the stuck door
The door. The stuck door. Why had it taken 32 years?
Three years of a broken thing, fixed in a week by the father who has been broken since he was a boy.
He talked about regret, learning how to fight, about how he wished he could take back so many things that he did, about the suffering he caused the family. Things he was compelled to do just to survive.
And then not having a family to return back to after serving his prison sentence.
To him, when he was released, it was no homecoming—it was a return to a shattered family.
His wife and kids were no longer occupying the same household. He was starting anew.
To his kids, we were whole, just living in a different home with adopted parents, who took us in.
He takes his responsibilities seriously. The way us kids see it, it takes a village, and now we have two sets of parents.
Should we all be severely punished for something we did when we were at our worst?
He served time to earn his freedom again. He no longer had a family to return to.
His only option for income is to work odd jobs. His record had a serious charge on it. Stigmatized.
The stuck door became a gateway to restoration for the both of us.
Thirty two years later, I walked through that door again. To re-establish a bond that needed renewal and transformation. I needed to heal. He needed forgiveness. I’m so glad we had a week to heal together.
We drank wine together, we even sang Vietnamese and English karaoke songs together. Ben E. King’s “Stand by Me” was the appropriate choice.
His local priest dropped in for a visit; he came bearing gifts of homegrown strawberries and Vietnamese banana bread.
I had attended mass with my father the previous Sunday. It made him happy to show his daughter and her husband off. He had family.
Our conversations.
We talked about forgiveness, repentance, the desire to have a peaceful life. A desire to return to KiĂŞn Giang Province, where his mother, my bĂ ná»™i is still alive. He has a sister there too.
If he returns to Vietnam; he may never be able to return to the United States again.
I wonder how many of the 15 people from that boat he steered are still alive.
What would their reunion be like?
Resilience, that’s another inheritance. Vietnamese people, they’re the most resilient and practical people I know. Proud to be counted among them.
