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Thursday, March 28, 2024

Multiple violent incidents on NYC subways [3/27/24]








 

Many thanks for a $25.41 contribution from a repeat donor!

 

"Random" attacks skyrocket in NYC, but why all women? [3/27/24]







Decoy V makes sense, but his blanket statement about "third world levels of crime" betrays his ignorance. Much of the third world is safer than American cities. As an American, Decoy V doesn't dare say "black crime," so he dances around it and, in the process, insults the third world.


Immigrant Fate

As published at SubStack, 3/28/24:





[At Friendly Lounge on 2/11/17, Vietnamese “Jack” in his James Dean jacket. In the background is Johnny AC, an air conditioner repairman.]

Note: The editor of the California based Việt Báo is the poet Trần Dạ Từ. He and his wife, Nhã Ca, were key literary figures in South Vietnam. Each Tet for four years, Trần Dạ Từ asked me to contribute a Vietnamese language article, so I wrote the below in 2014. The translation is as close, line by line, as I can make it. Bits of it may be a translation of a translation, since I’d converted English dialogues, thoughts or writing into Vietnamese, so now must trick them back into English. In tone and focus, my Viet writing can’t be all that different from my American grunting and jiving, but a linguistic switch always reveals some new aspects, if not an entirely alien character! How many have received such a shock at seeing or hearing, for the first time, their foreign spouse being his or her native self?

In 1998, I was in a van going from Nội Bài Airport to Hanoi. Sitting on the back row was a pale, thin woman who spoke with a Hue accent. Her blouse was buttoned to her throat. Her weak voice quavered, as if coming from some dark, windblown distance. Learning I had just arrived from the US, she asked, “Over there, do Vietnamese live together?”

“Anyone can live anywhere.”

“They don’t make us live apart?”

“There are Vietnamese neighborhoods in the US, but anyone can live anywhere.”

“How odd.”

American neighborhoods are also unlike Vietnamese ones, because houses tend to be detached, with everyone minding his own business. Due to this indifference, it doesn’t matter if you’re gay, a slut or if your kids are in a gang or addicted to drugs. Sometimes a stiff corpse can go unnoticed for a month. No one knows about the sex slaves you keep in your basement.

As an immigrant you must more or less assimilate, naturally, but some are so eager, they deny their Vietnamese roots. In Philadelphia, I witnessed a bizarre scene at a Viet eatery. Starting a conversation with the owner, an American war veteran said, “Back then I fought in Quang Tri and Khe Sanh.”

Chubby with squinty eyes, the owner just froze.

The old soldier continued, “You’ve heard of Khe Sanh?”

“No.”

“You’ve never heard of Khe Sanh! You must have heard of Quang Tri?”

“No.”

“You’ve never heard of Quang Tri either! So are you Vietnamese?”

“No, I’m Canadian.”

“You’re Canadian! You weren’t born in Vietnam?”

Looking annoyed, chubby with squinty eyes answered with that genuine Mekong Delta accent, “I emigrated from Canada to the US.”

Smiling, the old soldier turned around and left the banh mi joint.

Though rarer, there are those who become extreme Orientals in the Occident! In Saigon before 1975, Phước wore slacks and dress shirts like millions of other young men, but in Philly, he gradually became a sifu. With his hair long, moustache wispy and dressed in traditional Chinese clothing, Phước seems like a chopsocky character, but is in fact a master of Seven Mountains Spiritual Kung Fu, so whoever dares to be flippant, snarky or confrontational, Sifu Phước can, with a mere flick, make him hack up blood, fall backward and bounce straight to Sam Mountain! Thirty years ago, Phước opened a dojo. Performing katas everywhere, he’s won hundreds of prizes, so has filled his home with trophies.

Americans often mispronounce Phước as Fuck, but he just laughs it off. The spiritually cultivated mustn’t be petty. Who cares if it’s fuck you or phật du. (Phật is Buddha, so phật du means traveling Buddha.)

Overseas Vietnamese bring glory to the race. A few months ago, the Viet gang Born to Kill tortured, stabbed then tossed three dudes into Philly’s Schuylkill River. Thirty-one-year-old Huỳnh Vũ and 28-year-old Huỳnh Việt were well dead, but Vương Thành survived, thanks to his ancestors’ intercession, despite being stabbed dozens of times. (In the Vietnamese, I use fuck lành for phước lành. Phước means luck, so he’s fucking lucky. Wordplays are impossible to translate.) The main suspect, Lê Minh Tâm, has still not been caught. “Born to Kill” was a slogan used by American soldiers during the Vietnam War.

The more destitute, uneducated and adrift are more likely to become thugs. The US has roughly 33,000 gangs with 1.4 million tattooed scarfaces. I have never sold drugs, committed armed robbery, extorted or trafficked in, ah, intercourses, but when I was fumbling around at night 20 years ago, some black guy almost fiscally liberated me. Though waving a hammer, he refrained from chopping, so my skull wasn’t cracked open. Though buzzed, I was sober enough to raise my voice so someone could call the cops. At court, the mugger said he had to carry a hammer for self defense, since he had been jumped by Asian gangsters! As proof, he pointed to some ancient scar on his face. Thankfully, the judge, also black, didn’t buy this. Done, the cop, black also, thanked me, “You gave a clear statement. We’ve caught him seven or eight times, but this is his first conviction.”

