Happy Mother's Day, Mom

This was my mother, sometime in the early 1970s, in her native Vietnam. She was about 36 years old- she was always sketchy about her age, but also proud of being "so old" (and not looking it).

They don't celebrate birthdays, apparently, in Vietnam as we do here; nor is age such an important part of one's identity. Simply put, there are the young and the old; the young are to be envied, and the old to be respected.

Marriage, in Vietnam at that time, was also not as we find it here in the US of A. If a man showed his preference for you, and you lived together, you were considered married. Marriage was not a legal state, as it is here.

My mother found herself married at a reasonably young age and bore three children. Her only daughter died young, of cancer.

Her husband left her. I do not know the reason. I do know that this left her in a state of disgrace in her village, a mother without a husband. She was shamed into leaving her children with her sister, who was respectably married, so that they would grow up in a proper family. She was told to go and work in the city, to pay for the upbringing of these two remaining children, my half-brothers.

Somewhere around this point on the timeline, my mother met my father, stationed in Saigon. I know nothing of their courtship. I know that my mother thought my father was "so handsome". I remember my father saying that when he first saw my mother, she was wielding a machete. The place? The year? The circumstance?

I don't know. It is so frustrating.

I know that my father pledged that he would bring her to this country and they would be married here. What was that like for her, the waiting? Did she trust in his word? Did she continually hope? I would have guessed that she would have little trust in men, or their promises.

My father returned to this country to find all his belongings gone, sold, and no room for him in his mother's and stepfather's house. Somehow he found a place to stay, a job. He saved money for some amount of time- again, the anger of not knowing how long- and secured the papers needed to bring my mother here. She boarded a plane, missed her connection in Los Angeles- what happened then? What was that like, to be in such an alien place, speaking virtually none of the language? How did she get to the East Coast?

Somehow, she did.

Somehow, this woman survived in a culture of fear, of violence, of war. She saw things, as a child, that no one should ever have to see. Never. I really don't even like to think about it. But the images are horrific and vivid; they skitter on the periphery of my memory, along with the strange, blank tone of voice that she would use when speaking of them.

She was so proud of her third-grade education; no other girl in her village made it so far in school. She was the smart one.

When there was nothing to eat, she swam across the river and stole two fish from the village there, swimming back with the fish balanced precariously on her head. She was brave and wild.

She put her faith and trust in a young American- barely more than a boy, more than a decade younger than herself- and travelled here, alone, to a land of peace and freedom, half a world away.

I don't know that she found freedom or peace here. Where she was once imprisoned by violence and gender bias, she know found herself shunned for her ethnicity, her lack of education, her heavy accent.

She had not understood how far America was, had not known just how big the world was, had not realized that she would not be able to ever see her family, her children that she had left behind. She lived in a constant state of guilt and worry.

My father worked long hours at multiple jobs. She had few friends. She was often alone.

Then I was born, and nearly seven years later, my brother. We misunderstood her, were embarassed by her. We did not see how fortunate we were, in comparison to her other children. I think she was often angered by that.

She was not perfect. Growing up where she did, when she did, a culture and a time so vastly different to my own, she had issues and neuroses I can't even begin to tease out or understand. She had a hot temper. She was prone to violent outbursts. She was incredibly fearful and overprotective. She understood our problems and issues and hopes as little as we understood hers.

Guess what- turns out I am not perfect either. Hopefully this is a fatal flaw that my children will overlook in me.

"Endeavor to be patient in bearing the defects and infirmities of others, of what sort soever they be; for thou thyself also hast many failings which must be borne with by others."
-Thomas A Kempis

I wish that I had asked more questions.

I wish that I had said some things, and left other things unsaid.

I wish you could be here, that my children could remember you, that you could see how special they are.

So much of who I am, I am because of you. The good and the bad.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I miss you.

Life After Zooey

This morning I was not awakened by a wet nose nudging my hand or hot rancid breath in my face. Instead, the harsh beep-beep-beep of my husband's alarm.

I opened the kitchen door to let the cat in, but no shaggy black-and-grey dog went out.

No one kept me company or kept my feet warm while I packed lunches.

There was no one to give the last of my daughter's cereal to. I had to throw it out.

I did not bother locking the pantry door; no one was going to stick his nose in a cereal box.

When I returned from the bus stop, the front door opened freely. There was no hundred pound bulk laying behind it, ensuring that he would be alerted when I returned.

All my routines lie in disarray. I miss my dog. My companion of thirteen years, who knew me before I was a wife and a mother, who loved me without condition and in spite of all my faults, mistakes, shortcomings and fits of pique, who was such a part of my day to day life that every stupid little action feels incomplete somehow.

He was a Good Dog.

