Category: Loss
Ever get a phone call from a ghost?
A friend of a friend did. True story. Here’s what happened.
She was driving alone in the evening. The sun was down and blackness surrounded her. Occasional headlights littered her view. Otherwise, the highway in front of her was as black as the sky.
It was around 10:00 PM. Her cell phone was with her. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a chance to use it before it happened.
Another car hopped the divider and charged towards her. The bright lights flooded her with its brilliant glare. She couldn’t see what was going on. She barely had any time to react.
The other car struck her head-on.
Even though she had her seat belt on, the force of the collision killed her instantly. That’s what the coroner reported later. At least she didn’t have to suffer.
The other driver was drunk. A senseless and avoidable tragedy.
Her family was alerted as soon as it happened. Their grief was horrible. Agonizing. It’s unbearable to feel the loss of a daughter.
Her friends heard about it soon thereafter. One friend couldn’t believe it. She even doubted it. How can you accept that a good friend, someone you were just talking to, is suddenly gone, forever?
Then she got the phone call.
It was her. Plain as day, her name appeared on the caller ID. See, she couldn’t be dead. She’s calling right now. The friend answered the phone.
Silence.
“Hello? Hello?” She called her friend’s name out several times. Still, no sound. Then the dial tone.
The friend dropped her phone. Icicles sliced through her spine. She shivered, even though it was a warm summer night.
The friend checked with the police later. Did someone use her phone? Maybe make the call by accident?
No, the phone was turned off and in police custody at the time of the call. It was later returned to the family. But no living person was using the phone at that time.
Was she trying to reach out to her friend one last time? What was she trying to say? Why that friend and not her family? And if that wasn’t her, who—or what—made that call?
It’s one of those mysteries we may never be able to answer in this lifetime. But perhaps, in the next life, we’ll learn the answer.
It was sometime around my freshman year of college when I got the call. I still remember it to this day.
Cute as a button and small as a purse, Ginger was a scampering, yipping puff of hair. She was a tiny black Pomeranian, which is classified as a toy dog breed because they’re small like children’s toys.
Our cousins gave her to us, back when she could fit in a mug. They called her Cookie, because she loved cookies. My Mom carried her home in her purse.
My parents tell me I named her Ginger, though I don’t remember doing that. I’m guessing it was a reference to Gilligan’s Island, which is strange because I always liked Mary Ann better.
She had a habit of going after socks. Sometimes she’d somehow get her tiny head into a sock, then run around aimlessly trying to get the sock off. It was the weirdest sight. A little black dog with a dangling sock over her head, scrambling around and bumping into walls. Really weird.
With a face like a fox, she looked like a stuffed animal. She loved to scamper beneath your feet too. Since she’s black, it was sometimes hard to see her darting around at night. So occasionally, I’d step on her. Oops.
She was a feisty little pup. Full of energy and life, she’d sometimes chase her own tail in dizzy circles. Then she’d stop and stand there, wobbling. I didn’t say she was a smart little pup, only a feisty one.
Pomeranians are supposed to be good watchdogs. Ginger wasn’t. Not shy in the least, she seemed to revel in attention. When friends and neighbors came by, she’d first bark (well, it was more of a tiny “yipping” sound), then run up to them and eagerly take in some free petting.
The kitchen was her favoritest place in the world. Whenever someone entered the kitchen, she’d dash right over. She was always able to eat and keep her girlish figure. I think her belly was a black hole that just sucked down food. That, or she was taking really large poops in the backyard and hiding them from us.
Ginger wasn’t just the family pet though. Sometimes, after a rough day, I’d sit on the porch and Ginger would lie down next to me. There, she’d provide me with some pet therapy. She especially loved it when you scratched behind her ears.
On particularly bad days, I’d regale her of my woes. She was a great listener: wagging her tail or growling at all the right moments. Wait, did I just admit to talking to my dog? Um, forget I wrote that.
So when my Mom called me up during my freshman year of college, I was nowhere near prepared to hear it.
“I’m sorry. We had to put Ginger to sleep.”