Seen from Vietnam, the US is just California and Vegas, so bright lights and festive streets. Plus, returning Viets are boastful and extravagant. Since only those with cash can fly back and forth, people don’t see poor Viet Kieus. There are many in Philly. They live in troubled and dangerous neighborhoods, such as Kensington. Here, they don’t do nails but cut hair, at only $5, cheapest in the city. Their customers are whites, Latinos and blacks.

American poverty is much different from Vietnamese destitution. In the US, you’ll always have something to stuff into your mouth no matter how poor you are. Each evening in Kensington, more than 350 people eat at Saint Francis soup kitchen. After 5PM, you can see they lined up outside the gate. Slovenly and stinky or neatly dressed, they’re the homeless, old, young and mothers pushing babies in strollers. In the US, everyone’s biggest worry is paying for housing each month. Unable to handle this, roughly 1.5 million must sleep outdoors or inside a tent or car for at least a few days each year. Each American city has hundreds if not thousands of people sprawled on sidewalks. Sometimes they claim an entire neighborhood, such as the Tenderloin in San Francisco, or Skid Row in Los Angeles.

There aren’t many homeless among Vietnamese-Americans. Perhaps we’re more flexible, meaning more willing to live in tight quarters, all bunched up, anything to not freeze on sidewalks. Many Viets are also adept at cheating the system, so they would dodge taxes while collecting welfare. In November of 2014, there were news of a Viet who hoodwinked everyone. Mrs. Sandy Nguyen collected donations for her son’s fake cancer. Receiving $25,000, this broad spent $16,000 on a family trip to Disneyland. Found out, Nguyen was jailed for three months.

In 1995, a 28-year-old Vietnamese homeless made headlines when he killed Thích Hạnh Mãn, a monk at Bodhi Temple, just a ten-minute walk from me. Escaping Vietnam alone, Nguyễn Ngọc Lân joined a gang in California before drifting to Philly. Though many worshippers felt uneasy around Lân, the monk gave him shelter. Thích Hạnh Mãn often preached, “To open the temple door is to close the prison gate.” To thank this monk, Lân stabbed his head, face, neck and body about 40 times. Done, he turned himself in. Lân claimed the monk had raped his sister, except Nguyễn Mai wasn’t his sister, and she hadn’t been raped by anyone. Plus, 18-year-old Mai had no inappropriate relationship with the 43-year-old monk. In court, Lân’s public defender insisted he was insane, since he had grown up in a menacing and chaotic environment, without anyone to guide or protect him, but the government argued Lân was sane enough. He ended up with a life sentence.

In Kensington, Vietnamese just duck inside their homes after work. Loitering, you might get hit by a stray bullet! In 2010, I met Tùng. Escaping in 1982, he spent a year at an Indonesian refugee camp before landing in Louisiana. Tùng worked at an offshore oil rig, so three weeks out there, then a week on land. Twenty-seven men surely got sick looking at each other. After each shift, they fished. Since they could pig out for free, and had no chance to spend, Tùng managed to save quite a bit, but unfortunately his company went under, so he drifted to Seattle, Spokane, Kansas City then Philly. In Kensington, Tùng sweated at a steel plant for 13 years until this, too, went tits up. Now, he does odd jobs at a private school. Three of his kids actually study there. One has just graduated. Tùng declared, “They only go to school then straight home. This neighborhood is super scary!” His oldest was an outstanding student so got eigh-year scholarships from four universities. She’s at UPenn. Her tuition alone would have been $48,000! On top of that, there’s the cost of books, housing and food.

Kensington’s hottest merchandises are heroin and, at night, skanky prostitutes. Way back, it was an Irish neighborhood. Their gang had a cute practice, the Kensington Mouthwash. After forcing an unfortunate to bite the curb while lying face down, a thug stomps on his head. “A Kensington Mouthwash” is when his teeth and blood squirt out. Every so often, I head to Kensington, not to care for my teeth but knock down a few beers. On Christmas Eve, I dropped in Jack’s.

Vietnamese booze at tables among friends, with food served usually. Americans prefer to knock them down at the bar, with each man on his high stool, so no table is needed. Though this way of drinking may seem lonely, it also gives strangers chances to chat. Next to me was a 57-year-old Dominican, Pedro. He philosophized, “There are chihuahuas, greyhounds, German shepherds and bulldogs, but everyone is a dog, you understand, so we must unite!”

After a few more mugs, he further offered, “There’s a head, two hands, two feet, a body and an asshole, but everyone wants to be a head, no one wants to be an asshole, so they throw the asshole into a river. Backstroking, like this, the asshole was also yelled at, 'Fuck you, asshole!' When they needed to take a shit, they were fucked, because where’s the asshole? You can be an asshole, I can be asshole, but everyone has a job to do, get it?”

When I said I was 51, Pedro shouted, “Congratulations!” Bill the bartender jumped in, “You congratulate him for being 51?!”

