Beauty Rising (21 page)

“I’m sorry. Am I asking too many questions? You don’t need to tell me anything if you don’t want.”

“No. I want to. When the freighter arrived in the Port of Los Angeles, we had to remain in the container for about twelve hours. Finally, one of the guys showed up and sneaked us out of the ship through the shipyard and into a van. We were transported to downtown LA and were told we had to work for three years to pay off our passage to America even though I had already paid way more than originally told. There was a group of leaders, Asian and Mexican, and they threatened us with all kinds of things if we gave them trouble or tried to escape. So I worked in a factory in downtown LA for over a year. They kept a close eye on us, and since I didn’t have any papers, I basically just did whatever they said.”

“Did they mistreat you? Did they hurt you or make you do things you didn’t want?”

“It was fine, Martin. They didn’t make me do anything I wasn’t used to.”

“What happened?”

“The INS raided the place about three months ago. We were put into a detention center until we could be processed. I claimed asylum and eventually when I told them my story, they granted it to me. That was two weeks ago. They gave me my possessions, which were few. Your license was still there. After all this time, I still had your license. My parents had always taught me not to steal, and I know they would have been disappointed with me. So I thought I would go and give it to you as the first step of starting my new life. ”

My heart raged for this poor girl. I didn’t want to ask her what her plans were next. I couldn’t bear the thought that she would leave.

We walked back towards Lyndora and just chatted about random things. We stopped at Wendy’s and I bought her a burger. I had a triple. She ate about half of it and gave me the rest. We laughed and smiled. It was the most magical night of my life. We arrived back at Home Avenue and took a seat on that same familiar step. I was still halfway into the grass. The screen door opened.

“Martin, where the hell have you been? It’s almost eleven o’clock. Who’s out there with you?”

“Mom, this is My Phuong.”

“Who’s that?”

“Hello,” My Phuong said to my mother. “Nice to meet you.”

“Martin, you need to come in now. It’s cold out there.”

She completely ignored My Phuong’s gesture and just stared at her. I wanted nothing more than for her to go away.

“Mom, don’t be so rude. She said ‘hello’ to you.”

My Mom nodded to My Phuong insincerely.

“Come in now, Martin.”

“Mom, stop treating me like a child. I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

“What are you? Are you Oriental?” my Mom said in the most embarrassing of manners.

“She’s from Vietnam, Mom.”

“Vietnam! Martin,”

“Mom, go inside.”

The screen door slammed.

“My Phuong, I am so sorry. My mother had no right to treat you like that. But that’s how my mother is. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe I should go.”

“Where? Where will you go?”

“I’ll find a place.”

“You mean you have no place to stay?” I asked.

“No, but don’t worry. I’ll find a place.”

“No, My Phuong. You can stay here. We have plenty of room.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Sure you can. There’s an extra bedroom in the basement, and . . . ”

“No, your mother doesn’t like me.”

“My mother doesn’t like anyone.”

“No, Martin I have to go.”

She stood up and walked down the two steps to the road and then started to leave.

“My Phuong, please don’t. I mean, if you want to leave . . .if you don’t want to see me again, I understand, but. . .”

Perhaps there were tears in my eyes. I’m not sure, but I felt my heart breaking. I had been waiting for her for three years and the thought of her leaving tore me up.

“Oh, Martin. You have been so kind to me already. I just don’t want to cause you any problems with your mother.”

“But you need a place to stay, don’t you?”

She looked away from me, and then turned her head back towards me and nodded.

“I have an idea. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time.”

That made me smile immensely.

The Real Story of My Phuong

We walked down Home Avenue onto Main and continued down two blocks until we stood in front of Reverend Fox’s parsonage.

“Where are we going, Martin?”

“Here. This is the home of Reverend Fox. I think he could help you.”

“This is a church. No, Martin. No. I have to go.”

She started walking the other way.

“My Phuong, what is it? Where will you go? My Phuong? Please, wait.”

She stopped.

“Martin, not the church. I can’t.”

“What’s the matter? Reverend Fox is really nice. I think he can help you.”

She looked distressed, but eventually nodded and turned back to me.

“It’s okay,” I said and we both walked up his sidewalk towards his front door. A light burned dimly in the front room. I walked up the two cinderblock steps and knocked. After a few seconds, the aging Reverend Fox came to the door.

“Hello? Martin, how are you?”

“Reverend Fox, I’m really sorry to bother you this late at night. I’m wondering if you might be able to help us.”

“Please come in. Come in.”

“Reverend Fox, this is my friend My Phuong. She’s from Vietnam.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Hello sir,” she replied.