Ginger lived about 14 human-years, or 98 dog-years. Hopefully many of them were good years. Towards the end, her age was very apparent. Her sight and hearing began to fade, as she’d walk into walls (but not in a funny way) and not hear her name being called.
There were even a few agonizing moments where she’d tumble down the stairs. In her younger years, she’d eagerly leap up and down the stairs to follow us around. Later, the stairs required baby barricades to protect her. (Fortunately, she was never hurt seriously from the falls.)
Then various sicknesses ravaged her tiny body. We gave her all manner of doggie medicines and vitamins. But there was only so much we could do to a 98-dog-year-old.
When The Day came, my family fed Ginger a delicious meal, pet and played with her all morning long, then scooped her up and drove to the vet. Pet owners will tell you that their pets always know when they were being taken to the vet. No one has any idea how; they just know.
On the car ride there, Ginger didn’t resist at all. But she did look up at my Mom, who was cradling her in her arms, and tears formed in her eyes. As if she knew, yet accepted it. My Mom cried when she told me this.
There’s still a photo of Ginger hanging in the house. Sometimes, when I’m there at night, I swear I can feel her scampering beneath my feet. I always look down, hoping I’d see her, yipping at me or running in circles chasing her tail.
. . .
Did you have a childhood pet?
We deserve our fate. It’s our collective fault that we’ve created so much pollution.
Call me a pessimist, but I don’t see much hope in our world’s corporations and governments. I don’t believe they’ll take enough significant action in time to make a difference. It would take a complete societal overhaul to save us now.
Everyone’s heard of global warming by now. Did you know there’s another phenomenon at work too? Global dimming, it’s called. Both are symptoms of a rapidly deteriorating world.
Scientists theorize that life began to thrive on this planet as microscopic plants released their byproducts—oxygen—into the atmosphere. Before that, the atmosphere was a harsh mixture of solar radiation and other gases, including carbon dioxide.
It’s this carbon dioxide that the microscopic plants consumed. Over millions of years, their byproduct, lucky for us, created the atmosphere we have today. This made the surface of the planet suitable for animal life.
These early plants helped us out again when, over the ages, they fell to the Earth, decayed & fossilized, and became what we call coal, oil, and fossil fuels today. But when humankind discovered that burning these resources could release enormous amounts of energy, we began to reverse all that these early plants accomplished.
For the burning of these resources released enormous amounts of carbon dioxide into the air. Over the years, this carbon dioxide and other pollutants filled the atmosphere with a wide range of consequences, some most probably deadly.
Unfortunately, we’ve all been too short-sighted to see them.
The scientists who first caught onto global warming created scenarios that showed drastic climate changes and the potential destruction of human society in the far future. Perhaps in several generations or more.
The gases produced by our industrial societies are creating a Greenhouse Effect that will drastically warm the atmosphere, melt the polar ice caps, dry the forests, and thereby destroy an environment suitable for human life. But this would happen hundreds of years from now, they thought.
Then scientists caught onto global dimming. Pollutants in the air have actually been shielding us from the sun’s rays and fooling us into thinking that global warming wasn’t happening that fast. Temperatures weren’t rising as fast as they thought, so some concluded that drastic climate changes would happen much later.
Eventually, the scientists realized the full extent of the environmental destruction. They’ve realized that global dimming has lulled us into a false hope. The situation, apparently, is much more dire.
The latest projection, according to a BBC documentary, is that in 2035, the Earth’s atmosphere will have raised enough to begin melting the polar ice caps. As the world’s oceans rise, thousands of cities will become submerged.
2035 isn’t all that far away. That’s still in my lifetime. That scares the shit out of me, to be perfectly honest.
And looking at the track record of these scientists’ projections, they’re usually too conservative. Each time they get new data, they discover that they’ve been way off; the situation is always happening faster than they assumed.
Now I try and do my own part in helping. I recycle. I minimize my driving. I purchase environmentally-friendly products. But is that really enough? Even if the entire city of San Francisco was environmentally-friendly, would that be enough?
It’s been said that as soon as China’s entire population becomes industrialized, that will mean the end of the Earth. Just imagine that entire landmass creating unfathomable amounts of extra pollution.