“Yes, because not everyone can live that long!”

“How old are you?” I asked Bill.

“52.”

“I congratulate you also!” Pedro roared, then turned to me, “The other day, I said hello to these young guys on the street, but they just gave me this look, like they wanted to kill me! One guy said, 'What are you looking at?' I just looked down and walked away. In this neighborhood, you can get shot for no reason, just like that!”

Just hours before Christmas, the bar was reasonably merry. A sock seller stopped at each patron to hawk a bit. Another peddling pirated movies was chased away. Behind the bar were all these lottery tickets with Christmas images in lurid colors. The cheapest was a dollar, the most expensive 20 bucks. I saw all these people buying then scratching, but no one won anything. Suddenly, several people barged into the bar to give each drunk a plastic bag printed with crucifixes in blue, red, purple and yellow. Inside was a packet of instant noodles, a bag of potato chips, a bag of peanuts, a bag of faintly cheese flavored crackers, a bunch of the cheapest candies, two Christmas cards and five proselytizing booklets

At Christmas in Saigon, people spill onto streets to stroll around Notre Dame Cathedral. For our first US Christmas in 1975, my father drove my brother and I into downtown Tacoma. Excited, we thought it would be super festive, but found it desolate. Christmas in the US is a day for cozy family gatherings, not a public fair. Driving around, my father noticed a hitchhiker, so picked him and drove him to his house, at least three miles away. After saying thank you, he just shuffled away. “We drove him so far but he didn’t even invite us into his house!” my dad complained. In Vietnam, people drag new acquaintances home to yak or eat, but in the US, there are friends of many decades who would only meet at public places, like a bar.

Just like that, I’ve been away from Vietnam nearly 40 years, though as an adult, I did come home to live for 2 ½ years. A few months ago, I met an American Vietnam vet in Kennewick, Washington. He said, “Since I was in Vietnam, Vietnam will always be a part of me.” Living in the US for 35 years altogether, I’ve clearly become an American, but in moments like this, when I’m blathering, entertaining and cracking bad jokes in my mother tongue, I can pretend I haven’t been uprooted by history, like too many on this earth, including those who have never left Vietnam. Having lost nearly everything, we must shake or laugh it off, because that’s all there is, all there is.

[Pedro at Jack’s in Philadelphia on 12/24/14]
[Phyllis (left) and friend at Jack’s on 12/24/14]
[at Jack’s in Philadephia on 1/20/14]
[Philadelphia, 3/31/14]





Phận di cư

As published at Việt Báo in January of 2014:

 

Năm 98, tôi ngồi trên xe cá mập, chạy từ Nội Bài vào Hà Nội. Trên xe, có một cô người Huế hỏi tôi về đời sống bên Mỹ, “Ở bên đó, người Việt sống với nhau?”

“Ai muốn sống đâu thì sống.”

“Họ không bắt mình ở riêng?” Cô này mảnh khảnh, xanh xao, nút áo thắt tận cổ, giọng thì cứ phảng phất, vang vang như đã hất lại từ một chốn rất xa vời và âm u.

“Ở bên Mỹ, có xóm Việt, nhưng ai muốn sống đâu thì sống.”

“Lạ nhỉ.”

Một cái xóm Mỹ cũng không giống ở Việt Nam, vì thường thì mỗi nhà riêng biệt, không ai đếm xỉa đến ai. Vì mạnh ai nấy sống, tên nào bê, ả nào ngựa, con cái nhà nào vào băng đảng hay nghiện ma túy thì cũng mặc kệ. Nhiều khi chết cứng cả tháng cũng chẳng ma nào hay. Dưới hầm nhốt vài cô nô lệ tình dục cũng đếch ai biết.

Đến nước người ít nhiều cũng phải hòa nhập, dĩ nhiên, nhưng có kẻ hứng quá, chối luôn gốc Việt. Tại Philadelphia, tôi chứng kiến một cảnh quái đản tại một quán Việt Nam. Bắt chuyện với chủ tiệm, một cựu chiến binh Mỹ nói, “Hồi đó tôi đánh ở Quảng Trị và Khe Sanh.”

Tròn vo, mắt hí, chủ tiệm chỉ ngớ ra.

Gã lính già nói tiếp, “Anh có biết Khe Sanh?”

“Không.”

“Anh không biết Khe Sanh! Vậy thì anh có biết Quảng Trị?”

“Không.”

“Anh cũng không biết Quảng Trị! Vậy thì anh có phải là người Việt?”

“Không, tôi người Canada.”

“Anh người Canada! Anh không đẻ tại Việt Nam?”

Ra vẻ khó chịu, tròn vo, mắt hí trả lời với giọng Lục Tỉnh chính gốc, “Tôi di cư từ Canada qua Mỹ.”

Mỉm cười, gã lính già quay đít, rời tiệm bánh mì thịt nguội.

