One Cast Member's Story

The following is a true story written by one of our cast members, Ahn T. Vuong. She told this story at our auditions, and our director found it so touching that she decided to include it in the production. I'm reprinting it here with Ahn's permission.

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I was sure that my dad and I were closer than this.

When I was a little girl, my family and I were still residing in Vietnam. I was sure my dad and I were closer than this. He used to take me on motorcycle rides to no specific destination. "It's the journey that you should count," he'd always say. So we went anywhere and everywhere, but mostly to quiet places. We'd often visit the harbor nearby. I remember we would just sit by the river and watch boats arrive and depart. Like my dad, I found peace in doing such simple things. Then afterward we would eat banh tam, a spaghetti dish with coconut milk, fish sauce, and meatballs at one of many food cars on the sidewalk of the street.



At the time, my dad owned a coffeehouse which he ran with my mom, but he once used to be an elementary school teacher. And I remember every afternoon when the coffeehouse wasn't too busy to sit with me at one of the plastic tables in the corner, and he'd tutor me with my schoolwork until I became sleepy. Then he would let me doze off in his arms in the old green hammock in our living room as he told me a familiar Vietnamese folktale.

When we came here, to this "land of opportunity," things started to change.

My dad began working for my uncle at an accessory packaging warehouse called Pic and Pac. There he spent six days a week, eight hours a day, packaging, towing, and shipping heavy crates of accessories. He would often sacrifice his lunch break on busy days, and he would readily come into work on his day off if he was asked. My dad would come home in clothing that was five shades darker and shoes that looked as if they were drowned in mud. That's my dad: a hard worker with no limits.

Because of his heavy and almost nonstop working schedule, my dad rarely had time to spend with my sisters and me. So as I grew older it felt as if the gap between my dad and I grew wider, and we became more distant. We lived under the same roof, yet we spoke less and less. Because he doesn't speak English well, my dad could no longer help me with my schoolwork. The only instances we exchanged more than a few sentences would be when I help him translate documents, fill out paperwork, or pay bills online.

I was sure that my dad and I were closer than this because sometimes when I close my eyes, I still dram about resting in his arms in that old green hammock and sitting on the back of his Honda motorcycle while he drives me around to no specific destination.