I’m as supportive as any other Chinese American in wanting to see China grow into a prosperous nation. But humankind overall just isn’t smart enough yet to realize the consequences of economic growth. The incentive of economic power is too strong a temptation to think about the long-term effects of our actions.
So collectively, we’re responsible for our planet. I’m as much a member of the human race as you are. Pleading ignorance or inaction isn’t going to save you.
What does that mean for us then? What can we do? I’m stricken by a sense of helplessness at this situation. I can write letters to my Congressman (although they’ve already demonstrated that they won’t listen, as evident in the U.S.’s treatment of the Kyoto Protocol). I can join an environmental agency. I can keep on recycling.
But this problem is so much larger than that; it’s a global problem, and the solution needs to be global as well. The Kyoto Protocol was a good first try, but obviously it wasn’t globally effective.
Part of me looks at this and wonders: perhaps humankind deserves this. If we, as a race, are too ignorant and short-sighted to see what we’re doing, then perhaps we don’t deserve this life we’ve been given.
Or perhaps this cycle, the cycle of “carbon dioxide to oxygen back to carbon dioxide” into the atmosphere is a check-and-balance feature of the environment. A defense mechanism of the Earth, so to speak.
Such theories aren’t new, of course. People have been theorizing about diseases and natural disasters as “Earth’s defense mechanisms” for years now. In light of what’s happening, I can’t help but wonder about them now too.
It’s frightening to think of what we’re leaving to our children’s children. Oftentimes, we think that we’re inheriting the Earth from our parents. There’s an old Native American saying that goes: “We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children.”
At the end of the day, I tend to be a hopeful person by nature though. I can’t accept that there’s absolutely no hope. I don’t have an answer yet, but I know that there are at least a thousand others who are trying to solve this solution too.
In my opinion, there are generally two ways to change the world: through policy and through education. How exactly to use those to change the world, I don’t know yet. But I’m sure as Hell going to think about it. Not for my own sake, but for my children’s children sake.
. . .
What do you think will happen to the Earth?
Yeh-Yeh is what you call your grandfather, your father’s father, in Cantonese. Ngeen-Ngeen is what you call your grandmother, your father’s mother.
There is a different title for each relative, depending on the side of the family. Even each aunt and uncle has a different title. It is a lot to remember, though as a kid, it seemed perfectly normal. The Western way of using only one word seemed almost lazy by comparison.
My Yeh-Yeh was anything but lazy. At his eulogy, one of my uncles said he was a proud man who worked hard all of his life. I wonder what will be said of my Ngeen-Ngeen at her eulogy next week.
Fortunately, I saw her just three weeks ago. I held her hand as she smiled at me. Little did I know it was to be the last time I’d ever see her smile again.
I don’t know a great deal about their lives and hardships, though Yeh-Yeh fortunately left our family a short memorandum of his life. He wrote it right after his 50th marriage anniversary. Cross-referencing that with what I know of American history, I’ve gathered a small glimpse into their past.
He immigrated to the United States when he was only seventeen years old as a “paper son“. First, he arrived in San Francisco. Then, about two weeks later, he moved to New York City to work with his actual grandfather at a laundromat. Like many other Chinese immigrants before him, he toiled in that laundromat day and night to help his family have a better life.
Three years later, he returned to China with his grandfather. There, he reunited with a schoolmate sweetheart, my Ngeen-Ngeen. They were married soon thereafter.
After their first son (my eldest uncle) was born, Yeh-Yeh returned to New York alone and continued working at the laundromat. The money he made was sent back to China to support his wife and son.
Then came World War II. Like many other patriotic Chinese Americans before him, he enlisted into the United States Army. After basic training, was shipped to England for overseas services as a combat engineer with the 1st Division.
He was part of the campaigns in French North Africa and Sicily, Italy. The incursion into French North Africa was dubbed Operation Torch and was led by U.S. General Dwight Eisenhower. This operation successfully pushed German General Erwin Rommel and his Afrika Korps back to Germany.
With that victory, the Allied forces quickly turned to Sicily with Operation Husky, also under Eisenhower. This led to the dismissal of the Italian Dictator Benito Mussolini a few weeks later.
