Tung

I followed an American officer into a big, white tent. He pointed me to the cot, then brought his hands together and put them under his head. This is where I would sleep. I then followed him to a large building with lots of tables and one longer table that had food on it. This is where I would eat. He kept saying the word sponsor, which was what we refugees needed to leave the camp and settle in America.

I was farther from my tiny village of Điện Bàn in the countryside of central Vietnam, than I had ever imagined. After my father’s unexpected death a few years prior, I left home for the first time and took a bus to the big city, Saigon, about 500 miles [800 km] away. There, I sold soup from a market stall and sent money home to help my mother support my six younger siblings. Then, one day in late April 1975, chaos erupted. The Communists were taking over Saigon. I fled from my stall in the market and blindly followed the crowds.