One.
My mom is a Buddhist and my dad just believes in ghosts (oh really), so Christmas wasn’t a thing in our household. On the very rare occasion where we did something Christmas-related, my sister and I were overjoyed. That year, my parents took us to the amusement park. Right by the front entrance stood a giant Christmas tree, its multicolors lights blinked rapidly and its branches were weighted down with loads of decorations. To keep curious people away from the tree, there was a red metal railing installed all around it. I, for once, was feeling adventurous and declared I wanted to sit on that metal railing for the picture. So here I was, high on the holiday spirits, took a leap of faith and lifted myself to sit on the railing… only to fall over on the other side, flat on my back. The metal railing was rounded and slippery, making my downfall super predictable. I was so embarrassed and distinctly remembered feeling an intense sense of hatred and fear for the tree. We left the park via a side entrance because of that. And years later, when we went there again for the holiday, there stood the same Christmas tree, with the same red metal railing around it, glaring at me. Needless to say, I ran back outside and my parents had to coax me in via a side door that the security guards used.

Two.
That summer, the “cafe” where my dad worked organized an outing to the beach and invited our whole family to come along. It was just for a day, but I was ecstatic because it would be my first time going to the beach. Being the only kids in the group, my sister and I were being so pampered. I remembered seeing the ocean appearing slowly as we drove down the road, the burning heat of the sand under my feet, and the cooling waves against my legs. It was such a beautiful summer day.

Three.
At this point, we had moved into the apartment complex where my sister and I were almost kidnapped. My dad quitted his job as a bouncer, and there were no shady cafes anywhere near our place. One day, out of the blue, my sister suggested that we wrapped these thin blankets around ourselves as if they were gowns and play-pretend as the women we saw at the cafe, aka prostitutes. We loved to play-pretend and the idea didn’t sound like the worse thing ever because we remembered them as the kind women who offered us candies when our parents wouldn’t. It lasted for about 2 minutes until my mom heard us saying things like, “One more drink!” and clanking our plastic cups. She gently told us we shouldn’t pretend to be prostitutes but didn’t elaborate on why. We didn’t ask her why. I think we were too embarrassed and just wanted for the scolding to stop.

Four.
The apartment complex was right next to a wholesale flower market. I loved walking through the stalls with my mom, trying not to touch the pretty bouquets and searching for any flower that fell on the ground. The smells of chrysanthemum and lilies stand out to me in my memories of this place, especially during the Luna New Year. The day after the celebrations were over, there would be piles of unsold flowers taller than me outside the market. My cousin and I loved to raid those piles and would bring home bunches of fresh, slightly bruised flowers for my mom and aunts. We were damn proud of ourselves!

Five.
I had blocked out most of what happened on the day we went to the embassy for our interview except for a few blurry flashes. The lady who interviewed us was very bored and seemed like a strict person. There was a glass window separating us. My sister and I tried to stand on our tip toes so we could see her. One of the things we did was that each of us had to sign our full names out on these documents. My parents had made my sister and I practiced at home, so we knew how to do it. I was so nervous when I had to do it, making sure I didn’t misspell my long-ass name. The last thing I remembered that day was watching a young woman dragging a suitcase full of photo albums of her and her husband to her interview to prove that their marriage wasn’t a scam.

Six.
My family and I have lived in the US for over a decade now, and we only came back to visit my mom’s side of the family in Vietnam once some years ago. I was in my teens, and being an overweight kid who barely could speak the language anymore, there were a lot of looks and mean comments tossed at me wherever I went. It was horrible. I remembered when we went to visit a temple by the beach, I overheard this family openly talked about my body as if I wasn’t standing in front of them. Enraged, I turned around and asked them to stop, ending the sentence with a few English curses out of frustrations. They started to argue back and I, for a moment, raised my hand and was ready to punch them. I couldn’t remember who stopped me. Must be one of my cousins. As we walked away, I started to cry out of anger, fists still clenched tight.

(Funny enough, whenever I get really angry now, I would start cursing in Vietnamese. Of all the vocabulary I could etained, my subconscious mind picked the dirtiest curse words.)

Seven.
There is a photo of a three-year-old me standing in front of a merry-go-round bawling my eyes out. My parents had both walked away, wanting to take the photo of just me. But I have mistaken it as them leaving me and started crying and tried to toddle over. I can always recall the fear I felt at that moment and how tiring it was to cry that hard. It’s the only memory I have at that age.

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