Olivia came across a Vietnamese for Beginners book/cd set in her room the other day. She brought it to me assuming it belonged to Papa. She moved into his room after he died and she comes across some of his things here and there. She didn’t remember he bought the book/cd for her. My heart fluttered for a minute and then I reminded her about the day she told Papa she had a classmate who didn’t speak English and she wanted to learn some Vietnamese so he wouldn’t feel alone. A few weeks later, Papa gave her the book/cd to learn Vietnamese. She was so excited and grateful, but she was only in 1st grade and could barely read English. It was such a sweet gesture. I remember asking dad where and how he got the books. This was before you could click a button on your virtual shopping cart and boxes magically appeared at your door. He just smiled and said something like “I know people too..”

We put the book/cd away and just forgot about them. Finding those books made me think about dad speaking Vietnamese. Every now and then he would share tid-bits of stories about his time in Vietnam, but what I remember him sharing was him having to learn a little bit of Vietnamese to survive. He taught me how to count to 10 in Vietnamese, and would sometimes quiz me. I could rattle those ten words off without a problem when I was a kid. Today, I can only count to three, Một Hai Ba, and I cling to those three words like a family heirloom.

Dad had this embarrassing habit of trying to start a conversation with every Vietnamese person he saw. I remember walking in with him into convenience stores or grocery stores in Fifth Ward where he lived and delivered mail for 20 years and I would stand there embarrassed as he would try to engage the cashiers in Vietnamese. Those that knew him as “Checko-The Mailman” laughed and spoke back to him, those that didn’t know him, would soon learn to know and love him. I don’t know what they talked about, it was never a very long conversation, just pleasantries I assumed.
Years later, when dad moved away from his neighborhood and moved into mine, he looked for those opportunities to engage with cashier, Vietnamese or not. He was just a talker and sometimes he got a response, and sometimes, he didn’t. He was no longer “Checko-The Mailman” and I could tell he missed the small talk.

In my neighborhood, on the other side of Houston, he would sit out on my front porch and waive to people as they walked their dogs or took powerwalks at 6am. Again, some people waived back, and some people didn’t, but he kept waiving each time they passed in front of our house.
On the day our new neighbors moved in down the street, I remember my dad saying “I think I know them.” I remember feeling like that embarrassed kid standing next to him as he spoke to the cashier in Vietnamese. I told him, “Dad, are you saying that because they are Vietnamese?” He knew I didn’t believe him.

A few days later, he told me about his encounter with our new neighbors. He said there was a lady who would go walking in the morning and he recognized her as a cashier from his old neighborhood. So, of course, my dad tried calling to her as she walked by the house. She didn’t look or respond. The next morning, he tried calling to her and again she didn’t look or respond, but this time she had a large stick with her. The following day, he was there at 6am in the morning sitting on the porch waiting for her to walk by the house. He just knew if she looked at him, she would recognize him.On this day, the neighbor had her large stick AND her husband with her and when my dad called out, the husband recognized “Checko-The Mailman!” They had a good laugh and talked about how funny it was they ended up from in the same neighborhood all these years later.

Dad continued to call out and waive to them in the mornings, this time, embarrassing Julia as he walked her to the bus stop and he would do it again as he waited with Olivia at her bus stop and called out and waived her to friends parents. One day I hope they will look back and remember those embarrassing moments and cherish them like family heirlooms. Olivia was so touched by the stories I told her about Papa and the books, she has decided to try to teacher herself Vietnamese. I told her I could help her get started…Một Hai Ba.