FIFTY YEARS AGO, MY FAMILY got on a ship, just as Việt Nam fell. My father stayed behind—he left later on another ship—and ended up separated, on another island in the Pacific.
This is the moment when we became stateless people—a period of the floating world—and for a long time I could not shake the feeling that I was floating through life. The milk got stolen enroute—the milk that was packed to feed us babies—but nobody could be too upset about the larceny (we were all so desperate, and whoever did the stealing must have truly been in need).
This is all anecdote: I was just 3 years old—and I can’t say that I have strong memories—but I am told that I was a little monkey boy who enjoyed climbing the rope ladders (I vaguely recall them). I am told that my pacifier fell out of my mouth, and I almost jumped into the ocean after it. I must have been terribly attached to it—this pacifier—because I was ready to die for it. And I can believe this, too, because children feel so much with their heart, and I have never relinquished this habit.
This story was told so many times that it became my story—one that is a part of my personal history—but I am also self-aware enough to know that this story only survives because it is meaningful to my family: A story of loss. Of imminent death. Of a strong hand at the back of my pants, pulling me to safety. I can imagine the shape of my mouth—the O—as the pacifier fell into the ocean. They fed me sugar candies after that.