Tuy hiếm hơn, cũng có kẻ qua Tây thì lại Ta tới bến!  Ở Sài Gòn trước 75, Phước mặc quần tây, áo sơ mi như cả triệu thanh niên khác, nhưng đến Philadelphia, dần dần hắn biến thành sư phụ. Để tóc dài, râu mép và thường bận quần áo Trung Hoa truyền thống, Phước như từ phim chưởng bước ra, nhưng hắn chính là một đại ca Thất Sơn Thần Quyền, nên kẻ nào dám sấc sược, mỉa mai, kiếm chuyện, sư phụ Phước chỉ cần búng một phát thì sẽ hộc máu, ngã ngửa, văng thẳng về Núi Sam! Cách đây 30 năm, Phước mở võ đường, rồi đi biểu diễn đường quyền khắp nơi, thắng cả trăm giải, trưng cúp đầy nhà.

Lắm khi người Mỹ đọc trệch tên Phước thành Fuck, nhưng hắn chỉ cười xòa. Biết rèn đạo thì không nên chấp vặt. Fuck you hay phật du cũng vậy thôi.

Người Việt ra nước ngoài làm vẻ vang nòi giống. Cách đây vài tháng, băng Việt Nam Born to Kill tra tấn, chém rồi quăng ba khứa xuống sông Schuykill tại Philadelphia. Huỳnh Vũ, 31 tuổi, và Huỳnh Việt, 28, thì chết ngắc, nhưng Vương Thành thì nhờ ông bà ban fuck lành, bò được lên bờ tuy đã bị đâm cả mấy chục phát. Thủ phạm chính, Lê Minh Tâm, vẫn chưa bị bắt. Born to Kill, “Sinh ra để giết,” là khẩu hiệu của lính Mỹ thời chiến tranh Việt Nam.

Càng túng thiếu, vô giáo dục hay bơ vơ thì càng dễ vào du đãng, và nước Mỹ có khoảng 33.000 băng đảng với 1.4 triệu tên mình xăm, mặt thẹo. Tôi thì chưa bao giờ buôn ma túy, chỉa súng tước của, tống tiền hay bán cái trò, à, giao cấu, nhưng cách đây 20 năm, có lần tôi lò mò ban đêm, xuýt nữa bị một tên Mỹ đen giải phóng kinh tế. Hắn xòe búa, nhưng không nỡ gõ, nên tôi khỏi vỡ sọ. Tuy xỉn, tôi đủ tỉnh để lớn tiếng cho ai nấy nghe được, kêu cảnh sát dùm. Tại tòa, tên cướp bảo hắn phải thủ búa để tự vệ, vì đã bị du đãng Á châu xơi! Dẫn bằng chứng, hắn chỉ vào vết thẹo trên mặt từ thuở nào đó. Hên là quan tòa, cũng Mỹ đen, chẳng tin. Xong chuyện, gã cảnh sát, cũng đen thui, cám ơn tôi, “Nhờ lời khai của mày minh mẫn. Tụi tao bắt thằng này 7, 8 lần, nhưng bây giờ mới đủ bằng chứng để giam.”

Nhìn nước Mỹ từ Việt Nam, ai cũng chỉ thấy những cảnh Cali hay Las Vegas, đèn chớp lẫy lừng, đường phố vui nhộn. Hơn nữa, Việt kiều về nước thì lại nổ và xa hoa. Vì chỉ đám có tiền mới bay tới, bay lui, người trong nước không bao giờ thấy bọn Mít mạt rệp. Ở Philadelphia, người Việt nghèo rất đông, và họ cũng sống ở những xóm rất lôi thôi và nguy hiểm, như Kensington chẳng hạn. Tại đây, phần lớn không sơn móng tay mà hớt tóc, và họ chỉ tính $5 một đầu, rẻ nhất Philadelphia. Khách của họ là trắng, Mỹ Latinh và đen.

Cái nghèo ở Mỹ vẫn khác xa sự bần cùng tại Việt Nam, vì ở Mỹ, nghèo cách mấy thì cũng có gì đó để nhét vào miệng. Tại Kensington, mỗi chiều, hơn 350 người ăn uống tại nhà từ thiện Thánh Phanxicô. Sau 5 giờ, bạn sẽ thấy họ xếp hàng ngoài cổng. Xốc xếch, hôi hám hay ăn mặc gọn gàng, khá tử tế, họ là những kẻ vô gia cư, người già, thanh niên và những bà mẹ trẻ đẩy con trên xe. Ở Mỹ, chuyện lo âu nhất cho ai nấy là tiền nhà mỗi tháng. Chịu không nổi, khoảng 1.5 triệu người phải ngủ dưới trời, trong lều hay trong xe hơi ít nhất vài ngày mỗi năm. Tất cả thành phố Mỹ đều có cả trăm hay thậm chí mấy ngàn người lăn lóc ngoài đường. Nhiều nơi họ chiếm luôn cả một xóm, như Tenderloin tại San Francisco, chẳng hạn, hay Skid Row tại Los Angeles.

