Escape from Vietnam: A Refugee‘s Story of the American Dream

I spoke my first words on a boat: “milk,” “cockroach,” and “itchy.” An unusual toddler vocabulary, perhaps, but not surprising considering that I spent the second year of my life on a freighter with thousands of other people, a floating petri dish of equal parts vomit, diarrhea, desperation, and hope. Every inch of that boat teemed with refugees: the cargo hold, hallways, and deck. Even the captain’s steering room had ceased to be a sanctuary.

I am an immigrant from Vietnam. I left the land of my birth in 1978 — just shy of my first birthday — and arrived in the U.S. a few weeks after I turned two. All of us on that boat, and hundreds of thousands of others, fled for the same reason: to escape the oppression of the communist regime. It took us more than one full year to arrive in the United States, most of that time spent on an over-packed freight ship smuggling 2,300 other refugees in a cargo hold full of festering flour and one functioning restroom.

Like many ethnic Chinese in Vietnam, my family members were merchants. My maternal grandma, who had fled to Vietnam from British-held Hong Kong as a teen to escape the Japanese invasion in the 1930s, had a fabric stall at Saigon’s Ben Thanh Market. My dad had a factory that manufactured shampoo and detergent. After the Vietnam War officially ended in April of 1975 with the fall of Southern Vietnam to the Northern Vietnamese communists, the new regime stripped our family of its livelihood, confiscating our family businesses and much of our savings. They also introduced a series of new currencies — each time capping the sum families were permitted to exchange. Anyone found with more was punished, the money confiscated.

Years later, my grandma would tell of counting her life savings, exchanging the maximum allowed, and burning the remainder. She described watching her tears fall into the flames as her money burned; just burning and crying, because what else was there to do?

Early in 1977, the year before we fled Vietnam, my mom was six months pregnant with me, and my father was in jail for “unpatriotic acts” after commissioning the building of a small junk boat he’d hoped to use for our escape. My mom visited my dad in his cell so he could help name me. He must have had money on his mind, as my name translated means gold and jade.

My grandfather had just passed away, but my maternal grandma still had five kids at home to raise. She was 4 feet 9 inches on a tall day and a breadwinning matriarch before her time. She negotiated an escape route for us on that Panamanian freight ship, but it would come at a steep cost.

There were 19 of us in total in my nuclear and extended family. Passage on the ship was purchased with luong, 1.2-ounce 24-karat gold bars. All told, 154 luong — more than $135,000 in today’s dollars — were required to smuggle my family out of Vietnam. Those bars were the culmination of a lifetime of work, coated with love and stamped with faith, molded into 24 karats of black market gold. Which is how we found ourselves part of the mass exodus that would come to be known as the “Vietnamese Boat People.”

After being denied entry at the ports of Hong Kong, Indonesia, and Brunei for temporary asylum, we floated aimlessly at sea, waiting. My mom watched over my 2-year-old brother and me while we all sat atop a 2-foot-by-2-foot table. Another family lived in a permanent crouch ­underneath. All around us, families staked their claims to plots of floor, sleeping upright, backs propping up backs. If someone needed to do their business or go in search of food, family members would stand vigil over the hard-won territory. Somehow, even as we were reduced to human freight, the framework of family held, in the form of “Go, I got your back.”

Eventually our freighter docked in the Philippines, but we were not allowed to disembark — all of the existing camps were full.

After a full 10 months at sea, we were finally transferred to a makeshift refugee camp on a Philippine island. My mom set me on the ground to roam and was pleased to discover that I could run.
At the camp, my parents and extended family underwent an arduous vetting process that included background checks and physical screenings with blood tests. Then came the search for a sponsoring country. A refugee who could claim a relative in another country was given priority there. Barring that, where you wound up was a crapshoot by the United Nations High Commissioner on Refugees.

My parents, my brother, and I lingered in this system for several months until a church group in Minnesota agreed to sponsor us. In one fell swoop, we were whisked from the humidity of the tropics to the subzero temperatures of a Midwestern December. The commitment and logistics of sponsoring and providing for a refugee family are significant, so the church group shared the responsibilities for clothing, sheltering, and integrating us into American life. One group of volunteers met us at the airport with donated secondhand winter jackets. Other volunteers helped us find and furnish a small two-bedroom home in the suburbs, while still others worked on getting sponsorship for the rest of our family, until all 19 of us were reunited.

Our family also relied on public social programs as we adjusted and assimilated into American society. My parents enrolled my brother and me in a Head Start preschool while they studied English, passed the GED, and took job-training classes. For a year or so, we lived on welfare and food stamps, supplemented by baffling 10-pound blocks of bright orange government cheese.

Within two years, my mom spoke English well enough to take a job in a bank, the start of a 30-year career that became our modest family livelihood. When it came time for my brother and me to think about college, we benefited from the expectation in our family that we would go. We had as role models close relatives who had recently graduated. But we also relied on programs like need-based grants, low-interest loans, and work-study programs.

