A Common Language
A Short and Sweet Story
First a flash! Then a boom!
In the small fishing village of My Tho, along the Mekong Delta where Kuong used to live, sudden and violent thunderstorms arrived without fail with the late afternoon and evening sun. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. In a strange way, Kuong appreciated them. His family had been uprooted regularly as battle lines shifted during the war. The storms were one constant in his life. Their familiarity made him feel at home, no matter where his family moved.
But not all sources of “rain” were the same. The flashing of mortar shells as they rained down from above, and the pounding of their explosions terrified Kuong. He shrieked in terror as he fled under the flashing, booming skies, slipping and sliding across the muddy terrain, while desperately trying to escape exploding ordnance. With that type of “rain,” Kuong’s skin reddened; he sweated intensely; and his teeth chattered uncontrollably as he fled in fear, before diving beneath a small wicker table in the back corner of his family’s bamboo hut.
After the fall of Saigon in 1975, Kuong and his family were airlifted to the U.S., where they continued to move around every couple of months from one refugee camp to the next, gradually making their way east. Wake Island in the Pacific. Camp Pendleton in California. Fort Smith in Arkansas.
By the summer of 1976, courtesy of the Indochina Migration and Refugee Assistance Act, more permanent housing was in sight, not far from New Orleans. Kuong’s family moved into a modest apartment in a part of the city known as Versailles. It was close to the fishing and seafood processing industries, where his dad would be working. There was no mistaking the smell.
But in a city of more than a million people — white, brown, and black, mostly — the thirteen-year-old Kuong felt all alone. Outside of his ESOL class, nobody else in his new neighborhood had hair, eyes, or skin tone like his. The smells of Creole and Cajun cooking were unfamiliar to him. And nobody could understand a lick of Vietnamese in general, let alone the unusual Ca Mau dialect his family spoke.
Kuong’s first opportunity to get to know his new environs came at a neighborhood pool party. He looked around for familiar foods that might make him comfortable — noodle soup, spring rolls, or broken rice — but no such luck. Only something called hot dogs. And he was reticent to try them, when he learned the literal translation of the term.
But when Kuong sampled his first ever taste of ice cream, served atop a sugary roll called a beignet, he let loose with the most surprised, innocent, and joyful smile. His reaction caught the attention of a girl named Maria whose family had just moved to New Orleans from Nevada. Her dad, a Navy airman, had been transferred to a new duty station at NAS New Orleans after the war.
Maria was accustomed to moving about whenever her dad got new orders. Miramar in California. Litchfield in Arizona. Fallon in Nevada. She was not exactly a refugee, but she had moved about with a similar frequency to Kuong. Out of the need to acclimate to new digs quickly, she had developed an outgoing demeanor as a Navy brat. As with Kuong, each move gave her a new bout of anxiety. She just did a good job of compensating for it.
Maria used hand gestures to invite Kuong to her family’s table for the big celebration that was planned for that day. This wasn’t just any pool party; it was a 4th of July pool party. And this wasn’t just any 4th of July; it was America’s bicentennial. Her 200th birthday.
Kuong and Maria struggled a bit throughout the afternoon to find common ground, looking for ways to connect further. You can only smile and nod so many ways. But Maria taught Kuong a couple of card games. “Knock” and “Hearts” were two of her favorites. She also got him to play horseshoes. And they entered a “Three-legged race” together. Kuong welcomed the adventures.
That evening, as the skies darkened, the main festivities began. The flashing of bright red, white and blue fireworks rained down from the sky. And with them came the booming of loud explosions.
Mistaking the fireworks for mortar fire, Kuong’s adventurous mood turned to terror. His skin reddened; he sweated intensely; and his teeth chattered uncontrollably as he ran in fear before diving beneath a small picnic table near the snack bar. It was as if he was back in Vietnam all over again.
Maria’s heart ached, seeing the fear gripping her new friend. She grabbed a picnic blanket and ran to join him under the table. With a friendly smile, she wrapped the blanket around Kuong and spoke in gentle words. Kuong didn’t understand a thing she said, but the way she smiled and the gentleness with which she spoke eased his fears.
New Orleans weather is like Vietnam’s, in that it rains most every afternoon or evening during the summer. But it is unlike Nevada’s or Southern California’s or Arizona’s, where it barely rains. A short while after the fireworks ended, there was the flashing of lightning and the booming of thunder. And with it, Maria, unaccustomed to seeing thunderstorms like these, began to tremble in terror. The lightning seemed to be attacking her with hundreds of tiny fingers, and the thunder seemed to be yelling at her in a booming baritone.
Kuong’s heart ached, seeing the fear taking hold of Maria. He opened up the picnic blanket to Maria, inviting her to share it with him, covering themselves as if in a tent. He then spoke to her in gentle and reassuring words. Maria didn’t understand a thing he said, but the way he smiled and the gentleness with which he spoke eased her fears.
Next a flash! Then a boom!
Beneath the picnic blanket, there was the warm flashing of two souls connecting, and the gentle booming of two hearts coming together.
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