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Agent Orange and My Father
(conclusion)
7.
It happens each time, right at the same point, and we’ve all learned to expect it. I am in the driver’s seat, my mom is in the passenger seat, and my two younger sisters are in the back seat. We approach the freeway exit and no one says a word. No one ever does. Up until the freeway exit we talk as usual. But when we turn off the I-880 we can no longer avoid the fact that we are visiting Dad—my dad, my sisters’ dad, my mom’s husband—the person we’ve come to stop talking about.
I know these silences all too well. The closer we get to him, the quieter we become.
It is a typical December day in Fremont, California. The overcast sky enshrouds the sun, making the visit seem gloomy already, even though we haven’t reached my father yet. I’m trying my hardest to remember a time in which the visits aren’t gloomy, and I just can’t. The mood today is especially glum—it is the last time we’ll see him this year. The next time will be in a couple of months from now, in the N ew Y ear. A new year to greet new moods. But I know all too well that a new year won’t change anything.
As I turn into Cedar Lawn Memorial Cemetery, my mom lets out a sigh and shakes her head as she lays her eyes on the many headstones and grave markers. Each time she does that I want to grab her by her shoulders and shake her and tell her that it’s not helping. Instead, as I always do, I remain silent and focus on the 5 miles an hour sign ahead. Cars are parked sporadically here and there. On this, road if two cars are parked on either side, there’s only enough room for one car to pass in between. But there are no burials today, and thus not many cars, giving my car much more freedom as I round the corner.
My sisters in the backseat, both of whom still haven’t said a word, continue to look out their tinted windows. On the straightaway is when I see some life in the car. Heading northwest, we all look to our right, all for the same reason: to see if anyone had come to visit and left Dad something.
It has only happened twice. The first time my half-sister and her husband had come and left flowers. I know this because the couple was still there when we arrived. Out of politeness my mom made small conversation. I ignored them and made sure that when they left, our flowers would be bigger, prettier, livelier. The second time, someone had left a cup of coffee on the grave marker. That was almost six years ago.
On this day there is nothing. Just as we expected. But every time we get on the straightaway our heads turn out of curiosity to see if anyone else cared, and out of hopefulness that someone remembers.
This is the routine. I shift the gear to “park” and my mom frees herself from the seat belt, leaving her purse and jacket and anything else she brought along in the car. She’s always the first to get out. As she heads toward my dad, my sisters and I grab my mom’s things, the food, the lighter, the incense, and the flowers. We, too, leave the car and head out.
There are a few things that need to be taken care of before we arrange the flowers: First things first, check to see if the grave marker is dirty. If it is, clean it using the water from a water pipe nearby. Second, clean the bronze flower vase connected to the slab of concrete just below the marker. Third, place the food offerings around the marker. If there is fruit, arrange it nicely on a plate. Whenever possible we always try to create a pyramid with a square base. For snacks, open the boxes and/or bags. For drinks, open the lid.
The flowers need to be perfect. They need to be beautiful, colorful, and have a lifespan of more than a few days. Roselie, the older of my two sisters, makes a habit of taking a picture of the flowers each time we replace them. My mom insists on carnations because they last a long time. They’re also her favorite. I never knew what my dad’s favorite flowers were.
Windy days at the cemetery are the worst. Things don’t stay in place, and the incense doesn’t stay lit. The incense gives off a sense of warmth, which is why I love it.
As the incense continues to burn, my mom, sitting in the fetal position, with her head resting on her knees, rubs the grass below the marker with her hands. The grass that she rubs is the same piece of grass that was used to cover up the once-open dirt, the dirt that was used to bury the casket, the casket that was used to enclose the body of a beloved husband and father. Her gold- colored bracelets jingle as she moves her hands back and forth—a nice break from the silence. Though strange, seeing her rub the grass comforts me.
After everything is set in place, we admire the food offerings and incense that surround the rectangular piece of gray granite, which is another work of art in itself. On the left side is a fountain around which two birds fly. My two younger sisters and I selected the grave marker. My mom chose what it should read:
David Van Tran
February 12, 1947
July 20, 2004
V? và các con s? mãi mãi th??ng nh? anh
Each time I read the marker it seems as if what it reads becomes truer. “Wife and kids will forever love you.” For a while I refused to believe what I read, because acknowledging it would mean I was accepting a loss. So for the longest time I convinced myself that what I read was ephemeral, until I found myself crying one morning as I woke up from a dream in which my dad met me in the school parking lot after school. I didn’t know which was worse: knowing that he wouldn’t be there to meet me, or finally accepting the loss.
As the incense finishes burning, my mom stands up and puts her palms together, bowing three times toward the grave marker. “Xin ba ?i v?, con,” she says. Instructing my sisters and I to “Ask Dad for his permission to go home,” the three of us stand up and do the same. Just as my mom is the first to leave the car when we arrive, she is the last to leave here. My sisters and I watch her from the car. She stands there with her head down, looking at the grave marker, letting out who knows how many sighs of grief.
It happens each time that at this point we’ve all learned to expect it. I am in the driver’s seat, my mom in the passenger seat, and my two younger sisters in the back seat. No one says a word as we drive away. Except for my mom, the only one who looks back to the site. “Bye, anh,” she says.
8.
I last visited my father three months ago, in December 2009. Earlier that year, on March 2, 2009, the U.S. Supreme Court denied the writ of certiorari filed by lawyers of VAVA. Last year, the Supreme Court also denied the writ of certiorari filed on behalf of U.S. Veterans against the chemical companies, bringing both cases to a n official end.
The U.S. Supreme Court’s rejection of the appeal puts a halt, and possibly an end, to nearly five years of the Vietnamese victims’ fight to obtain reparations for and recognition of the problem of Agent Orange that still persists nearly forty years after its introduction.
What hasn’t ended are the deep-rooted tensions surrounding this topic and the Vietnamese victims’ belief that the U.S. has the humanity to support the countless number of victims in Vietnam. The fight continues for non profit organizations like VAVA and the War Legacies Project, both of which include in their mission statements the absolute need to make Agent Orange a mainstream subject and no longer a slowly forgotten memory. There is one thing missing in all of this. It’s a sense of urgency. While non-government funded research continues, countless victims are dying.
And it really is countless. An estimated three million victims remain in Vietnam, but no one knows the exact number. No one will know for certain if those who have illnesses on the presumptive-eligibility list are actually victims of Agent Orange. What is certain is the neglect from the U.S. of the Vietnamese who were exposed to this herbicide . As for my father, I’ll never know if Agent Orange caused his death. As I sit and write this, I am filled with an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. The most I can do now is remember, look back, miss, and reflect. The answers may come later—for now, my father joins the Vietnam War veterans and civilians in a spectrum of uncertainty: a kind of lonely miracle.
© Copyright 2010 Hong Kong Tran
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