My Father, the Panda Killer, page 29
The bubbles of boiling water return my attention to the stove. I fill two cups with powdered cocoa and hot water and walk back into the room, where Paul is tucking himself into bed.
Using his pillow, Paul wedges himself into the corner with his stuffed bunny, Mr. Rogers, who fits neatly into the curve of his elbow. Before Mom left, Paul had been obsessed with having a little brother. I guess because I had a little brother. So, I told him Mr. Rogers could be our little brother, and the three of us have been pretty tight ever since.
I hand him his cup. “Can you hold it there and not spill it?”
“Uh-huh.” He’s already sipping it with delight.
“Are you comfortable?”
Paul doesn’t respond. Instead, he sits up, straightens the sheets, and pulls the now slouching Mr. Rogers up so that his neck is above the sheet line. He manages to do this without spilling a drop of liquid onto the sheets. Paul is going to be okay.
I can’t say the same for myself. I’m nervous. I’ve spent so much of my life despising anything Vietnamese: the people, the culture, the lessons. But now I’m about to try to convince Paul that he should do the exact opposite of what I’ve done and try to embrace our history. Paul could easily close his ears to me. What I do know is that I can’t hide from it any longer, that I was wrong about a lot of my assumptions, and that I still feel extremely conflicted about all of it.
I used to think my family didn’t talk about feelings, but it does. The intense and difficult topics are disguised in humor. Dark humor is what it’s called, I guess. And that’s our therapy. We laugh about things our American counterparts would find horrifying, like being chased around the house with a hammer. We joke, and we get through it as a family. Not with therapists.
My father does not have friends. He has family and those who escaped Vietnam with him. To call his fellow refugees “friends” would be categorically wrong. They’ve built self-contained communities in order to re-create some semblance of Vietnam in America. Marriages were forged, and as we spread across the United States, we cling to one another. Sometimes I think my parents’ generation tries to maintain tenuous relationships just to remind themselves that what happened to them was real, that the journey wasn’t just a figment of their imaginations. Others witnessed it, too, and together they survived it.
As Paul spends more time with Dad, maybe this story will get him to pay attention in a way I never did. Maybe he’ll learn things I didn’t know, and over time, we’ll begin to really understand why our elders act the way they do. Even if he doesn’t, maybe that’s okay too. Because maybe it’s not our place to make them relive a history they want to forget. We’ll take what they can give, and we’ll imagine the rest—it’s the best we can do.
Taking a deep breath, I tell myself not to rush as I think back to all the collective memories I’ve overheard: the stories, the anecdotes, the snippets of information I pretended to ignore.
“Sit still. Both of you. Mr. Rogers needs some blanket too.”
“You’re acting weird,” Paul says.
“I need to tell you a story, and it might take a while, so get comfortable,” I reply.
“Why? What’s the story?”
“Can you please sit still? Every time you shift, I lose my concentration, and if you break my concentration, I’ll miss key details and then you won’t understand what I’m trying to tell you. It’s about Dad.”
“Can’t we just watch a movie?”
“Shhhh. There is a small town in the center of Vietnam called đà Nẵng. That’s where our family is from….”
GLOSSARY OF CHARACTERS
Adam—Jane’s cousin from Las Vegas. Little brother of Mike.
n—Jane’s cousin who just immigrated to the United States.
An Ngô—Fellow refugee working in Hong Kong.
Principal Avitia—Paul’s school principal.
Bảo—Jane’s cousin from Las Vegas.
Becky—Bác Luy and Bác Nguyệt’s daughter. Jane’s non-cousin cousin. Sibling of Vicky and Stephen.
Mợ Bích—Cậu Hòa’s wife. Jane’s aunt (her mother’s sister-in-law).
Bình Dương—Fellow refugee working in Hong Kong.
Carly—Jane’s high school classmate. Mirabelle’s close friend.
Bác Chuyên (Deacon Chuyên)—Phúc’s uncle. The only other surviving shipmate on Phúc’s refugee boat. Jane’s great-uncle, known for his missing pinky and nose-twisting greetings.
Colin—Sailor on the United States Navy cargo ship headed for Guam.
Chị Diễm—Ngọc Lan’s older sister.
Diệp—Phúc’s childhood crush.
Geoff Trowe—Officer who speaks to Jane after the murder.
Uncle Giang—Bà Huỳnh’s son, Phúc’s and Long’s cousin.
Cậu Hòa—Jane’s uncle (her mother’s brother). Husband of Mợ Bích.
Bà Hương—Quốc’s grandmother.
Bà Huỳnh—Bà Nội’s sister. Jane’s grandmother’s sister.
Jackie Nguyễn—Jane’s BFF.
Jane Vũ—Phúc’s daughter. Paul’s sister. Jackie’s best friend.
John—Thi and Trâm’s brother. O Linh’s son. Jane’s cousin from Connecticut.
Khánh—Boat refugee.
Khiên—Jane’s cousin from Denver.
Chú Khoa—Quốc’s dad. Bà Hương’s son.
Thầy Lâm—Phúc’s schoolteacher and fellow refugee. Father of Thúy.
Cô Lệ—Quốc’s mother.
