I remember the moment well. Saigon had fallen to North Vietnam, bringing an end to the tumultuous Vietnam War. A tidal wave of refugees was fleeing the country. My family was among them. Weeks after our clandestine evacuation, we were living in tents with thousands of other refugees at Camp Pendleton, a short distance from the metropolis of San Diego, California.
At night, we sometimes went to the open field across from the campgrounds and watched the films that showed a sampling of life in America. One depiction I clearly recall was that of a handful of people beaming smiles at one another as they picked juicy, red apples swaying from the trees ensconced inside a sunny orchard. Having an innate affinity for orchards, that single portrayal alone made me want to leap out of our refugee camp and into the arms of America.
As I was returning to our tent late one night, I paused at the top of a hill and looked out into the far distance. The sight that greeted me filled me with boundless hope. Out there where the vast canopy of the star-speckled sky swooped down to form a bountiful horizon with the undulating earth were the shimmering lights of an actual American city! I gazed upon that beckoning glow and marveled at the life that was waiting for us outside the confines of our refugee camp. I basked in that distant beacon and felt as though America was leaving a light on for us.
Hindsight has been known to render people with regret. Hindsight has also been known to regal people with gratitude. The latter is definitely the case for me when it comes to my life in America. “Controversy” has always been synonymous with “Vietnam.” I would be remiss in not acknowledging that truth. At the same time, I would also be remiss in not acknowledging that I have personally benefited from America’s involvement in Vietnam. I left Saigon as an eight-year-old boy. I’m writing this as a forty-eight-year-old man. I have made many visits to Vietnam since my abrupt departure, and I can clearly see how my life would have turned out if I hadn’t left 40 years ago. For starters, there was the airlift that took me out of harm’s way when Saigon collapsed. As sure as the chaos that was descending upon the city, my future was assuredly fractured. You see, my father worked for the U.S. government. Once the enemy from the north had seized control of the entire country, reprisal for all those connected with the Americans was sure to follow.
If it hadn’t been for a certain cargo aircraft that flew us out of a dying nation, my father would have been captured and sent to a prison disguised as a “re-education camp” along with his two brothers. There, he would have been subjected to demoralizing labor and forced to recant all the wrongs he committed against his former foe. If fortune favored him, he would have emerged from that prison years later with his body intact. If fortune declined to grant him clemency, he would have found his demise inside the prison walls. Either way, I would have been without a father figure at a very troubled time. The punishment wouldn’t have stopped there. Since I was the son of a former nemesis – a nemesis who cavorted with the Americans, no less – I would have been ostracized as an unworthy citizen. The denials would have been many, including a decent education necessary for a decent life. Consequently, abject poverty would have been a foregone conclusion in my destitute future. But since I was able to escape in 1975, my future evolved very differently.
My family eventually left Camp Pendleton and settled down in Coffeyville, Kansas. Our sponsor provided us with a sprawling farm where I fished in the summers and went sledding in the winters. I was able to go to school and gain a public education that would make many around the world envious. With that education as part of my economic foundation, I was able to build a prosperous life that I can now share with others. Although the language barrier was an obstacle at first, I did manage to harness the attributes of the English language and have greatly benefited from its universal reach. When I’m in a foreign country and talking to the locals, I can often get by without speaking their language because there’s a good chance they speak a smattering of mine.
Lastly, I hold a USA passport that opens so many doors, and as much as I love to travel, I have opened more than my fair share of wondrous doors. Without a doubt, the gratitude I have for America is as vast as the star-speckled sky above me.
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