He didn't start out that way. He had a talent for sniffing out things that were new, and utterly, completely destroying them. He was especially good at finding things that were expensive, or had emotional value. Once he ate a wallet containing eighty dollars. And no food item was safe unless locked up in an airtight container, six feet off the ground.

We had a screen door that was slow to swing shut, and every time someone entered the house, voices would ring out, "Close the door!!!" but it was too late, a streak of black would have charged through the open opportunity and he would run, run, run, in a straight line, gloriously free, an entourage of huffing teenage smokers in his wake, struggling to catch up.

He would wait until there was only one book of matches left, in a household of chainsmokers after 7-11 had closed for the night, and then steal it with glee; waiting until you were close, so close, then show you the matches between his teeth before running past, up the stairs, down the stairs, loving the chase, basking in the attention...

As a pup, at our old house in the city, he would run up to greet the local kids as they walked home from the bus stop. Then he grew to be a gangly giant of a dog, but not understanding the game had changed, he would continue to run up to the gate, barking joyfully. The new crop of kids, not having known the puppy, instead seeing this black beast hurtling towards them, barking furiously, would scream and run past. Zoo thought it was the best fun.

When his water bowl would run dry, he would pick it up and carry it to where you were, drop it at your feet. If you did not fill it right away, he would think you were being particularly obtuse, picking it up again and throwing it down for emphasis, then dramatically licking the empty bowl. "Look," his raised eyebrows would say, "I'm trying to drink water and nothing's happening. 'Cause it's empty." And as soon as you would get up to fill it, he'd snatch it up and walk off with it, just to be a pain. He did that right up to the end.

As he grew older, his penchant for drama grew as well. If I stayed up later than usual, engrossed in a book or a movie, he would heave himself up with an exaggerated sigh. He would try to nudge me up, and failing to elicit a response, he would walk to the doorway, glancing over his shoulder, and harumph loudly, not willing to retire to bed quietly, letting me know that he was disgusted with my careless and disrespectful ways.

If I stayed out of the house for longer than he was accustomed to, he would trot out to the kitchen and somehow finagle the bread from its "secure" position atop the toaster. He would bring it out to the living room and eat a hole through the plastic bag, but leave the bread untouched. When I opened the front door, pushing hard against his bulk, asleep on the other side, he would get up and look at me reproachfully. "Woman, look what you made me do. I had to find emergency provisions in case you never returned."

As the years passed, he grew slower and slower. No more wild runs for the hills. Stairs were taken carefully and only if no other option was available. Once content to allow the children to ride on his back, he would now only let them sit for a moment or two before gently flicking them off and rolling quickly onto his side to discourage any attempts at remount.

He loved to give hugs and kisses, although in his latest years we accepted these hugs and kisses less, squealing and turning away, for he was stinky and gross.

We loved him in spite of his excema, his dreadlocked lion's mane of hair, his foul breath, his horrible flatulence, his warts and lumps, his grumpy and curmudgeonly demeanor.

He was a Good Dog.

Friday afternoon he tried to get up after a long nap and could not. His legs simply did not want to cooperate. Believing he was stiff from lying on the floor, I helped him out the door, but things did not improve. He managed to stumble downhill, but we had to pull him back uphill and into the house on a sled. A lifetime sufferer of Lyme Disease, he had always resented people touching his legs and feet, but this day he allowed himself to be hoisted up. He understood that he could not manage without our help.

And we were beside ourselves with grief, knowing that this night would be our last with him. How is it that we were so ill-prepared?

The next morning was brutal, the waiting, watching the clock tick his last minutes by, hugging him and telling him how much I would miss him, knowing his deaf ears could not hear me. He reassured us, dropping his chin onto our hands, licking our faces, before sighing and laying his head back down. His heart was weak, his breath was labored, he was tired and he had given up. But his face was still cheerful, and he did not want us to be sad.

Those who did not know Zooey will want to mock me, for feeling such a deep chasm of sadness, for taking the time to type out a eulogy for a dog- and such an unattractive and ill-perfumed dog, at that.

I DO NOT CARE. AT ALL.

Because just saying good-bye is not enough. I need everyone to know that he was a Good Dog, he had more character and humor and personality than many people I've known, and I miss him, miss him.

There is a dog shaped hole in my heart and I don't know how long it will take to heal. And for that I make no apology.

If anyone has any good Zooey memories, please please share them with me by posting a comment below. Please.

"I believe I essentially remain what I have almost always been- a narrator, but one with extremely pressing personal needs. I want to introduce, I want to describe, I want to distribute momentos, amulets, I want to break out my wallet and pass around snapshots..."

Molly has reminded me that Zooey loved nothing better than knowing he was in the middle of things, and would deliberately stretch out in exactly the worst possible place to be. She has sent me this photo from the beach:



Thanks, Molly.