I spotted an article in the paper on a celebration of Vietnamese culture by Vietnamese Americans at the Frick Fine Arts Building on the University of Pittsburgh campus so my wife and I took a drive into Pittsburgh to visit the event. I had spent 18 months in Vietnam in the army in the early 1970s in a non-combat capacity. I developed an affection for the Vietnamese people. They were a victim of circumstances, Communist aggression on one side and the explosion of 1960s American culture on the other.
I often wondered what what had happened to people that I had known. Tens of thousands of Boat People died trying to escape but many made it to our shores and became as much an American as I am. Walking into the hall had more of an affect on me than I thought it would. Contributing to the feeling was a medical helicopter continuously hovering overhead. The sound of the whirling blades, the flowing ao dai (pronounced ao yai) dresses, the Vietnamese language coming from the speakers and the children running every which way was momentarily overwhelming to me. The only things missing was the faint aroma of nuoc man (fish sauce) and the heat. Vietnamese and American flags adorned the stage.
I thought of the American soldiers, marines, navy and air force who died or were wounded over there, and the POWs not accounted for. I thought about the Vietnamese left behind to suffer when our Congress cut their lifeline. I thought of how terrified those who boarded their little skiffs must have been. I did smile when I saw one man who was given a plaque of recognition of some sort. It was an informal gathering and here this Vietnamese American, broadly smiling, was wearing a Starter Jacket with Fighting Irish on the back. This event was a celebration of their heritage but it was also a celebration, to me anyway, of diversity of culture but unity of purpose.
I often wondered what what had happened to people that I had known. Tens of thousands of Boat People died trying to escape but many made it to our shores and became as much an American as I am. Walking into the hall had more of an affect on me than I thought it would. Contributing to the feeling was a medical helicopter continuously hovering overhead. The sound of the whirling blades, the flowing ao dai (pronounced ao yai) dresses, the Vietnamese language coming from the speakers and the children running every which way was momentarily overwhelming to me. The only things missing was the faint aroma of nuoc man (fish sauce) and the heat. Vietnamese and American flags adorned the stage.
I thought of the American soldiers, marines, navy and air force who died or were wounded over there, and the POWs not accounted for. I thought about the Vietnamese left behind to suffer when our Congress cut their lifeline. I thought of how terrified those who boarded their little skiffs must have been. I did smile when I saw one man who was given a plaque of recognition of some sort. It was an informal gathering and here this Vietnamese American, broadly smiling, was wearing a Starter Jacket with Fighting Irish on the back. This event was a celebration of their heritage but it was also a celebration, to me anyway, of diversity of culture but unity of purpose.
