“Can we visit Grandma?” I pleaded.
Yet no matter how much I persisted, my begging was always met by my parents’ usual rolling-of-the-eyes. A resounding “No” was their answer; my request was again denied. I knew that on the other side of the world awaited the blazing heat, the distinct aroma of my homeland: Vietnam. That enigma—my home—was as close as it was far away. My parents’ stories of a distant land both enticed and intrigued my young mind. The stories Mom told me—the mythology of my ancestors—flowed through my veins like blood, giving me life.
One day, out of the blue, my parents granted my request. I barely managed to contain my excitement. Finally, I would encounter my enigma; the stories would come to life. I would be taking a plane to the fabled land.
After seeing hour upon hour of textureless water, I peered through the foggy window at my side, and at long last, caught a glimpse of land. At first, all seemed to match the fairy-tale image I had built up in my imagination: the endless stretches of beaches, the busy crowds of the flea market, and the wild free-for-all traffic—all of which drew me in. But when we left the airport, I knew my home had vanished…destroyed. My eyes filled with terror as I looked around me: the third-world. Where was the dragon-dancing? Or the Mid-Autumn festivals? A quick, desperate scan of the land confirmed my worries: Gone—nonexistent. Mom and Dad clenched my hands tightly as we walked through what seemed to be the last breath of civilization, flanked by colorless ruins. Amidst the cacophony of sputtering machinery, a voice emanated to my left:
“Tien xin vui long?” Spare some money for the old?
Speechless, I stood there in shock. It was a tragic spectacle—I couldn’t believe it: The woman was armless and in a wheelchair—behind her stood her son, a boy very much like me, minus the new clothes, the livelihood, and the hope. I felt helpless; money wasn’t what she needed. It wouldn’t solve anything, and I knew it. She needed arms to take care of her youth—the future of Vietnam—not money. And as I stood there forlornly, I wanted to help but at the same time knew that I could not, that I did not have the capacity to do so. Alongside her were a million others with little to look forward to but the same menial jobs that pay almost nothing. My homeland was a nation of the poor, the bare-backed, and I couldn’t stand it.
I wanted to rid this feeling of helplessness—never again did I want to feel useless, simply a bystander of it all; no, instead, I wanted to come to terms with it, and take action. The crushing poverty of Vietnam has only strengthened my dreams of becoming a doctor. The mass of impoverished laborers I witnessed that evening has not slowed me down in the least bit—it’s only fueled my motivation and my endeavors. That enigma—mired in poverty or not—is still my homeland, my birthplace. For that, I shall do everything to transform my homeland into the fabled land of my parents’ stories.
The QT Psychologist 