Then came June 6th, 1944 and the Battle of Normandy. Dubbed Operation Overlord, the brutal invasion is one of the most bloodiest and largest in human history. My Yeh-Yeh was there. Realizing that has given me a whole new haunting perspective to the movie “Saving Private Ryan” and it’s Omaha Beach invasion scene.
He and his division pressed onward through France, Holland, Belgium, Germany, and finally to Czechoslovakia. A series of decisive victories followed them. Finally, Nazi Germany and Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich was defeated on May 8th, 1945. Also known as V-E Day, my Yeh-Yeh was in Schoubach, Czechoslovakia on that day.
When I was a kid, he would often give my brother and me G.I. Joe figures. The very first figure was a minesweeper. He pointed at it and told us that was what he did in the war. There is also a vague memory of a story about him being in a trench as a tank passed above him. During those years of war, he was in front-line combat duty for a total of sixteen months.
Several years later, he returned to China to be with his family. Right before the war ended, the Chinese Exclusion Act was repealed in 1943. Over the next few years, he brought his wife and kids over to the United States to be with him and to give them all a better life.
I hope my Yeh-Yeh and Ngeen-Ngeen are proud of their children and grandchildren. In my mind, they’ve vastly succeeded in giving all of us very privileged lives, lives that would never have been possible otherwise. I am eternally grateful for their sacrifices, both for this country and their family.
Thank you, Yeh-Yeh and Ngeen-Ngeen. Now that you both are together once more, I hope you are happy and smiling again.
. . .
What do you remember of your grandparents?
As his eyes rose to the sun-brazen sky, he thought to himself: “Yup, today is a good day to make amends.”
The old man staggered down the steps of his porch. Each worn board creaked out a different tale. He stomped onto the sand and puffed dirt into the sky. His cane pressed into the ground and left behind a solitary mark.
A wind began to gust. It howled around him as he wandered into the open wheat field behind his ranch. Both his bones and the wind sang to him, a raspy whistling tune.
He turned around and surveyed his home. The two-story house stood proud yet empty. There once was laughter all around. The old man blinked his wet eyes to try to see it again. “Ah, there it is.”
A little boy raced around the house, chased by an older boy and a younger girl. A woman stood in the doorway with a cup of coffee, smiling. The older boy caught the younger one and tackled him. The girl squealed and jumped up and down in delight. The boys tumbled into the grass and howled.
Then a puff of smoke appeared in the street. The children stopped playing and looked up. A truck rounded the bend and cruised towards the house. “Poppa!” cheered the children.
A man stepped out from the truck. The children ran up and encircled his legs. “Poppa!” they shouted.
He smiled and jumbled their hair. “How are my little munchkins?” he teased. The boys ran in circles around him as he picked up the little girl and gave her a kiss. “And how are you, my little princess?”
The little girl giggled. “We played hide-and-go-seek today!” she announced with glee. “And I hid in a bush behind the house and they couldn’t find me!”
“Is that so? Why, you’re a clever little princess!”
The woman walked over. “Hi honey!”
“Hi baby!” he greeted and hugged and kissed her too.
The vision began to blur. Blinking, the old man rubbed his eyes and tried to save the past. When he looked up again, it was gone.
He sighed and started towards the wheat field again. The wind rushed dirt and leaves around his thin legs. Covered only by tattered trousers and worn-out patches, his legs shivered. In the wind, a few lonely gray hairs fluttered, as if trying to leave his old body.
His joints cracked and the pain almost made him yelp. Breathing heavily, he steadied himself with his cane as he felt his heart pounding in his chest. Each beat was a thunderous roar. He winced and continued on.
As he brushed aside the wheat, the memories picked at his ears. He heard faint noises inside the house. Once again, a truck drove up to the house. But this time, no “Poppa!” cheers greeted the man in the truck.
The man entered the house. Footsteps approached him. “It’s so late, honey,” said the woman’s voice. A muffled agreement answered her. “The kids are upstairs already, asleep. We were waiting for you for dinner, but they finally got too tired and went to sleep.”
Another muffled answer came from the man and the footsteps shuffled apart.
