Reflecting on where we come from
And the decisions our ancestors made before us
Last weekend was Jess and I’s two-year wedding anniversary. We decided to spend the weekend in the City. We danced the night away and also saw the incredible, critically-acclaimed show Counting and Cracking, a 3.5-hour play about the Sri Lankan war and its impact on one family. Presented in multiple languages and dialects, we saw how a young Sri Lankan man struggled with his two conflicting identities of Sri Lankan and Australian as his mother recounted the horrors of the war she experienced and now has to reconcile with the decisions she made for her family.
The play reminded me a lot of my family history. Many of you know that I am a proud daughter of Vietnam War refugees. Last year, in collaboration with Vietnamese Boat People, an incredible organization that uplifts the stories of our diaspora, I was finally able to tell my parents’ story — how their love seemed to surpass all the odds of the Vietnam war and how they landed here in the States with nothing more than my infant sister and a hope for a better life for them, for us. If you have 30 minutes or a long drive ahead of you and want to get to know me a bit more, please take a listen.
At one point in Counting and Cracking, we hear the son consider how different his life could have been if his mother had made different choices. This hit my bones as I remember back to when my parents and I traveled to Bali when I was 14 years old.
There I was — a pale kid with a bob cut, wearing oversized clothes from Sam’s Club and circle glasses like a wannabe Yoko Ono standing in the lush tropical streets of Bali, where palm leaves framed the motorbikes whizzing by.
I was a stark contrast to the boy who ran up to my mother and me in tattered clothes, barefoot on the barely paved cobblestone road. He was just a few years younger than me; his skin was the color of a perfectly made caramel, contrasted beautifully against the rainbow prayer flags hanging behind him, wafting in the warm Pacific air.
He had approached my mother meekly, offering his local Balinese fruit candy. I remember gripping onto her, scared of him, afraid of this stranger in a foreign land, me the naïve American kid who was seeing the world for the first time.
He asked for a coin, maybe two, in exchange for a sweet treat. The U.S. dollar was so strong at the time that it amounted to less than a penny’s worth in Balinese currency.
My mother turned away and asked me to cover her purse. I looked behind my shoulder at the boy who looked down at the ground disappointed and started walking away. I shielded my mother’s purse from them, only to see she was actually counting the bills
My mother closed her wallet and called out to the boy, ushering him to her. She gave him a huge wad of cash, which my mother told me later was $20 in $1 bills.
He was stunned.
So was I.
My mother smiled softly at him.
Shocked, he offered her all his candy.
She asked me if I wanted any, and I shook my head, looking at the boy who shared my disbelief.
She took a handful and walked away, and said thank you.
“Why did you give him that much money, Mom?” I asked, completely baffled.
She looked at me, then him.
I turned around and followed her gaze.
At this point, he had run down the cobble street, ecstatic, jumping into his friend’s arms. We could hear their laughs from where we stood. The little boy waved grandly from side to side, his whole body a moving meditation of gratitude towards my mother.
My mother had made him a millionaire.
She smiled at him again, and gently lifted her hand to say goodbye.
And then turned to me. I was impatiently waiting for her to explain her reasoning.
“I gave him all that money,” she paused and looked at me, taking in her daughter, and said “because that could have been you.”
I have never forgotten that moment, that idea that if my mother or father had made a different decision, if anything differently had happened in those two and half years when my father was held captive by the VietCong, if my mother had decided to leave him behind, like so many women did, like the main character did in Counting and Cracking, I, my friend, would not be writing this to you in this moment.
But instead, she stayed and rescued him, somehow with the guts inside of her, that I know live inside of me. And so I am here, writing to you dear reader on what it means to truly reflect on where we have come from.
I’ll be reflecting on this and so much more at the upcoming retreat I’m co-leading with
and at OMEGA on listening to our ancestors on October 18-20. If you have ever wondered about all the people, decisions that came before you to make you who you are, then I hope you join us for a weekend of discovery, letting go, and honoring.Here’s my contemplation for you on this beautiful Autumnal Sunday:
What decision did one of your ancestors make that have made you who you are in this moment?
It does not have to be a blood relative either; one thing Zen Master Thích Nhất Hạnh has taught me in our Plum Village Buddhist tradition is that our ancestors can be our spiritual ancestors, our ancestors can be Mother Earth, or even be a part of your identity that you want to honor.
For me, I reflect a lot on my Queer ancestors and the sacrifices they made so somebody like me could celebrate two years of marriage with my wife, happily, safely and openly in the world to see a show like Counting and Cracking.
So, which ancestors do you want to honor?
Let me know in the comments and what’s arising for you when you read this. I’d love to hear and honor all the ways you came to be.
So beautifully expressed, as always Kim. I share your admiration of our queer ancestors and am amazed at the life I lead that they made possible and yet couldn't enjoy.