“I knew from an early age that the only way I could improve my situation was through education. The rice we managed to produce, at the time, was sent to Vietnam and what was left was scrap that they deemed unfit for the Vietnamese to consume.” Rice was rationed at the time so some days we went without. We lived off a few crumbs of salt sprinkled on sticky rice a day. “The kind couple who took us in did their best to take care of us, but they were also only poor farmers. We were in luck though, my parents’ friends sent us up north to live with someone that would take us in.” “After my parents died, my brother and me became penniless orphans. I’ve always known he’s had a rough past but was never quite sure what it was. I snap out of my self-piteous episode and listen to his story, intently. It was rough back then because of the prejudice Lao people held towards us immigrants.” My mom followed him a year after I was born due to some illness. My dad somehow got himself killed while I was still in the womb. They were dirt poor immigrants who came here with nothing. “I was born down south, the second son to a Jek (Chinese) mother and a Keo (Vietnamese) father. Those simple words coupled with that calm gaze of his settles my electric youth down, immediately. “Listen kid, you ain’t got it so bad and you’re going to realize that one day.” He stays quiet for a time before turning to me and, with a steady look, begins to tell me about his humble beginnings. Three years of turbulence and injustice gush out of me, pouring out in a sloppy, slushy rant. Upheaval and migration does that, I guess. With my life in Laos coming to a close and acceptance finally hitting me, my emotions decide to dance erratically between an Olympic sprint and some major marathon. The end of the road is Luang Prabang for a business trip. We’re on a long road, navigating low hills and wet fields, when I finally hear my beloved uncle’s story.
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