The old man rubbed his ears. He wasn’t sure he wanted to keep listening, but he couldn’t stop it now. “Honey,” spoke the woman’s voice, “how much longer do you have to keep working so late?”
The tired man’s voice muttered, “I’m sorry baby. You know I have to keep doing this for the family. I have a lot of responsibilities.” Then he fell into the bed, exhausted.
This pain was worse than the pain in the old man’s joints. He grabbed his chest. Each breath was a labor of agony. The pounding of his old heart was getting louder.
His eyes were tearing again. He blinked but wasn’t able to clear them. In front of him was the woman, lying peacefully in an open casket. Her arms were to her sides and her eyes were closed.
The man cried as his children attended to the funeral. “Dad,” one of them said days later. “I think you ought to go live in a place where someone can take care of you.”
The man looked at his son, bewildered. “You mean leave this house? Live in a nursing home? Our family grew up here. I can’t leave here.”
The son shook his head. “Now that Mom’s gone, we can’t leave you alone.”
“Then stay,” said the man quietly, hopefully. “Stay with me. Just for a little while.”
“Dad, we have our own lives now. I’ve already taken off enough days for this funeral. I can’t take off any more time. I have responsibilities.”
The man bowed his head and nodded. He taught his children well. “I’m staying,” he declared. “I can take care of myself here.”
The son sighed. “Fine, Dad.” He stood up and took his coat. “We’ll visit you once in a while.”
The man smiled and nodded. The son turned and left.
Howling all around the old man, the wind began to pick up. Dirt swished and swirled. He covered his eyes and nose. Particles of sand bit his skin, attacking him from a thousand sides. He wobbled on his cane, trying desperately to hold himself up. Then, as suddenly as it rose, the wind died.
He coughed. It was a painful cough that radiated throughout his entire frail body. In reply, his heart sent shockwaves through his nerves. The combined assault blinded his senses momentarily.
The old man griped his cane tightly. Grabbed onto his chest again, he willed himself forward and took another step. Then he continued on.
A phone rang. He looked around him. Nothing but the wheat field and his house far in the distance could be seen. The phone rang again. Another memory drifted with the wind and into his ears.
“Hi Dad, I won’t be able to come over again this year,” spoke a voice on the other line.
“It’s okay. How are you doing?”
“Awful. Another collections agent came by the house today. I can’t pay these guys and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Why don’t you ask your brother or sister for help?”
“They’re not in much better shape than I am, Dad. She’s deeper in debt than she lets on and used to borrow from me all the time. Guess I can’t lend her any more money now.”
“She didn’t tell me that.”
“Yea. And he isn’t much better. His ex-wife ended up taking most of his assets. He’s back at the diner now.”
“The diner? But I thought he was…”
“Working as a clerk at that office downtown? He is. He’s got three jobs now. How else can he afford to support his kid?”
The man sighed. “How are your kids?”
“They’re okay I think. I just got them a video game console with my credit card, so that ought to keep them busy all day.”
“Is that really good for them?”
“Sure, why not? It keeps them busy so I can put in more overtime hours.”
“But is that really a good way for your kids to learn?”
“Dad, it’s not like I have a choice, you know. I can’t just go home and play with my kids. I have responsibilities. You know that.”
The man sighed again. “Yes, yes I do.”
“Oh, and before I forget: happy birthday Dad.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll try to see if I can make it next year, okay?”
“Okay.”
The old man rubbed his ears until they were red. Hot red tears stung his eyes. He dropped his cane and gasped. The pounding in his chest was deafening now. His legs wobbled as he tried to bend them down to reach his cane.
Something in his knee popped. He doubled over and fell. The dirt puffed up around him, covering him in a shroud of sand. He tried to move his left arm but couldn’t. It lay there, motionless, next to his shivering body. Right in front of him was his cane, a gift from his wife.
He thought he could hear a phone ring again. He doubted it was real, although today was his birthday and his son used to call him on his birthdays.
The pain seemed to wash away like a tide ebbing. It was enough to give him a moment of reprieve. Another memory, a recent memory, drifted into his mind.
When he left his house today, he made a birthday wish. He wished he could help his children somehow, to make amends in some way. But he didn’t know how. Until now.
