By ADAM BRODNAX
Senior Michigan in Color Editor
Dear Me,
It’s
been only six days
since you came into my life and I
keep replaying those 20 minutes
the hospital gave us to breath in
the same air.
Once I learned the news that
for certain you and the rest of
my immediate family were alive,
I wrote to myself that I was
scared. I kept projecting and fan-
tasizing about the visit. I began
layering moments and expecta-
tions of what my imagination
could drum up. Then, I realized
that there was nothing imagin-
able that would prepare me for
the physical, mental and emo-
tional shouldering this would
bear. It wasn’t until a few days
before my flight where I chose to
just be during my visit. The U.S.
has gotten me into this habit of
always going and while in Viet-
nam, I needed to just be. Yet the
consequences of that decision
have been overwhelming these
past couple of days as I continue
this cycle of emotional pushing
and pulling.
Before I left for my flight, I had
to steady myself. So, I did simple
things — I cut my hair short, I
bought contacts, I packed plain
T-shirts. I’m not sure if it was
more for you or more for me, but I
did it to push away what America
gave me. Growing up, I’ve always
had to negotiate which parts of
my identity I bring in and which
parts I suppress. So, for our visit,
I did these simple things just to
get closer and to make myself
more accessible to you.
Recollecting my arrival, I
didn’t
realize
the
immense
weight of my visit. It was filled
with jubilation and celebration,
but also, with the unpeeling of
an emotional scar. I was meet-
ing family member after family
member. I was posing for photos,
people were feeling my face and
my brother referred to me only
as “baby.” There was a living
narrative in the town that I had
returned home and that the fam-
ily had been unified. I remember
To the mother who birthed me
PHOTO BY JIN KIM
Adam, his birth mother, his biological brother, his sister-in-law
being asked by my sister-in-law
if I was going to come home after
school to work here and take care
of you. I had a hard time articu-
lating the many emotions pull-
ing me in that moment, because I
hadn’t even begun to think about
visiting again and if I did, I knew
it would only be temporary.
Me, this visit was unfair to
you. Of the 14 hours I was in
Thái Bình, the circumstances of
our lives only gave us 20 min-
utes to fit an entirety of a life.
The security nearly didn’t let me
in, if it hadn’t been for the des-
peration in my family’s voice. I
began to juggle what I wanted
to ask you. I became anxious to
tell you about my American life.
I wanted to tell you about my
mother in America who is so
strong and raised me to be the
person you met. I wanted to tell
you what American air felt like.
I wanted to tell you about the
homes I grew up in and about my
two siblings I love. There was no
way to satisfy the many thoughts
I had with the slight time we got
to share. While I had this run-
ning list of questions, you man-
aged to encompass so much of it
with the motherly wisdom I had
always lived without. You only
asked me three things: was I
married, was I in school and did
I eat every day. And to you, these
three questions would just con-
firm the one thing you wanted to
know — if I had happiness.
When I walked into the room,
I didn’t mean to make you cry.
Dad had prefaced that you were
very ill and in physical pain so
the last thing I wanted was to
add a layer of emotional pain.
You had so much trouble looking
at me. The emotional scar I left
you began to bleed again. The
interpreter told me that you were
having difficulty speaking to me,
because it brought back the pain-
ful moment when you decided
you couldn’t keep me. You told
me how difficult it was because
you were physically too weak to
take care of me and that at the
time, you didn’t have the means
to feed me either. You named me,
“Ocean,” because I was so big.
You told me you could only
care for me for 10 days.
I just want to let you know
that you didn’t fail, mom. Giving
me up was the most courageous
and profound decision that any
mother ever has to make. I will
never be able to suffice for the
life you gave me. I can never even
conceive the process of emo-
tionally detaching yourself just
enough to let me go.
I do want to let you know that
I am happy. Because of you, I
have the immeasurable privilege
of being happy.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Yours with all the love I have,
I do want to let
you know that
I am happy.
Nguyên Đai Duong
9
Thursday, May 18, 2017
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