O Linh—Jane’s aunt from Connecticut. Phúc and O Uyên’s older sister. Bác Long’s younger sister. Thi, John, and Trâm’s mom. Friend of Ngọc Lan.
Bác Loan—Family maid in Vietnam.
Bác Long—O Linh, Phúc, and O Uyên’s older brother. Jane’s uncle.
Bác Luy—Jane’s uncle with no actual blood relation. Phúc’s friend from his days working in Hong Kong.
Mến Hoàng—Fellow refugee working in Hong Kong.
Mike—Jane’s cousin from Florida. Son of O Ngữ. Adam’s older brother.
Mirabelle—Jane’s high school classmate and ex-friend.
Mỹ—Jane’s cousin from Denver.
Ngọc Lan—Jane’s mom. Phúc’s girlfriend. Cậu Hòa’s little sister. Friend of O Linh.
O Ngữ—O Vui’s sister from Florida. Mother of Mike and Adam.
Bác Nguyệt—Bác Luy’s wife. Mom to Becky, Vicky, and Stephen.
Nick—Luy and Phúc’s boss in Hong Kong.
Bà Nội—Jane’s grandmother. Phúc’s mother.
Ông Nội—Vũ Đoàn Thái—Jane’s grandfather. Phúc’s father.
Panda—Phúc’s only true friend.
Paul Vũ—Jane’s little brother. Phúc’s son.
Phúc Vũ—Jane and Paul’s dad.
Chú Quang—Jane’s piano teacher.
Quốc—Phúc’s classmate and shipmate on first escape boat. Son of Chú Khoa and grandson of Bà Hương.
Raven—Jane’s classmate. The one Sarah and Zoe chose over her.
Sergeant Red—Colin’s superior.
Mr. Rogers—Paul’s stuffed bunny.
Ronan—Jane’s kindergarten classmate.
Samar Mhaskar—Jane’s high school classmate who sells colored contact lenses.
Sarah—Jane’s classmate. Zoe’s twin.
Chú Sơn (Jamison)—Foreman’s translator at the Hong Kong construction site.
Stephen—Becky and Vicky’s younger brother. Bác Luy and Bác Nguyệt’s son. Jane’s non-cousin cousin.
Thanh—Boat refugee.
Thảo—Mơ Bích’s adopted sister.
Thi—Jane’s cousin from Connecticut. O Linh’s daughter. Sibling of John and Trâm.
Thiết—Jane’s cousin from Denver.
Chú Thịnh—Jane’s uncle. O Uyên’s husband.
Thúy—Thầy Lâm’s five-year-old daughter and fellow refugee on Phúc’s boat.
Tom—Phúc’s boss in Hong Kong.
Trâm—Thi and John’s sister. O Linh’s daughter. Jane’s cousin from Connecticut.
Trúc Hồ—Fellow refugee working in Hong Kong.
O Uyên—Bác Long, O Linh, and Phúc’s younger sibling. Jane’s aunt.
Vicky—Bác Luy and Bác Nguyệt’s daughter. Jane’s non-cousin cousin. Sibling of Becky and Stephen.
O Vui—Jane’s godmother. The one who shamelessly flirts with Chú Quang.
Xuân—Jane’s cousin who just immigrated to the United States.
Zoe—Jane’s classmate. Sarah’s twin.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This story is inspired in large part by events that have occurred in my life. As such, I strived to be as honest and authentic as possible.
Drawing from the narratives of my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and other Vietnamese Americans, I have woven together a story that is both imagined and speculative. Jane is a wholly unreliable narrator because she, like me, doesn’t have a full or complete grasp of Vietnamese history.
The reasons for this are nuanced and complex, but I’d like to share a few simple ones. First, I am “flawed.” I speak conversational Vietnamese, but I cannot read legal documents in the language. Second, most historical accounts are dominated by the perspectives of military elites and American GIs, which do not represent my family’s experiences. Third, I’m Vietnamese American, so I learned about Vietnamese history in my American history class. That’s right. Chew on that for a minute. And lastly, my parents rarely talk about what happened to them. As a teen, I was too timid to ask. As an adult, I understand that it’s not my place to ask them to relive their traumas if they prefer to leave the past in the past.
Jane’s story is not a complete or perfect chronicle of events; it’s not meant to be. Sometimes we don’t get answers to all the questions we want to ask, and we’re forced to bridge the gap with whatever tools are available. Mirrored after my own life, Jane’s story is ultimately a search for a connection to the past so she can curate a sense of belonging in the present.
Okay, now for some truth talk: writing authentically meant not deleting things like colorism and microaggressions that I knew wouldn’t sit well with many readers. First, I must say, I am not an authority on racism within my or any other community. The hows and whys of racism among Vietnamese Americans are varied and difficult to simplify. I wrote an unfiltered and honest point of view knowing that once this book fell into the hands of readers, these characters would be judged. I hope they are. There are so many things I admire about my people and our culture, but I felt that it would not be truthful to tell this story without acknowledging the ideologies and prejudices that are very real and very present within our society.
For me, writing has always been about putting my stories into a collective pot of knowledge. How we interpret and process the narrative is not up to me. It’s up to you, the reader.