We hear so much talk about individual resilience, self-reliance, and the proverbial bootstraps being the ingredients of the American Dream, and I’d like to think my family exhibited those traits in our extraordinary journey. But there is a lot more that goes into the American Dream’s promise of providing people an opportunity to improve their lives and to contribute to this great nation. Nothing exists in a vacuum, after all, and certainly not opportunity. We all rely on the springboard provided by our extended families, our communities (like those Minnesota church volunteers who made our American story possible), and, yes, government-­backed immigration policies and programs like those that let us enter, fed us, and then helped us obtain an education.

Now, more than three decades and a generation after we fled Vietnam, my younger child has just turned two — the age I was when I arrived in the U.S. Her first words? Milk, mama, and dada.

Kim Luu has M.Eng. and B.S. Environmental Engineering degrees from MIT and UCLA. She works in the environmental sustainability field in Los Angeles, where she lives with her husband and two kids. She wrote this for What It Means to Be American, a partnership of the Smithsonian and Zócalo Public Square.

This article is featured in the March/April 2017 issue of The Saturday Evening Post. Subscribe to the magazine for more art, inspiring stories, fiction, humor, and features from our archives. 

Hospice Girl Friday | Planning for ‘After’

Devra Lee Fishman’s dear friend and college roommate, Leslie, died from breast cancer one month shy of her 46th birthday after a four-year battle with the disease. Being with Leslie and her family at the end of her life inspired Devra to help care for others who are terminally ill. Each week, she documents her experiences volunteering at her local hospice in her blog, Hospice Girl Friday.

Most of the conversations I have with hospice patients or their family members are focused on the past and instigated by me. I like to learn about the patients, and I want family members to remember who their loved ones were before the shadow of disease began to darken their lives. Recently I had a surprising conversation about the future with the husband of a patient who was admitted at the end of my Friday morning shift. The patient was Bernice Scott. Seventy-one years old. Heart disease.

Mrs. Scott’s husband Robert came in with her, toting her favorite red-striped crocheted afghan and her medical records. I greeted him at the front desk.

“My wife is in pain and needs medicine right away,” he said as he watched the stretcher carrying his wife disappear into room one.

“The nurses are with your wife right now. They’re going to do an assessment and talk to the doctor about medication right away,” I said, trying to sound assuring.

His brow did not unfurl. “Where is the doctor?” he asked, looking around.

I walked around the desk to guide Mr. Scott to the sofa. “The doctor is with another patient right now. May I get you a cup of coffee?” He shook his head no as he lowered himself onto the sofa. I tried to warm him up with small talk, but he was too far away to respond with anything other than single syllables. I could tell he did not want me there.

Most patients come to the hospice in crisis. And while hospice is meant to make dying patients comfortable at the end of their lives, one of my roles is to help make their family members and loved ones comfortable as well. Unfortunately, at that moment there did not seem to be anything I could do to ease Mr. Scott’s emotional pain, so I sat down next to him for just a moment and said, “Your wife is in good hands. I’ll let you know when the nurses are finished, and if I can help you with anything in the meanwhile, please ask.”

Once the nurses finished in room one I gave the Scotts some time to get used to their new surroundings before knocking on the door. When I walked into the room Mrs. Scott was lying flat with her eyes closed. She must have heard me come in because her eyes popped open and she asked for peanut butter and marmalade. She must have been feeling better if she was asking for food.

When I came in the following week, I asked the nurse for an update on Mrs. Scott and was told that she was sleeping a lot and had stopped eating the previous day, which is usually a sign of impending death. When I walked into her room, Mrs. Scott seemed to be comfortable, taking long, deep breaths as she slept. Mr. Scott was sitting in a chair next to the bed with a book on his lap, which he closed when I walked in. This time he was ready to talk.

“Coming here was the best thing we could have done,” he said. “My wife is much better, out of pain. Now it is just a matter of nature taking its course.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “How are you doing?”

“Also better, but I am going to miss her.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Forty-two years. All of them good. Great, in fact,” he said, smiling. “I retired in 2005 so we could travel and go to museums. But five years ago my wife got sick and encouraged me to consider working again in some way, so I went back to school for a teaching degree. Now I teach college classes Monday through Thursday, which will keep me busy. I will go to a museum or a lecture on Friday. Weekends will probably be difficult at first, and I am not looking forward to the quiet that will greet me when I come home and turn the key in the door. Also I have a friend who is a widower and likes to travel, so I said I would go wherever he’d like. And I’ve been seeing a psychologist, which has been very helpful.”