Then the old man closed his eyes.
. . .
Several days later, county policemen found the body of an old man lying in a wheat field behind his house. The man was dead. The medical examiner determined the cause of death to be of natural causes, most probably a heart attack. No foul play was suspected.
The old man was survived by two sons and a daughter. Each was bequeathed a sizable inheritance, the combined sum of a life insurance payment and the remarkable property value of the land and the house. It was enough to relinquish the presumed financial difficulties of his children.
Strangely, the old man was found with a smile on his lips. In his right arm was a cane. Based on his appearance, it was believed that he died peacefully.
Mr. Tan didn’t believe in wallpaper. Nope. It was as if his motto was: “Wallpaper is for wussies.” For Mr. Tan, he decorated his wall in DVDs.
Literally, his entire wall was lined with DVDs of all kinds. Every action-packed, tear-jerking, side-splitting blockbuster was there, including a handful (and by handful, I mean thirty or forty) of sentimental personal favorites.
To say that Mr. Tan was a Movie Buff is to say Simon Cowell is a guy with an occasional opinion. Even the British and their understated humor wouldn’t call him that as a joke.
His passion went beyond DVDs though. It extended far into the realm of the Home Entertainment System. This is a universe unto itself. Entire colonies of cultures and customs exist in this world. And Mr. Tan could have very well been their king.
You should have seen his sound system. Towering over his DVDs, these monoliths stood sentry over everything. They were the thugs, the henchmen of this Fortress of Entertainment. If you didn’t laugh at an obviously funny joke on the screen, they would roar in fury until your ears went POP!
Cars from the next town over would vibrate when he had his sound system on full blast. Anyone caught within a fifty-mile radius could kiss their hearing goodbye. (What? I can’t hear you.) But that wouldn’t stop them from enjoying the movie. No sir. They could still feel the sounds deep in the marrow of their bones.
The screen held the true glory though. It was the centerpiece, the masterpiece, the Crown Jewel. It adorned your entire vision—including peripheral. Even if you turned your head backwards, you’d still see the movie. If Mr. Tan wanted to show you Nicole Kidman’s pores, he could.
Thought Star Wars II looked good on an IMAX? Well, it looks horrible on Mr. Tan’s system. Not because his screen was small, but because his screen was so damn big you’d see each individual byte from the computer-generated scenes. It’s like watching The Matrix; all you’d see are 1’s and 0’s.
Fanatical was Mr. Tan’s zeal for Hollywood. Which was understandable because he lived so close to Los Angeles. Or at least, that’s how a New Yorker like me rationalized it.
What I find difficult to rationalize is why God had to take him so soon. But I’m only human; I’ll never understand things like that.
Mr. Tan passed away a few days ago. He was surrounded by loved ones and slept peacefully. What impressed me was how many loved ones came to his aid during his struggle with cancer. They flew in from overseas, traveled across the country, and took turns sitting by his side. These were close family, distant relatives, good friends, old colleagues, and even friendly neighbors.
The lives of people as varied and numerous as his DVDs were all touched by him. He used to invite anyone who wanted to experience the might of his Home Entertainment System into his house. Once invited, he would sit you down on his plush couch, turn down the lights, turn on his system, and stand behind you with a satisfied grin, knowing full well that you were about to be blown out of your socks.
I was one of those lucky people. I think it was Independence Day that he had in the DVD player at the time. When the White House exploded, bits and pieces of it actually hurtled by my face. That nick in my ear? Made by a piece of White House marble.
All the while, Mr. Tan stood behind me, smiling like a proud father. His daughters would roll their eyes and laugh, knowing that they had another sibling to compete for their father’s attention. But not really.
The attention he paid to his Home Entertainment System was miniscule compared to the attention he paid to those he loved. It wasn’t always evident during the process, but if you sat someone down to watch the love he gave, you’d be blown out of your socks as well.
Farewell, Mr. Tan. You were loved by many; you are loved by many. I’m sure you know this already; they were all around you during your last days. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been there too, but please know that I was there in spirit. At the very least, that nick from my ear was there.