I sincerely thank you for coming on this journey with me and look forward to meeting you again in the next book, about Paul and his mother.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not exist without the harrowing journeys that my mother, Nancy Ha Hoang, and father, Richard Men Hoang, had to endure as Vietnamese refugees. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for the sacrifices, punishments, and everything in between. Similarly, this story wouldn’t be what it is without my siblings, Dr. Kimberly Kay Hoang, Andrew Quoc-Viet Hoang, and Lillyan Thuy-Tien Hoang, and our shared experiences. The suffering, the “Hoang-efficiency,” the laughter, fights, tears—they’re like a million knots, big and small, woven into this giant safety net that I know I’m very lucky to have.
Thank you, Jennifer Weltz, my warrior agent, for taking a chance on a random query nestled deep within your inbox. You nurtured my story and me as a writer, and I am forever grateful.
To my editor, Phoebe Yeh: you connected so fiercely with this book and lit the torch that would lead it into the world. Thank you for your sage advice, thoughtful feedback, and boundless enthusiasm. I am eternally grateful to the team at Crown Books for Young Readers, especially Trisha Previte, Megan Shortt, Tisha Paul, Melinda Ackell, Alison Kolani, Christine Ma, Janine Barlow, Mary McCue, Joey Ho, Adrienne Waintraub, Daniela Cortes, and Teresa Tran, for all the work you do behind the scenes. Marcos Chin, I have nothing but admiration for the way you peeled Jane from my imagination and made her real by lending your deeply emotional yet delicate artistry to the cover.
At the center of this book is family. I have a lot of cousins, but there are a few of you in particular to which this book owes a massive debt of gratitude: Lynneara Hoang, Kym Oanh Solancho, Mai Dinh, Linh Nguyen, Nguyet Reilly, Khannie Bueno, Kim Nguyen, Patricia Hoang, Bao Nguyen, Dang Khoa Nguyen, Kristine Hoang, Gimy Nguyen, and Kevin Nguyen. Some of you called me out on my BS after reading an early draft, others helped me with regional Vietnamese spellings or lent me your personal experiences, a lot of you fed me while I was broke, and every single one of you has influenced my life, and therefore this story, in some way.[*] We have a complicated and sometimes painful shared history; we’re connected in many of our experiences, and I hope this book clarifies and deepens those connections.
Long before My Father, the Panda Killer held any promise of publication, it was an idea and hundreds of thousands of words tossed onto pages in a jumbled mess. Shirley (mom-in-law) Stimac and Ed (dad-in-law) Eslinger, Sara Taylor, Shawn Muttreja, Eric Gee, Katie McElhenny, Ian Robert Simpson, and Daniel Bayer—y’all are the true heroes here. Without plugging your noses, you sifted through piles of garbage to help me mine the gems. I am fortunate to have your time and support, and I promise to pay you back in tacos.
Thank you also to Nu-Anh Tran and Quan Tran for your knowledge and guidance.
Mai Nguyen Ha: I would not be a writer today had you not said (with ridiculous conviction) that I could do it. Thank you for believing in me before I believed in myself. Jessica Ng, Stephanie Tang, Mikey Ngo, Adam Vaun, Indigo Wilmann, Shakir Baruka, Dr. Ed and Chi Thuy Rhee, Ellen Burns, Gina Hendry, Amy Meyerson, Lina Sahai Wood, Nicole Noonan-Miller, and Katie Suh, you have enriched my life in more ways than I can count. Thank you for coming on this wild journey with me.
Ryan Eslinger, my husband, you believed in my potential when my sentences were practically incoherent. You are the backbone of every book I’ve written. Somehow you knew when to prod, when to push, and when to let go. Because of you I get to live every day in the pursuit of my dreams, and really, there is no greater gift than that.
Taschen, I started writing this book before you were born, but when I think about who I wrote it for, it is you. I’m sure there will come a time in your life when you’ll wonder where your mom’s neurosis comes from. This book does not have all the answers, but it has some. You’ll have to ask me for the rest, and don’t you dare do it over text.
And finally, to you, the reader, thank you for reading this book. With my hands clasped tightly in front of me, I bow to you, not only for opening the book but for continuing to turn the pages.
With so much love,
Skip Notes
* If I have abstained from mentioning you and you find yourself offended, please call Kimberly—she’ll tell you what you did.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAMIE JO HOANG is the daughter of Vietnamese refugees and grew up in Orange County, California (not the rich part). Jamie left for college at UCLA under the pretense of becoming a doctor or lawyer, but returned with a degree in Theater, Film, and Television—sorry, Mom and Dad! After working for MGM Studios and later as a docuseries producer, she quit her job and moved to Houston to pursue her real passion: writing. Her adult novel, Blue Sun, Yellow Sky, was a personal master class in storytelling and paved the way for the young adult novels that she’s been holding in her heart for over twenty years. When Jamie’s not writing, you’ll find her wandering, pondering, and chasing experiences. She blogs about her life and travels at medium.com/@heyjamie and tweets at @heyjamie. She posts pretty pictures on Instagram as @heyjamiereads.
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Jamie Jo Hoang, My Father, the Panda Killer
