I wanted to avenge my mother’s death
So I wrote a one-woman show
#60 days left
I started off angry.
I was angry at the plastic surgeon who didn’t hire an anesthesiologist. Who had been sanctioned by the Medical Board twice, didn’t carry malpractice insurance, had 24 lawsuits against him and operated out of an unaccredited facility. I was angry that he advertised to Vietnamese people in our weekly magazine and my mom saw his ad. I was angry that my mom didn’t die a noble death and how ashamed I felt every time people asked where my parents lived and I would say, “My mom is dead and my dad lives in Texas.” Most people would ask more about Texas but for the brave few who were curious, I would finally tell them it was plastic surgery.
And that’s about all I knew. She died when I was 11 and my family was never the type to go to grief counseling or ever process our feelings as a family. As much as I wanted to be Michelle from “Full House” where every episode ended with a moral, hugs and giggling, we were Vietnamese and only talked about my mom two days of the year — her birthday and her death anniversary. And even then, we weren’t talking to each other — we were silently talking to her when we lit incense and offered her food. And then we would eat with this silent type of reverence until someone changed the topic to how our respective businesses were doing (my sister a chocolate company, my oldest brother a dental practice who gave me cleanings when I was in between jobs, my second oldest brother with an almond milk company, my aunts with their nail salon) and then discussed what pickled items, recently harvested fruit or favorite Vietnamese dishes (likely with fish eggs and caramelized sauce) we would take home after dinner. You could say our family never grieved — or at least in the traditional American way.
Up until I was 29, I probably could only pinpoint 10 solid memories of my mom. That is, until I started business school. I was up late doing a statistics problem set and then I wondered what my mother’s killer was up to. It’s probably not a normal daydream thought for most people, but it became normal for me. I remember when I was 14 my boyfriend (we dated for only two weeks since my father said he would disown me when he found out; upside was boyfriend turned me onto being a vegetarian since he was vegan, a tea drinker and a liberal — did I say I grew up in Northern California wine country where women would protest the Iraq War with their naked bodies making an aerial 60-foot wide peace sign and that was totally normal) brought me a newspaper and it had my mom’s name in it, quotes from my brother and the gnarly details of what this plastic surgeon had done to other women (waking up with bloody breasts — I’ll share more later). The article was an expose of the doctor and my mother’s death. I was shocked. I had no idea this was all happening let alone my brother was being interviewed by the newspaper. Like I said, we didn’t talk about it.
Remembering that article, I started doing some Google searches, found his name and kept on Googling. A few hours later, I learned more about my mother’s death than the 18 years had passed since her death. In the past 4 years, I’ve learned even more — from my family opening up (and some actively closing up), other characters involved in her death, even the killer’s family. Last November, I shared this story at a small community theatre with close friends and some strangers. I made this program with one of the few photos I have of her — where I think she looks like a beautiful angel — and poured my heart out onstage. If this was my only shot, I wanted to know I did it right and for some reason, I thought having a program was “doing it right.” I had some performance experience as an amateur stand-up comedienne in San Francisco and New York over the years (I dabbled and then got heckled at a benefit fundraiser; traumatized, I let this interest die a painful death when I did another show halfheartedly at Yale and also felt I bombed so it’s kind of a sour past). But telling this story, I couldn’t hide behind expected punch lines, beats and things I could just make up. You can make things up in stand-up and most people would never ever know. But this was real. All of it. And I had to do my mom justice. Fittingly, the title of the first show was, “Dr. X: How I Avenged My Mother’s Death.” Clearly I was not a highly trained thespian. But it was a working title. And it was community theatre. J
Fast forward 12 months, and I’m here. Made a career switch to be full-time performance artist and am gunning for the next 60 days to put on the best show of my life. 75 minutes. Just me and the audience. And her. Definitely her.
So this is a countdown of my process. A few months ago, I had a great 60-minute show. It was near complete. The finish line was right there. And then my intuition reminded me some of the elements I needed to incorporate into the show. Some things I know you want me to tell. That I have to tell. So I’m back to square one. A whole lot of content to weave together and refine like sandpaper on a splintery deck — and the electric sander is broken. And there are 1300 total seats to fill for a 9-night run.
But what the hell. It’s my mom’s 60th birthday. Growing up, I used to cry for a birthday party. Some years I could have one, some years not. The best were at Chuck E. Cheese’s — the original one in San Jose was huge. In Vietnamese culture, you get two birthdays — when you’re 1 and when you’re 60. After 60, you enter into cultural royalty where everyone serves you and it’s awesome. In my culture, being old is cool. Mom, even though in my dreams you never age, you’re still 60. And I’m baking you a cake. And you better come to the best goddamn birthday party of your life. Because I don’t know when I’m going to die. So I better do this now. And the title is much better now. It’s called 140 LBS.
