his parish. Too busy with her kids. It is often the case that uber religious
people do not have enough time for their family. Maybe their own kids, but
that’s in their direct line of self interest.
My uncle
died suddenly during that trip to Vietnam with my parents and Mai. One morning
he wasn’t feeling well. The doctor was called in. The doctor, such as he was
able, couldn’t find anything specifically wrong with my uncle, beyond needing bed rest. No tests were run. Blood tests were, and still are, a rarity in
Vietnam, save at a hospital. While my parents, my uncle, Mai, and the doctor
were thusly hanging out, my uncle said to the doctor, “Doctor, I don’t feel
well,” leaned over on my mother’s shoulder, and died.
This was the
shock of my mother’s life. There she was: in her country where she grew up,
fled as a refugee with a large family, struggling in a new land where she did
not speak the language with only the clothes on her back, praying and dreaming
that some day she could return to Vietnam, and when she is finally able, so
ecstatic to see old friends and relatives, touring the places where she grew up
and lived with her beloved older brother, her only older sibling and one of the
few people to whom she gave deference to in this world,, and he dies quietly on
her shoulder. My mother screamed for the doctor to come help when she could not
wake my Uncle. He had lain on her shoulder so still. The doctor performed CPR.
No use. My mother was in shock. Disbelief. She kept shaking her head, “No, no,
no no, keep going, keep trying doctor, don’t stop!” but all the denials in the
world would change nothing. My Uncle was dead. My beloved uncle, the family’s
heart. Dead on my mother’s shoulder. So it must have been my mother’s fault.
That’s what
my grandfather thought. He asked my mother over the phone twelve time zones
away, “Why did you not take care of my son?” What could my mother say to that?