Farewell, Mr. Tan. Thank you for touching my life.
Dear Mr. Nguyen,
I wish I could have met you. From what Kim has told me, you sounded like a truly impressive and honorable man.
Did you see your family at your funeral this weekend? So many people were crying. They love you so much.
You’ve given them so much strength and wisdom throughout the years. And now, they are all strong and wise. You should be proud of them, Mr. Nguyen.
You have a strong and wise family.
You’ve left behind quite a legacy. Even now, Kim and her brother and sisters are finding out new things about your clandestine past. How you were a hero in your country. How hundreds, no, thousands of people felt your kind influence and adored you. How you helped shape the political environment of your homeland. And how you had to flee when your country turned against you.
Muoi is a magical number to you, so I’m told. Ten. Everything you did was in tens. Your life operated in tens. You thought you only had ten years, but then your family’s love gave you ten more years. It’s amazing what love can do.
Did you now that Kim is a very talented writer? Just like you?
That’s how I got to really know her. She and I were writing buddies before she moved away. Every once in a while, we’d bring our laptops to a café and write. She’s a very passionate and descriptive writer whose words are lush with imagery and symbolism.
Kim writes just like how she views life—full of hope and meaning. And with a healthy serving of wit to boot.
She also has that same strength of conviction that I imagine you must have had. To stand up for what you believe in, despite the ardent protests of those around you (especially from those close to you), requires a lot of strength.
Kim has that. You had that as well, didn’t you? That’s what led you to fight for democracy and freedom in your country, isn’t it? Because you believed; because you had the strength of conviction to believe that what you were fighting for was right.
You should be proud of her, Mr. Nguyen.
Just as she’s proud of the man you were, you should be proud of the woman she is. The daughter you raised. You’ve instilled much strength and wisdom in her.
Understandably, it’s her confidence that’s shaken now. The loss of a parent isn’t easy for anyone. But judging from the kind of man you were, I know you’ll be doing everything you can to help her realize the wisdom she has. So that she’ll have faith in herself again.
You watched your final burial, didn’t you? We all saw you watching. I hope you liked it. I hope you felt honored by it. Your family was very gracious and kind, as were your friends and guests.
And it’s a beautiful plot. Kim told me you have a beautiful view. From here, you can watch over your family. From here, you can see your house being rebuilt. From here, you can finally rest, knowing that you’ve left behind an honorable and memorable legacy.
I wish I could have met you, Mr. Nguyen. Watch over your family well, and continue guiding them as you’ve always done.
The BOOM of the impact must have been deafening. Yim, my cousin’s wife, ran out of the World Trade Center lobby and into the courtyard. The shock waves shook the entire building and debris fell to the earth.
She looked up and glass fell into her face. Several shards cut her cornea. She covered her face and ran from the building.
Startled by the sound, my friend Amanda looked out her office window. Her coworkers crowded to see what had happened. They could see black smoke pouring from a gash in one of the towers.
Someone gasped. Alongside the debris that was falling, were bodies. Live people. Amanda looked up and saw tiny figures climb out the windows and leap to their deaths. She watched them fall to hundreds of feet to the pavement below.
Down the street, my friend Laura climbed out of the subway station. The subway riders all felt the tremor but didn’t know what had happened. As she emerged from the underground, she saw the smoking wound.
Believing that it was just a single accident, she and dozens of office workers filed into the other tower, ready for a day’s work.
After arriving to her office, she received an announcement to evacuate. She walked out the door and saw a few hardy souls refusing to leave. They returned to their offices as she left the building.
As soon as she was clear of the buildings, she looked back up again. Both Amanda and Laura watched on, silent, as the second plane struck.
More debris and bodies fell. Amanda probably turned away at this point. Laura and hundreds of other people were fleeing the site, making their way uptown or over the Brooklyn bridge.
Some people lingered to watch. My cousin Kenny was among them. He stood at the police barricades, gazing numb up at the disaster.
A former coworker of mine, Jason, pointed his camera at the World Trade Center from his office blocks away and tried to capture as much of the incident as he could. He couldn’t hear the first building begin to crumble, but he could see the antenna wobble back and forth.