Không có bao nhiêu người Mỹ gốc Việt vô gia cư. Có lẽ ta khéo xoay xở, sống chật và chung đụng cũng được, miễn sao không lạnh cóng ngoài lề đường. Nhiều người Việt cũng rành mánh mung, vừa làm chui vừa xin trợ cấp đủ kiểu. Cuối tháng 11, 2014, có tin một mụ người Việt lừa đảo thiên hạ. Bà Sandy Nguyễn cho con trai sáu tuổi giả vờ bị ung thu để khuyên tiền. Được $25,000, Sandy lấy $16,000 để đi Disneyland với gia đình. Bể mánh, mụ bị ba tháng tù.

Năm 1995, có một người Việt vô gia cư, 28 tuổi, lên tin tức khi hắn giết thầy Thích Hạnh Mãn tại Chùa Bồ Đề, chỉ cách chỗ tôi ở 10 phút đi bộ. Nguyễn Ngọc Lân vượt biên không có gia đình, rồi trở thành du đãng tại California trước khi mò đến Philadelphia. Đói, hắn vô chùa để ăn, rồi khi mùa đông đến, xin thầy Hạnh Mãn cho chỗ ngủ. Tuy nhiều phật tử cứ thấy rờn rợn gần tên Lân, thầy chịu chứa hắn. Thầy thường dạy, “Mở cửa chùa là đóng cửa tù.” Để trả ơn, Lân chém thầy Hạnh Mãn khoảng 40 phát vào đầu, mặt, cổ và mình. Giết xong, hắn tự nộp tại bóp cảnh sát. Lân nói thầy Hạnh Mãn đã hiếp dâm em gái của hắn, tuy Nguyễn Mai không phải là em của Lân, và cô cũng chẳng bị ai hiếp. Hơn nữa, Mai, 18 tuổi, hoàn toàn không có quan hệ tầm bậy gì với thầy Hạnh Mãn, 43 tuổi. Ra tòa, luật sư (chùa) của Lân nằng nặc nói hắn rõ ràng điên vì lớn lên trong một môi trường đe dọa và náo loạn, không có ai giạy dỗ hay đùm bọc, nhưng chính phủ thì cãi Lân đủ tỉnh rồi. Rốt cuộc, Lân bị nhốt chung thân.

Tại Kensington, người Việt chỉ lo làm lụng rồi chui vào nhà, vì la cà sẽ có phen lãnh đạn lạc! Năm 2010, tôi gặp anh Tùng. Vượt biên năm 1982, anh ở trại tị nạn Nam Dương một năm rồi đến Louisiana. Anh làm trên mỏ dầu ngoài khơi, cứ ba tuần giữa biển, một tuần được lên bờ. Hai mươi bảy thằng nhìn nhau chán ngấy. Sau giờ lao động, họ câu cá. Được bao ăn hả hê, lại không có cơ hội tiêu xài, túi Tùng khá bộn, nhưng rủi ro công ty sạt nghiệp, khiến anh phải dạt đến Seattle, Spokane, Kansas City rồi Philadelphia. Tại Kensington, anh đổ mồ hôi tại xưởng thép 13 năm cho đến khi nơi này cũng thẳng cẳng. Nay, anh phụ trách những việc lặt vặt cho một trường tư, nơi chính bốn đứa con anh học. Anh thốt, “Tụi nó chỉ đi học rồi về nhà. Xóm này khiếp lắm!” Con gái lớn của Tùng học cực kỳ giỏi nên được bốn đại học cấp học bổng tám năm. Bây giờ cô ấy đang ở trường Penn khét tiếng. Học phí thông thường là $48,000! Đó là chưa kể tiền sách vở, phòng ở và ăn uống.

Hàng chạy nhất tại Kensington là heroin và về đêm, đĩ bèo. Xưa, đây là một xóm của người Ái nhĩ lan, và băng đảng của họ có bày ra một trò rất có duyên, Kensington Mouthwash. Sau khi bắt kẻ sấu số nằm xấp và cạp lên mép lề đường, du đãng đạp lên đầu. “Xúc miệng Kensington” là khi răng và máu phun ra. Thỉnh thoảng, tôi cũng lên Kensington chơi, nhưng không phải để nhổ răng kiểu này, mà để tu bia. Chiều trước Noel, tôi tạt vào quán Jack’s. 

Người Việt nhấm nháp tại bàn, với bạn bè, và thường thì phải có mồi. Người Mỹ thì ưa nốc bia tại quầy, nghĩa là mỗi người một ghế cao, không cần bàn, và tuy cách nhậu này trông khá cô đơn, nó cũng tạo điều kiện cho những người dưng tán dóc với nhau. Bên cạnh tôi là một gã Dominican 57 tuổi, Pedro. Hắn triết lý, “Có chó chihuahua, greyhound, béc-giê, bulldog, nhưng ai cũng là chó, mày hiểu không, nên chúng ta phải đoàn kết!”

Thêm vài cốc bia, hắn lại xổ, “Có đầu, hai tay, hai chân, thân mình và lỗ đít, nhưng ai cũng muốn làm đầu, chẳng ai thèm làm lỗ đít, nên cả đám quăng lỗ đít xuống sông. Bơi ngửa, như vầy, lỗ đít còn bị chửi, ‘Đụ mẹ mày, lỗ đít!’ Nhưng lúc cần ỉa thì, oái oăm thay, lỗ đít đâu rồi?! Mày có thể là lỗ đít, tao là lỗ đít, nhưng ai cũng có một vai trò, mày hiểu không?”

