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Attention!!
Writer’s experiences lacking
‘Alice in Wonderland’ fantasy
I like to think that I am an “aspiring
writer,” because I like to write. Mostly,
I write about my home, my country
and my people. My writing is centered
around my own experience during
and after the war. I often dream that
one day I will be “discovered” and my
stories will appear in those prestigious
journals.
Naturally, when a literary friend
visited me, 1 showed him a sample of
my writing.
After 30 long minutes waiting for
him to read through those pages, he
looked at me and said, “It’s OK. But
it’s so sad. ” He paused, briefly. Then
he looked at me in a strange way, as
though he was waiting for me to give
some sort of explanation. I didn’t. I still
looked at him, directly into his eyes.
He said, “You know, it’s too sad.
People don’t like sad stuff. Imagine: all
the sadness going on around the
world today, do you think that they
would waste their time on a sad story
like this? You know, lighten it up. Put
some humor in it Some action. And
some fantasy. Oh, people love
fantasy. Like ‘Alice in Wonderland.’ ”
I appreciate his honest criticism, but
Vietnam has never been a
wonderland.
He was right that my stories are
sad. But what else could I project
when all that surrounded me were
nothing but sorrow and ugliness —the
ugliness of bombs passing over our
heads; the ugliness of fire burning
down cities’ trees, houses, schools; the
ugliness of the destruction turning
playgrounds into graveyards.
At any instance, at any particular
time, I can think back and the whole
image, the entire picture of my
experience unfolds right in front of my
eyes. For instance, I can remember
clearly New Year’s Day 20 years ago. I
was walking on the street watching the
parade. Suddenly, a gigantic
explosion hit about 10 meters ahead.
People screamed. They ran wild. I
slipped away from my mother’s hand
and got lost in the crowd.
I ran away, away from the
explosion. Only the bombs kept
falling, one after another. Each time,
they sounded louder and nearer. I had
nowhere to run. No matter what
direction I took, the bombs seemed to
hit there before me. I wasn’t crying —
not that I was brave, but for some
strange, unexplainable reason, I
couldn’t cry. Then, I fell down. People
stepped on my legs, on my hands. A
body fell on top of mine.
Down on the ground, I could hear
the loud screams of the wounded
ones, the cry of the lost children, and
the explosions which overpowered all
other noise. I could feel the blood
from the body on top of me dripping
down on my face and dropping onto
the concrete.
Gradually, the thunder sounded
less and less, until only the crying
could be heard. The street suddenly
was quiet. I struggled out from under
the motionless body and looked
around for my mother. I didn’t see
her. I walked alone on the street. Only
then I began to cry.
I am sorry. I wandered into my
homeland. I guess my friend had a
point about my story being sad. I
guess I could have written something
happier, like how happy I was when
my school was closed for an entire
month. I could have written about
that, but that story to me is not real.
My people have gone through many
tragedies. I am fortunate enough to be
able to come here, to America, the
dream land, the land of the free. I am
fortunate enough to be able to go to
school, to study and to write freely,
whenever I choose to write.
But there are still many of my own
people suffering each day, in the
Communist’s jails, the concentration
camps or in numerous refugee camps.
There are many misconceptions about
Vietnam, about the war from such
movies as Rambo, Mission in Action,
etc. I owe it to my people to voice a
Vietnamese’s voice, to express a
different point of view about the war.
As for my literary friend, maybe
one day, when my voice is heard, and
when there is nothing else to be said
about my home, I will write about
humor and fantasy. Like you, I also
have dreams and hopes. Like you, I
also love fantasy. I would fantasize
about a wonder world of sunshine on
every corner, of flowers blooming in
every garden, of all different colors of
birds singing, dancing and
harmonizing together on every
peaceful song . . .
This week’s Attention//article
was written by Thanh Cong
Nguyen, who graduated as a
petroleum engineering major last
year.
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for At Ease
Mental homicide
Reflections in the mirror
Of a lost and lonely world
Collectiong phone numbers and
names
Soon disposing of them all
Keeping some longer than others
For the false warmth they provide
Are these friends or merely faces
To guide one through the night
For though deceive ourselves we
may
Are we not always alone?
For no one knows us
Like we know us
Even then — so much unknown!
And as clay our form does change
The years oh how they erode us
We don’t stand the test of time
For we humans think we’re
stronger
Than the hands that manage time.
But in truth we’re merely prisoners
Our prison’s earth
Our sentence life.
Just living out a sentence
Each enclosed in cells of steel
Unable to even reach out
And know what others feel
Thus from day to day we struggle
Each thinking no one shares our
plight
Unaware that all the others
Are also caged and locked up tight.
So onward we do struggle
So lonely in our cell
Falsely believing no one can relate
To a life enjailed in hell.
Yet all we really need to do
Is reach out through the bars
Turn our gaze outward
Instead of inward
To see the other’s cries
For we’re really all together
Our loneliness we create
By turning faces inward
Which turns to loathing and self-
hate.
But if only we would realize
That our islands all connect
That our cells are all so similar
The differences we create
We could live together united
For all instead of one '
There would be no isolation
One for all and all for one.
This week’s Attention!! poem
was written by Julie Minerbo, a
senior psychology major.
Page 2/At Ease/Thursday, Nov. TO, 1988