Kenny could see it too. And he could hear it. Then it happened. The thunderous BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM of each floor collapsing.
The crowd turned around and scrambled down the street. The first tower of the World Trade Center was falling. Pursuing the crowd was a black cloud of dust. Down the blocks of Lower Manhattan they blindly ran. Some didn’t stop until passing Houston.
Others slowed down and gaped in disbelief. Where one of the World Trade Centers once stood was now open sky.
My family and friends were all cleared out of the vicinity soon after the second World Trade Center tower collapsed. I didn’t find this out until days later, when I was finally able to get through by phone and hear their voices again.
The only person I talked to in New York after the disaster was my father, who called me before the phone lines died to tell me what happened.
. . .
Do you know anyone who saw the World Trade Center fall?
Sometimes people tell me that I should forget it and move on with life. Well, I don’t want to forget it.
I have pictures of the World Trade Center’s Memorial up on my desk at work. It’s two bright shining lights stand tall among the Heavens, like two majestic sentinels watching over the countless brave heroes that lost their lives there.
I have family and friends who were directly affected by this tragic incident. Some were caught in the ashes of the first building’s fall, others watched from their office windows desperate lives jump from the towers.
To this day, these images are still burned in my mind as harshly as they are in the minds of my family and friends’.
Some of the pictures at my desk are of people holding daffodils at the World Trade Center’s Sphere, now in Battery City Park. A part of me feels incomplete because I can’t be standing there, paying my respects as well.
It’s different out here in California. Understandably enough, people don’t talk about 9/11 as much here as they do in New York. When I talk to my friends in NYC, they tell me how the companies near Ground Zero are opening up for business again, how uneasy they feel going back to work down there, how they still lie awake and cry at night.
The distance makes it difficult to feel the same impact. The impact of Hurricane Andrew or the Oklahoma City bombing incidents didn’t impact New Yorkers the same way they impacted Floridians and Oklahomans.
So it’s not surprising that my friends here tell me to stop thinking about 9/11 and move on with life. No one of us should let such a senseless act paralyze us.
But to me, remembering it doesn’t mean paralysis. To me, the remembrance of this incident is akin to the remembrance of a death in the family, because to many of my friends, that’s exactly what it is.
The part of me that feels incomplete yearns to see the WTC Memorial for my own eyes. Maybe it’s the distance that’s the real issue. Maybe it’s partly homesickness. I don’t know.
All I know for sure is that this is something that I don’t want to, nor can, forget. Ever.
“I love you Daddy,” says the message scribbled above the face of a gentle-looking man. A pot of flowers sits below the picture.
Next to it is a mural from a church. Dozens upon dozens of messages adorn it. “God Bless America.” “United We Stand.” “Our thoughts are with you, New York.”
I pause and look up between the buildings. It’s been a year since I’ve been back. The memory of how the Twin Towers looked from this street have since faded from my mind.
Despite that, I can feel a void in the sky.
Behind me is a bold peace symbol. “War is not the answer,” are the words below it.
Right next to it is a poster saying, “Do not forgive. Do not forget.”
There are crowds moving on the sidewalk. A couple with a southern twang passes in front of me. The wife poses in front of the posters and her husband takes a photograph.
I try to swallow a knot in my throat. When I moved to San Francisco, I took dozens of photographs during a walk around the city. I told myself that I would do the same for New York City someday.
I will fulfill my promise this week. Unfortunately, I’ve lost the chance to photograph the proud Twin Towers.
Another tourist poses in front of the posters. I don’t have my camera right now; I don’t want to make my first visit here a tourist visit. Respects need to be given first.
The wind blows violently down the street. Tourists are practically blown down the sidewalk. I turn up my coat’s collars.
Crowds flood me as I try to maneuver down the sidewalk. Hearing the click of a camera is just as frequent as the honk of a horn.
All streets leading into the site are blocked. Most of the wreckage has been cleared. The memorial posters and the void in the sky is all that is left.
I turn to face the site, bow my head, and whisper a prayer. My eyes blink from the swelling of tears. I try to swallow the knot again. Then I open my eyes and walk back uptown.
. . .
Have you been to Ground Zero?