Khi tôi khai tôi 51 tuổi, Pedro thốt, “Chúc mừng!” Bill, gã bán bar, nhảy vào, “Mày chúc mừng vì nó 51 tuổi?!”

“Đúng, vì không phải ai cũng sống lâu như vậy!”

“Mày bao nhiêu tuổi?” Tôi hỏi Bill.

“52.”

“Tao chúc mừng mày luôn,” Pedro rống, rồi quay qua tôi, “Hôm trước, tao chào một đám thanh niên ngoài đường, nhưng bọn ấy kên, kên tao như muốn giết tao vậy! Một thằng nói, ‘Mày dòm cái gì đó?’ Tao chỉ cúi đầu, lẳng lặng đi. Tại xóm này, mày có thể bị bắn sảng như chơi!”

Trước ngày lễ, quán khá tưng bừng. Một kẻ bán bít tất rong tạt lại từng khách, gạ gạ. Một khứa khác tính bán phim lậu nhưng bị đuổi đi. Sau quầy là một loạt vé sổ số với những màu rực rỡ và hình ảnh noel. Cái rẻ nhất thì $1, mắc nhất $20. Tôi thấy bao nhiêu người mua rồi cạo cạo, nhưng chẳng thấy ai thắng. Bỗng nhiên, ba bốn người xâm nhập bar để tặng mỗi bợm rượu một gói plastic với những thánh giá nho nhỏ, xanh, đỏ, tím, vàng. Bên trong là một bao mì gói, bịch khoai tây chiên, bịch đậu phộng, bịch bánh giòn phảng phất mùi phô ma, những loại kẹo rẻ tiền nhất, hai thiệp giáng sinh và năm tập sách giảng đạo.

Noel tại Sài Gòn, thiên hạ tràn vào phố để đi dạo vòng quanh Nhà Thờ Đức Bà. Noel đầu tiên tại Mỹ, năm 75, cha tôi chở tôi và em trai vào trung tâm thành phố nhỏ Tacoma. Hớn hở, tụi tôi tưởng sẽ nhộn nhịp lắm, nhưng đến nơi, chỉ thấy vắng hiu. Noel ở Mỹ là ngày tụ tập dưới mái ấm gia đình, không phải lễ hội. Lái vòng vòng, cha tôi mới phát giác một gã đứng ngoài đường xin quá giang, nên cho hắn lên xe rồi chở đến tận nhà cách đó khoảng năm, sáu cây số. Nói cám ơn, hắn xuống xe rồi thui thủi bỏ đi. “Mình chở nó xa như vậy mà nó cũng không mời vào nhà!” Cha tôi than. Ở Việt Nam, mới quen là đã rủ về nhà đấu láo hay ăn uống, nhưng ở Mỹ, có nhiều người quen nhau mấy chục năm nhưng chỉ gặp tại những nơi công cộng như quán bar.

Chỉ quay đi, quay lại mà đã gần 40 năm tôi rời Việt Nam, tuy lớn lên, tôi có trở về để sống tại quê nhà hơn hai năm rưỡi. Cách đây vài tháng, tôi gặp một cựu chiến binh Mỹ tại Pasco, Washington. Hắn bảo, “Vì tao đã qua Việt Nam nên Việt Nam sẽ luôn luôn là một phần của tao.” Sống tại Mỹ tổng cộng 35 năm, tôi rõ ràng đã hóa thành người Mỹ, tuy trong những lúc như vầy, khi lải nhải, giúp vui, giễu dở bằng tiếng mẹ đẻ, tôi vẫn ráng giả vờ rằng tôi đã không bị bốc tận rễ bởi lịch sử, như quá nhiều kẻ trên thế gian này, kể cả những người chưa từng rời Việt Nam. Mất gần hết, ta phải phớt tỉnh hay cười xoà, vì chỉ có thế thôi, thế thôi.


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Piece is included in my 204-page collection of Vietnamese prose, Tích ngàn thu sau bữa cơm ma.


Kabul by the Robot

As published at SubStack, 3/27/24:





[Vung Tau, 1/7/24]

At 6:12AM, I’m at my second cafe, Bitter. As I walked in, the lady was about to take her boy to school. Very well behaved, this kid. Yesterday, he folded his arms to announce, “Dear great grandma, dear four sirs, I’m going to school.”

Dear is only a rough translation, for the Vietnamese thưa is reserved for those above you. Sir is also not quite right. Ông can also be translated as grandpa. For this mannered boy, four customers at his mom’s cafe became “grandpas” to whom he must acknowledge before heading to school.

Language is a maze to confuse, expose and keep out those outside your community and time. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to have that tattooed on your forehead, but backward. Each time you admire your smug visage in the mirror, you’ll be reminded.

At the first cafe, I again overheard old heads going on about health.

Thin woman to balding man, “Where’s your white haired friend?”

“He broke his leg.”

“What happened?!”

“He got so horny, someone broke his leg!”

