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by Hong Kong Tran
The house that I fell in love with was on Appian Way, just a few blocks from the Masonic Home for Adults, off of Mission Boulevard, one of the main roads in Fremont. On the day of the open house event, my father drove us up a hill with a parkway in the middle of the road, all the way up until the road ended. Once he reached the end, he made a U-turn and started back down the road, turning right into the cul-de-sac where the house stood. My father took out his compass and measured in which direction the front door pointed. Southwest. That wasn’t what he wanted to see. He wanted to see Northwest, but since we were already there, it wouldn’t hurt to look around, he thought. Maybe it was because my parents were one step closer to owning a house for the first time since they had come to the U.S., or maybe it was because the backyard made it seem so idyllic. Whatever the reason, everyone quickly came to love the house. Everyone but my mother. Because the front door pointed Southwest , my mother didn’t exactly feel the same way about the house. In Vietnamese culture, each person has his or her own direction. The front door of the house in which a person lives should point toward the direction that matches the head of the household. It is believed this will ensure that the entire family will be prosperous and safe from ill-health. My parents invited a Vietnamese psychic to the house. He confirmed that the direction was not desirable, but my father loved the house so much that he bought it anyway. And it was exciting. When the walls were painted a champagne color, hardwood floors replaced carpet, and the furniture put in place, it felt like I was living in one of those model homes that we had seen so many of in the past year. Finally, my parents owned a house, something they had been working toward for fifteen years. Then my father started having problems with his health again. All I knew was that he was hurting inside, near his stomach. I cared too much to ask what was wrong, so I never asked. One day when my mother turned into the cul-de-sac after taking me home from school, we saw my father’s car in the driveway. She let out a sigh. She knew why he was home early, especially since he worked overtime most days. It was the one time she didn’t want to see him at home, the one time she didn’t look forward to seeing him. S he knew he was home because he was hurting, and she didn’t want that to be the reason. I didn’t know why he was hurting. He was admitted to the hospital shortly after we moved into the new house, sometime between April and June, and then was discharged. It was hard for him to walk, and so he spent most of his time lying in bed. My father called me into his room one day and told me to sit on the floor at the foot of the bed. He struggled to get out of bed, but eventually made his way to where I was sitting. There were a few bills that had to be paid. He taught me how to pay them. I wrote out the checks and he signed them. On a laptop, he instructed me to open up the folder containing an Excel spreadsheet and taught me how to keep track of how much money remained in the checking account. Together, we balanced the checkbook on the computer. I knew what my father was doing. He was preparing me to do the everyday things he used to do, and he was giving me the responsibility of paying the bills and keeping track of the family finances. After we were done, after I felt like I had gotten the hang of those duties, we thanked each other. My father went back to bed to lie down and I left the bedroom. But I didn’t go back downstairs. Instead I went to the upstairs bathroom, shut the door behind me, ran the water, and just let the tears I felt beating fall. (continued on page 2) |
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| UCI | School of Humanities | Literary Journalism |