I May Not Remember, But I’ll Never Forget

My origins have not left me, my history still lingers in archives and attics, my blood relatives may still be circulating somewhere in the region from where I was scooped up and transported out of South Vietnam and into the United States in 1974.

Sure, as an eight-month-old infant, I had no idea what was going on around me and there was no way I was given any choice in whether I stayed or not.

Being uprooted and re-settled, and re-named and re-homed, all within my first year of life, made not a dent on my infant memory.

The failure of recall of all the micro and macro events and faces behind them who coordinated and shaped my early beginnings was expected and encouraged.

I was trained to not look back at the person I was prior to my transformation into a naturalized U.S. citizen.

My infanthood as an orphaned foreigner was seen as illegitimate; my “real life” was only recognized when I became an American citizen.

But what I cannot remember is still what I cannot forget.

What I do remember are the many times when I withdrew from my community because it became readily apparent to me that I was never going to truly settle quietly and comfortably into the life crafted for me.

What I cannot forget is my adoption was meant to ostensibly wipe the slate clean for me while at the same time wipe my mother and my father and their child off the face of the earth.

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