Everyone laughed. Across the street, there’s a dog lying across the entrance of a noodle shop, just opening. After lifting his head to ponder silly bipeds at some stupid cafe, he plopped it down again. Though he wouldn’t mind marrying or traveling, he’s likely to die a celibate on the same block he was born. Noticing some white haired guy with a laptop staring at him, the dog couldn’t help but think, Fuck you and the minibus you rode in!

Resuming my eavesdropping, I heard another expiring fart dribble, “That guy can steer a motorbike, clear the jungle and make love at the same time! Who can take it?!”

Again, it’s only loosely translated. “Ông ấy vừa lái xe, vừa làm rẫy, vừa làm tình! Ai mà chịu nổi?!”

Before the Vietnam War, make love wasn’t a Vietnamese idiom. Now, they’ve even adopted, “Say no to drugs.” Nói không với ma túy.

That multitasking man is impossible, but such is language. It’s often fantastic or magical. Gas chambers killed six million Jews. Blood gushed from the ground for days. Israel has a right to defend itself. It’s perfectly safe and effective. Often enough, you don’t need to prove anything. Just persuade or browbeat. Putin is the new Hitler intent on invading Europe.

7:73AM and I’m at my third cafe, Cóc Cóc. I had to flee when Bitter turned up its TV. Some idiot was babbling about plants. Broadcast noise is destroying minds, language and civilizations.

The beauty of words can evaporate just a mile away. What means so much at dawn is nonsense by dusk. How many native English speakers can even comprehend Henry James, much less Skelton? Chaucer might as well have written in Chinese.

For writing a king’s name in a book, Wang Xihou (1713-1777) and all his relations were sentenced to death. Magnanimous, the Qianlong Emperor allowed Wang Xihou to escape death by a thousand cuts, so the scholar was just beheaded. Most of his relatives were also pardoned, but only after enough time to shit their pants. A single stroke doomed Wang Xihou.

On the way to Cóc Cóc, I passed a stand selling hot dogs, sushi and french fries for breakfast. Vietnamese kids are also eating hamburgers or spaghetti before school. With exotic names, alien dishes allure. From my seat, I can see Sambal, with its nasi goreng. Sounds exciting, but it’s just fried rice.

Though comfortable enough in my native Vietnam, I betray my foreignness by using Saigon words from the 60’s and 70’s. There’s always a linguistic war, so missile, airport, jet, traffic circle, soy sauce and broth, etc., have all been changed.

In two days, I’ll be in Phnom Penh. It will be good to have char kway teow, sin chew bee hoon, mie ayam or teochew mie pok at Klang Boy Bak Kut Teh. Having spent a month in Singapore, Malaysia and Indonesia altogether, I speak perfect Malay. My Cambodian, though, is a bit rusty. All I do is point and grin.

It’s time for my first cappuccino. Vietnamese pronounce it as kabul, as in the Afghan capital. I can’t bring myself to do so without cracking up. It took me nearly three months in Cape Town to say, “Drop me off at the next robot.”

Ciao for now. Viets say chào, so it’s almost the same. Some now chirp chào buổi sáng or chào buổi chiều, meaning good morning or good evening. Like even the French, they can’t say no to the English virus, but this war is far from over.

Wars don’t end.

[Vung Tau, 3/25/24]
[Beirut, 10/30/20]

[Belgrade, 7/28/20]

[Kiev, 2/9/16]





Tuesday, March 26, 2024









Old woman in HELLO LOVE shirt on 3-25-24--Vung Tau copy















Girl on bicycle on 3-25-24--Vung Tau copy















Masked woman in NY cap on 3-25-24--Vung Tau copy















USA themed jeep on 3-25-24--Vung Tau copy







Those Laboring Days

As published at SubStack, 3/26/24:





[Old Philadelphia Bar on 7/9/17]

Note: This piece from 12/26/12 should have been in my last self-published book, Lost America, but I had forgotten all about it. I don’t remember much of what I’ve written.

In the 1980's and 90's, even a klutz like me could find work as a manual laborer. I painted houses, washed windows, cleaned apartments and offices. At my first house painting job, I propped a ladder upside down against the wall, don't laugh, but wasn't let go. Once I was so hungover, I had to climb down five or six times to throw up, and still wasn't fired. My boss, Joe LeBlanc, just laughed it off. He even paid me a full day's wage and told me to go home. When times were good, everyone made out OK and was more generous. They drank more, tipped bartenders more. After work, we often ducked into The Office, a skanky strip joint and certainly no “gentlemen’s club,” before heading to McGlinchey's for Rolling Rock and Jameson. At The Office, a black chick grinned, "I've heard you Chinese guys can have sex, like, a hundred times in a row?" I didn't have the heart to disabuse her of that invigorating and lovely notion.

Joe was a Canadian who had gone South to join the US Army. He fought in Vietnam, was dishonorably discharged, then just ended up living here, illegally. Days removed from the war zone, Joe shot at an Oakland street light. "Why?" I asked. "I don't know. I was just fucked up." A gun freak, Joe was erecting a dome dwelling in an all-white Kentucky county. He gave me an open invitation to come try his large assortment of assault rifles, but shit, man, I didn't want Joe to have some nasty flashback. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Seeing me with an AK-47 in the middle of them woods, Joe might just dispatch me to Uncle Ho!

