The son of an American, I had the good fortune of being a U.S. citizen
at birth. Lucky for me, my good fortune didn't stop there. It's my
understanding that not all sons and daughters of the Vietnam War were
claimed or cared for in the way that they should have been, and that
many grew up in their birth lands, rather than in the land of
opportunity. My father was the responsible type, who married my mother
two months before my birth, and who, two months after my birth, brought
both her and I back to the United States, via an arduous journey that
someday I like to re-enact for the sheer experience. This is the story
of my first grand adventure. I don't remember it, but it must have been
some journey.
My father tells me we packed out bags and moved out around
Christmas-time of 1973. He doesn't remember the exact date, so I'm using
December 26th under the assumption that he wasn't actually travelling on
Christmas Day, and given that he says the journey of several days ended
in the US after the beginning of the new year.
We took a train from Udon Thani to Bangkok, Thailand, a 12-hour trip
over the nearly 300 miles of Thai countryside (I'm using "air distance",
as I have no idea the actual route of the railroad). Once at Bangkok, my
parents were unable to get a flight to the U.S., so they got in a cab,
for a six hour drive Southeast, to the U-Tapao Royal Thai Navy Air
Field. They were able to get on a charter flight out of Thailand, to
Tokyo, Japan, aboard a 727. From Japan, we flew to Anchorage, Alaska (my
first state!), then to Seattle, Washington, and finally to San
Francisco, California.
According to my father, while in San Francisco, we visited with one of
my mother's best friends (who's husband was also stationed in Thailand),
before getting on a bus to Ventura, California, my father's home town.
While in Ventura we visited with relatives like my grandmother, who got
to hold her first grandson for the first time, my great-grandmother, and
my father's sister. We hopped on another bus, to the Los Angeles area
(actually Santa Monica/Venice Beach), where we visted with my father's
brother. Finally, we boarded our last bus, to Tucson, Arizona, where my
father had been stationed (Davis-Monthan AFB) post-war.
See, I told you it was an adventure. Of approximately 9640 miles. Here's
a graphic
of the estimated journey.
So, Tucson, Arizona was my very first home in the United States, and my
mother, father, and I lived there until July of 1977, when I was
three-years old. In 1977 my father was stationed at Kadena Air Base, in
Okinawa, Japan, but that is another tale. Until then, there are actually
a couple memories I have of my time in Arizona, in addition to some
recollected by my father. Come back for more.
I was born on a Saturday, very early in the morning. My birth was on the
20th day of October in the (Gregorian) year C.E. 1973, in what was then
a small town in Northeast Thailand
called Udon
Thani (in villiage #909), which is sometimes referred to as "Udorn".
My father tells me on the Thai (Chantarakati) calendar, I was born on
the 8th day of the Waxing Moon, Year of the Bull, B.E. 2516. I think
some might find it appropriate that I was born in the year of the Bull.
Many times as a child my father has described his misfortune of having
missed my actual birth,which I find interesting because it nearly
parallels my own situation, where I almost missed my first daughter's
birth. Apparently the doctor told him to go home and get some rest, that
it would be several hours before his son would be born. My father says
not long after he got home, the phone rang. It was the doctor,
congratulating him on the birth of his son, at 3:45am.
Right or wrong, along with a whole generation of Asian-Americans, I owe
my very existence to the Vietnam War. My father was stationed at the
Udorn Royal Thai Air Force Base, just West of Udon Thani. Without the
war, my father probably doesn't leave his native Ventura, California by
enlisting in the Air Force, and thereby never ends up being stationed in
Northeast Thailand where he met my mother, a Thai native.
I have no memories of the place or country of my birth, as I was just
barely two months old when we left it for the United States in December
of 1973. And I've not been back since, though I do intend to get back
some day. I think more than anything, it's always facinated me how I've
ended up nearly 9200 miles away from the place of my birth to be where I
am now. Stay tuned as I fill in the strange series of events that lead
to this place. I can't say this effort will be all that interesting a
read. But it's really not meant for you. It's meant for my children.
Someday they'll read these, my own words, and know where I've been and
where I've come from, without me having to tell them the story eight
hundred times, only for it to be diluted by each retelling and my fading
memory.
History Blog
