Tung

I started to write letters to my mother as soon as I got to Kathy’s house. I kept picking up pieces of paper and starting to write, then crying so hard that I had to stop. Each time I wrote a word, I would see the image of my mother trying to sell one of my brothers. Or I would think of her tight, worried face. Finally, I managed to scrawl out in Vietnamese that I was in America. “I’m sorry. I went away. I’m okay. I hope I see you one day.”

Kathy helped me mail it, but after a few months, it ended up back in our mailbox, marked “Returned.” I threw out that letter and started again. When the second letter came back, I threw it out and wrote another. And another, about every two weeks for years. “I am sorry. I am okay. Are you okay? America is wonderful. I am doing wonderful.” The United States did not have diplomatic relations with Vietnam at the time, so apparently a lot of mail wasn’t getting through. I also wasn’t sure if my family was still at the same address. I could only hope that, eventually, one of my letters would make it.