A Piece of My Mind, A Refugee’s Journey - Tác giả Bs Khristopher M. Nguyen

My father was born in the hot jungle in a time of war. He fled from there to here on a boat, leaving behind parents, siblings, and friends. He landed on the shores of California and wouldn’t return home again for more than 30 years. What were you doing when you were seven years old?

This little boy grew into a young man outside of Amish country Pennsylvania. Learned to speak the local language. Worked at the Dairy Queen. Played on his high school soccer team. Was deceived by his aunt and uncle, who pretended they were his parents. But they knew he couldn’t forget his family across the world.

My parents met freshman year. Mom had never eaten Chinese food before, let alone Vietnamese food. They fulfilled their own version of the American dream that year. They got pregnant with me and had a shotgun interracial marriage in 1980s western Pennsylvania. Mom took me to her evening classes, breastfeeding me in the back row.

Still not sure how they did this next one. Had two more kids in the next four years. Took turns working while the other finished graduate school. They taught me how to spell and pronounce our last name. They were always home and yet always working at the same time. They must have had superpowers.

Once, I asked Dad about the boat he took from Vietnam. He didn’t want to talk about it. So I asked my uncle instead. Uncle said that five people shared a cabin the size of a Honda Civic and they drank their own urine at least once. I didn’t ask my dad about it again.

I remember our first trip back and the humid Saigon air when we stepped off the plane. There were my grandparents I was meeting for the first time. Dad hugged them. We still have that moment saved on the old camcorder. I wonder how many refugees get to hug their parents again after 30 years?
Summer in Florida, 2008. I signed up to work with refugee kids in Jacksonville. They were from Burma, from Burundi, from Iraq. They all put a smile on my face. They’re probably why I became a pediatrician. I was too young to make the connection but this could have been my father 30 years ago.


Summer in Saigon, 2010. Traveled back alone. Applied to medical school while I was there. Lived with my grandparents. Slept on the floor. Spent time in an orphanage, helping to care for kids with cerebral palsy. Slurped noodles for breakfast in 100-degree heat. Lost my wallet twice and had to have Dad send me money.

I’m lucky. Met my wife at the first party of medical school. Got funding to take some of my classmates to Vietnam and show them the hospitals there. They had an entire ward of patients with dengue. We learned a lot. We had fun. We tried to leave quiet footprints while watching real doctors work.

First days as a doctor. Saw a child with jaundice. Parents from Burma. Took a week to get an interpreter to help get the patient home with a nasogastric tube. Neighbor in the hospital was from Thailand and had malaria. Two floors away, a teen from Guatemala died of liver cancer caused by undiagnosed hepatitis.

The busiest airport in the world is just down the street. Families come here from all around the world. I’m proud of Atlanta. You get used to a certain amount of diversity. Makes me a better person. A better doctor. I want to learn more. I want to help. They remind me of my father.

It’s hard to study a group of people who don’t want to be found. I can’t blame them—people with signs and red hats now protest their arrival at the same airport. I try to learn about them anyhow. We collect some data and make a poster. But the real work is just getting started.

I met with a mother in Stone Mountain. She’s from Sudan. Her son has autism. Her mission is to help kids like her son get the services they need. She’s a real American hero. I visited the free clinic in Clarkston. Met more heroes. Today, some people don’t want these heroes in our country anymore.

Dad turned 50 this weekend. Still doesn’t talk about being a refugee. He doesn’t really have to—his story is my story too. He’s proud that I’m a physician. He would have been a great doctor too. He took a week off work to fly down here and watch our infant son. He’s my hero.

While Dad was visiting, grandpa in Vietnam just had a stroke. Turns out he has a brain tumor. In Vietnamese culture, the oldest grandson leads the funeral for the grandfather. That’ll be my job, probably this year. My son is in charge of that for my dad. I hope that’s years and years from now.

My son is growing up at a time where the world is more accessible than ever. At the same time, more minds are closed than I can ever remember. As a doctor, a father, and the son of a refugee I say this—I am who I am because refugees dare to seek better lives.