Like us all, Joe had his rough spots, but he was a very good man. He treated his grunt well and was willing to hire goofs or even fuckups. When work was scarce during winter, Joe lent me money, in envelopes stuffed through my mail slot, and twice he even said, “Forget about it,” when I tried to pay him back. Joe hired an old guy because he knew grandpa was hurting. Laura was rather large, so he had her paint first floor windows. Climbing a ladder, she would surely break it or her jiggly self.

Joe employed a guy so slow, he's nicknamed "Smooth." It's like seeing Marcel Marceau with a piece of sand paper. An alchemist, Smooth was committed to a unique cocktail of pharmaceuticals, so he died standing at the sink before age 30.

Tony had served 13 months for drug dealing. Going from Philly to Miami each month, Tone and his brother would take an Amtrak, but business got so good, they decided to buy a muscle car to make chicks drool. At some stupid traffic stop, they got busted. Pride comes before the prison loving.

Tony said prettier dudes in jail risked having their assholes slit with a razor, to make them slipperier. I incorporated this detail into a short story in my Fake House. Tony died at 35.

Anyone willing to be boss to such a lame roster is OK in my book, but like I said, times were good then. Everyone could find work.

I also knew Tumi, a German drifter who traveled strictly by Greyhound. Stiff and sticky, he could ride the bus for three days in a row. When not in Philly or rain dancing in North Dakota, Tumi was often in Santa Monica, where he slept on the beach. When broke, Tumi would stand in front of any paint store. Before too long, some contractor would hire him. Tumi needed just enough for his daily all-you-can-eat buffet, then beer in the evening. Born Ludwig, he became Tumi because he was somehow Muslim. Taking himself very seriously, Tumi often imparted bits of wisdom. "An olive, my friend, has as much protein as a steak." "A bone must take so long to make. So long!" Joe also hired Tumi.

Now, Joe wasn't running a charity, but a regular business. We didn't loaf and do drugs on the job. We actually worked our asses off, when we weren't vomitting from another hangover. Joe hired us because there was actually a shortage of labor, at least for shut-up-and-just-suck-it-up work. Now, you'll need a college degree to park cars or serve latte. Soon we'll have PhD's chirping, "Original recipe or spicy, Sir?" Or, "Would you like a Holiday Mint McFlurry with that?" Recent majors in Postmodern Linked Verse Deconstruction will be pole dancing. Trawling for tips, they'll ask, "I've heard you Chinese guys can have sex, like, a hundred times in a row?" To eat, you must flatter even those you can't stand.

It wasn't all Rolling Rock, scrapple and American cheese. Down to pennies, I’d run to Lee Goldston, whom I drank with regularly at McGlinchey’s. Lee dubbed himself President of the Associated Philadelphia International Company, APIC, but all it was was Lee with a bucket, squeegee, Joy dish washing detergent and some scrunched up newspaper. As a window washer, Lee was typically paid $5 per store, but much more for a 7-11 or church. Although these were his hustles, Lee always gave me half of the day’s take. Twenty bucks could keep me high on eggs, ground beef and cabbage for days. Once, I washed windows after appearing at a community college as a guest poet. Wouldn't it have been a hoot had admiring students seen me vigorously wiping water before it could freeze on a window pane? “Yo, isn’t that the poet who came to our class yesterday?!”

Last week, I popped into McGlinchey's just before noon to find it nearly empty. If lowlifes can't swill pissy beer for lunch, you know the economy is nosediving. "Where's everybody, Ronnie?" I asked the owner.

"Well, you're here!"

"But this ain't right, Ronnie. Where's everybody?!"

"I think people's drinking habits have changed, that's all."

"You sure it ain't the economy?"

"No, no. People just don't drink as much as they used to. Before, you never had people come into a bar and not drink, but now you do."

"What do you mean not drink? You can't come in here and not drink!"

"Well, you might have a table of four people, and one or maybe even two might not drink at all."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Or people will just buy beer from a store, then drink at their apartments. That way, they can also smoke."

"Oh, come on, Ronnie, people have always smoked weed!"

"I guess you're right. Maybe it does have something to do with the economy."

Of course, the economy is imploding. One of Ronnie's bartenders, Alia, told me that business was down by about a third. Many regulars who had come in daily, she now saw maybe once a month. Alia herself was cutting back, by eating out less. There was nothing positive about this economic mess.

For some business owners, it may be too painful to admit the obvious. They will latch onto "recovery" even as they sink and their neighbors go belly up. As Center City's dumpiest dive, McGlinchey's may be resilient. When swanky pubs go bust, their clientele, now not so flushed yet still parched, will drift over to settle into cushionless booths or onto ratty, leaning stools. "What's the beer special today? What's the cheapest you have on tap?"

[Erin in South Philly’s Fatso on 5/27/18]
[Philadelphia, 5/27/10]
[Philadelphia, 5/27/13]
[Philadelphia, 5/27/10]