“Please have a seat.”

My Phuong and I sat down in a love seat. I brushed right up against her arm in a wonderfully intimate way.

“Sorry to bother you this late, but I’m wondering if you can help us.”

“What is it Martin,” the Reverend said as he sat down in a rocker but leaned forward toward us.

“My Phuong is a refugee from Vietnam. She has recently been granted asylum because of someone who had kept her in bondage unlawfully. Now she needs a place to stay for a few days until she can figure out what she is going to do. I remembered the apartment over your garage. You don’t think . . .”

“Oh Martin, she is more than welcome to stay there. It’s not completely clean, but . . .”

“No,” My Phuong said abruptly. “That’s not the reason why they gave me asylum.”

“Oh,” said Reverend Fox. “What is your story?”

I looked at her strangely trying to determine what she meant.

“I was raised a Protestant, like you,” she said looking at the Reverend. “My father was a pastor in the south of Vietnam. In the highlands. You see, I’m not actually Vietnamese. I am part of the
Mnong
ethnic group of Vietnam. My mother was half Vietnamese and they gave me a Vietnamese name hoping that I would be able to fit into society better when I was older.”

“No, wait,” I said interrupting her. “But you are from Thai Win. Thai Win is where you stole my wallet.”

Reverend Fox looked quickly at me in apparent curiosity.

“No. I’m not from Thai Nguyen. I’m from Tay Nguyen – the central highlands, Dak Lak province, just outside of Buon Me Thuot.”

I sat back in the couch astounded by the revelation. She was from Tay Nguyen. I thought of my dad.

“My father pastored a small church not too far from the provincial capital. It was not an official church. The local authorities would not allow us to build a real church, so we met in a longhouse of one of our member’s family.”

“I have heard that the church in Vietnam has been persecuted in many terrible ways,” said the Reverend.

She nodded, and then continued her story.

“My father had worked hard for many years. He saw many converts, and the church grew to about sixty individuals. One week, about four years ago, we were planning a Saturday morning church picnic on one of the beautiful mountain tops. Everything was coordinated, and we were encouraged to invite some of our non-Christian friends. We arrived at the location around ten in the morning, and started singing and worshiping. Around eleven, we started a fire that we planned to cook our lunch over. It was a beautiful day. At around 11:15, we heard several cars pulling up, and we were surprised to see the police. Seven different police cars and three lorries. All of the congregation panicked and started to say things like we should all run away. But my father, he just stood there and told everyone that we were doing nothing wrong and that we should stay calm.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why were the police coming to a picnic?”

“In Vietnam, you have to have official permission from the government if you want to have a church meeting or any assembly of a large group.”

“Why?”

“They think that we will try to subvert the government or something like that. So the police came and confronted my father. He stood in front of them and said that they were doing nothing wrong. The police accused him of breaking the law and said that he would have to come with them. He agreed and started going towards the lorry.”

My Phuong stopped talking, and I could see the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“Then one of the officers started yelling at him. He grabbed one of the burning branches from the fire and poked it into my father’s face. My father screamed in pain and several men from our congregation came towards him to aid him. That’s when the police came at the crowd in full force. They started beating men, women and children. One man was thrown into the fire and severely burned. Others scattered through the woods.”

The Reverend had pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his eyes. I used my sleeve. I couldn’t comprehend the amount of suffering My Phuong had experienced in her life.

“They arrested both of my parents. I ran down through the trees to escape. I hid out in the forest for several hours and then finally made the three hour trek by foot back to my home. When I got there, everything was ransacked. Everything was smashed and destroyed. I sat in the corner that night and wept for about twelve hours until the next morning.”

“You poor child,” said Reverend Fox.

“I went to my Uncle’s house in the morning, and he was gone too. The police had come to take him away that night. My Aunt was there, so we waited for three days to get any word about my parents. I couldn’t take it any longer, so I went to Buon Me Thuot. I knew this was not very smart, but I didn’t want to live without my parents. I marched right into the People’s Council building, and demanded that they tell the police to release my parents. Some guards tried to remove me, but I yelled and made a scene. Finally, one of the officials came out of his office and motioned for them to let me through. He told me he would make a call and find out about them. I sat down and waited, and finally he came out and said without remorse ‘They’re dead.’ I staggered out of there in shock. I wandered all the way back to my Aunt’s longhouse, a four hour walk, without remembering anything other than what he told me. I wanted to die, and even tried to kill myself once. But more than anything else, I was angry at God. Reverend, how could God have let this happen to me? How could God allow something like this to happen to my parents?”