Instead of talking about the past, it was important for Mr. Scott to explain to me–and possibly reassure himself–that he was prepared, that he would be okay after his wife passed. In the hospice we never know when death will come, we only know that it will. That moment often defines ‘before’ and ‘after’ for the people who are left behind.

I have talked to many family members who have told me they can’t imagine a different life or will not be able to go on without their loved one. I try to help them conjure positive memories that might help temper their dreaded grief. Mrs. Scott’s husband knew that she would pass away first, leaving him to forge a new routine and fill the silences her absence would bring. I admire the way he looked to the future and systematically put together a plan for ‘after,’ which also seemed to help him cope with his beloved wife’s last days and moment of death.

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Hospice Girl Friday | ‘Discussing Your Advanced Medical Directive’

Devra Lee Fishman’s dear friend and college roommate, Leslie, died from breast cancer one month shy of her 46th birthday after a four-year battle with the disease. Being with Leslie and her family at the end of her life inspired Devra to help care for others who are terminally ill. Each week, she documents her experiences volunteering at her local hospice in her blog, Hospice Girl Friday.

I knew the in-patient unit would be busy on Christmas so I signed on to take an extra shift. There were already five patients when I got there and a sixth was expected. Around noon, Holly Gold was rolled into the hospice accompanied by two of her daughters. One of them was fighting back tears and unable to respond when I said hello. The other introduced herself as Joanne, who told me she held power of attorney for her mother’s healthcare and that their mother needed pain relief immediately.

“She is suffering from heart failure and has been comfortable at home,” Joanne said. Her words came out quickly, probably powered by pent up anxiety. “Last night she took a bad turn and hasn’t stopped moaning and crying. She needs to be admitted. Is the doctor here?” Her eyes darted around as she looked for a medical professional. I don’t think my volunteer badge offered the kind of comfort she needed.

Many family members panic when they first arrive at the hospice because patients usually come here in some sort of physical distress. About half are already receiving hospice care at home so their family members are familiar with how it works, but Mrs. Gold and her daughters were new to hospice. The doctor had warned me that they were very concerned about their beloved mother. “The family is very close,” she had said, and she asked me to convey a calming confidence when they arrived.

“The doctor called right before you walked in,” I said to Joanne. “She wanted me to tell you she will be here within 30 minutes. In the meanwhile, we are going to get your mother settled. The nurses are in with her right now. I promise you, she’s in good hands.”

Joanne and her sister both thanked me, but I could tell Joanne was still nervous by the way she fired out questions. “Don’t we need two doctors to verify that my mother has less than six months to live? Do we have to wait until that happens to start treatment? Do you need a copy of my mother’s Advance Medical Directive? I have it here.” When she stopped to take a deep breath, I jumped in. I pointed toward the sofas with an arm outstretched to indicate we were going to walk in that direction.

“The doctor has already admitted your mother. I will take a copy of whatever paperwork you have, and someone from the hospice team will be here shortly to go through the rest of the admission process,” I said as I sat down on one of the sofas. Joanne and her sister followed my lead.

As we talked, several people walked into the hospice and came over to where we were sitting. Joanne introduced them as two more sisters and the patient’s nine grandchildren. She explained they were a very close family and had traveled from all over the States to be together over the winter holiday break. I went back to my desk to photocopy Joanna’s papers while she led a family meeting in the living room area. She explained that her mother left very specific instructions about the kind of medical treatments she did and did not want. Everyone nodded along as though they already knew about Mrs. Gold’s directive. Some of the grandchildren asked questions. Others offered comfort to their emotional family members. In spite of their grief, they were kind to each other the way I wish all of our patients’ families could be, the way I hope my brothers and I will be when our turn comes to deal with our parents.

Because most patients come to our hospice in crisis–that is the purpose our in-patient unit serves–they and their family members are often unprepared for the reality of end-of-life care. Whatever family dynamic exists continues to play out in the hospice. My friend Daisy says ‘As we are in one thing, we are in all things.’ I would agree and also add that crisis brings out who we really are, not who we hope we are or who we pretend to be. Which brings me back to me and my family.

After my friend Leslie died–in hospice, in crisis–I sat down with my parents and asked them if they had any plans for end-of-life care. We had never discussed the topic as a family, and I wanted to make sure they received the kind of treatment they wanted. More importantly, I wanted to make sure that my three brothers and I were not left to fight about the kind of healthcare our parents would or should receive if they were not able to speak for themselves. I assured my parents, who raised four strong-willed, very different children, that we would be together but we needed them to do us and themselves a big favor by taking the burden of such enormous decisions out of our hands. They understood because they have witnessed our many disagreements over the years.

I now have the same paperwork for my parents that Joanne Gold had for her mother. The forms articulate my parents wishes and put me in charge of carrying out those wishes if my parents can not. My brothers and I might not be as close as the Gold children and grandchildren, but we will be united on our parents’ side when the time comes for us to say goodbye to them.

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