Trying to say…
By: Duc Nguyen
Tags: Hollywood, Refugees, Storyofmylife, Storyteller, Vietnamese Americans

Photo: Duc Nguyen

When people look at me, many would like to see a success story. From the outside, what they want to see is a penniless refugee who made good for himself in this wonderful country. But in truth, I’m not that all together inside. I don’t have a steady job, no assets, a virtual unknown.

Although, I’m running on one conviction- to tell the world my story. Why? Because it was fucked up. After so many years, I still feel angry about it. I couldn’t find the cause of my misery but the fact that people don’t really care to listen made me want to say it louder. More so, the mere reason that I survived is enough for me to bring my story to life.

Being a refugee is submitting yourself to the ranking by others. To the West, refugee is an image. He is not real. He is something Westerners read or heard about. One time, I came to a Thanksgiving dinner at the home of my friend’s parents. As I walked in, her mother quietly whispered something into her friend’s ear while both holding wine glasses in their hands. The expression on the listener’s face changed. She went from being festive to dead serious. She came to me and with such earnest sympathy delivered a greeting. Later during the dinner, the guests began to explore my story. When I rendered my voyage to here, the United States, the mood changed from festive to sadness. I felt as if I was bringing the party down. Quietness arrived at the table as the chunk of ham in the center of the table was getting cold. Then suddenly when I stopped, the table returned to laughter and joy as they resumed their little exchanges.

I read something that really rang true to me. “The world is full of refugees, and Western countries that have helped create them (as well as those that haven’t) must deal with the fact that to reject them in inhumane, to accept them by millions is impractical, and to create humanly decent criteria for those who qualifies and who doesn’t is all but impossible. That is the West dilemma.”

For many years I felt as if I couldn’t talk about my past. I couldn’t tell people who I was. Because if I do, it only brought people down. I didn’t want to be a refugee with a painful sorrow story. That was my dilemma. I couldn’t be who I was. I learned over the years that I can’t force people to listen to my story. I have to make them want to hear it.

So, I do what is necessary and become a story teller. I left for Hollywood after getting a degree from a trade school. Knocking on Hollywood’s door is like digging a Panama canal with a plastic spoon, especially if you are a penniless refugee. But I was determined. I had no clue how I was going to deliver my tales. Simply hoping to figure it out by learning from the source, I roughed it out in Tinsel town. I worked as a laborer, at the bottom of the Tinsel pit. I searched, I learned and I worked at it some more. I even wrote a Hollywood script, drew up a story but they remained undiscovered.

Then I realized I cannot stay silent. Starting with one, then two and three. I started to tell my story. Little did I know there are other out there who have similar stories. But they didn’t want to be the only one who tell their stories, risking unfavorable reactions. But once they heard my story, they stood up and told theirs. Like birds sang in unison, our voices are stronger when we spoke together. That is the lesson I learned after so many years of trying to say…