FOR THE RECORD

At every point in my life, when the question arose of what truly makes a man, I have had the great fortune to look no further than my father; a man who is a living example of goodness and how to be a humble human being.

I learned very early that he is a man of quiet disposition and composure; his actions speak the loudest. He is from the rare stock of headstrong men who face challenges stoically and silently without a complaint; asking for neither reciprocation nor credit. There are no obstacles too high or such a word as "impossible." When tasked with difficulty or hard decisions, he chooses the side of love. Where others become frozen with uncertainty or run away in fear, the man acts with courage and conviction. When there is a sacrifice to be made, he offers himself first without hesitation. There are so many stories, I don't know where to begin. Without his steady presence, my life would be difficult.

My father is the kind of man that other men aspire to be. He is the prime example to follow. People that have crossed his path speak of him with genuine admiration. I hear stories of his selfless deeds often.

As the years begin to slip away from us, I feel now that I must break that code of silence. It is best not to leave things unsaid in this life. I am obligated to let my father know of the deep love and appreciation I have for him, if not out loud, then in this public statement:

Thank you dad. For everything. For your love, your generosity, your time. I love you. I will always be that little boy who looks to up you.

FAITH AND LOVE

The story of my mother is one of true faith and love proven over and over again. Through the most desperate trials and unimaginable despair, her love has remained unbreakable and pristine.

By the time she became my mother, she had already suffered the death of her father and the consequences of a country devastated by war. I was born shortly before the end of the Vietnam war. My young mother must have held onto the hope that fate would deliver her child from the clutches of misfortune and a wretched existence. But little did she know, her love and faith would be tested far beyond the limits of human suffering and fear, and that somehow her love would prevail through the darkest of times.

When I was a baby, this tiny woman carried me on foot for countless miles, alone, scared, and desperate, to doctors and hospitals to mend my sick body. I am absolutely certain that she would have walked a thousand miles. Far from home and destitute, she stayed by my side to nurse me back to health. I have no idea of the things she must have sacrificed in order for me to get proper treatment. This woman not only gave me life, but fought hard to keep this life. For that, my debt to her is boundless, and my love immeasurable.

During our exodus from Vietnam in 1980, which itself is another story of great love, courage and miracles, one of the boats we were on sprung a major leak. The small vessel began to fill with cold sea water and terror filled the remaining air in the cabin as my mother and the other occupants prepared for the worse. I can still feel how tightly she clung onto me. Fearing imminent death, she held me close, chanting and praying to Mother Mary as the water came rushing in, as if she had power over this circumstance. Good fortune smiled on us, the leak was plugged and our journey continued. 800 miles across the unmerciful South China sea in a small wooden boat short of supplies and navigation, this woman cared for me and made sure I survived. The following years in the refugee camps on the island of Palawan and our eventual journey to America would test her humanity every step of the way.

I do not need a special day to celebrate my mother. Every breath I take is a celebration of the life she graciously gave to me. I will try to live with purpose and not squander this incredible gift.

My mother is the embodiment of love, and she remains the truest model of a good human being that I've ever known. It is by her patient example that I have learned to be a good man, with love for others and the world.

My first love. My friend. My teacher. My Mother. Thank you for everything.

I love you.

THE MANGO TREE

I do not know how old this tree is. It has been around since the beginning of time as I know it; a witness to the blossoming love of my young parents and their struggle in a country plagued by war. For a time, it held underneath it's branches, my whole world.

I have left the shelter of this tree almost 40 years ago, and have traveled thousands of miles through time and space since the last time I stood gazing up into its endless canopy. Many changes have come to pass, but the tree seems to remain the same. I have found other trees to live underneath, but no other tree holds so much magic, mystery, and memory. Much like my first love, this tree will always contain the innocence of my heart and soul.

It would be my first exposure to the energy and magic of music played through a high wattage sound system. A thing that still fascinates me even today. The sound was blaring constantly to attract customers and the place had a mesmerizing energy of vibrant activity and mystery that captured the wonder of two young Vietnamese boys. We were both victims of political circumstance beyond our understanding -two souls adrift in the cosmic fishbowl. Even at our tender ages, we were aware that this friendship would be short-lived, as our destinies would be decided by whichever country that would offer our families asylum. These times would be the last we would see of each other. I hope life has treated him well since that time. I don't even remember his name, or know where he ended up.

I had been on the island for about 6 months, living with my parents and younger brother in a thatched hut built simply from local tropical materials. We received food rations and sometimes in the morning a man would bring bread. The freshly assembled camp was crowded, a bit dirty and unorganized, as one would expect in such situations, but in the following years it would develop into one of the best refugee camps that ever existed. We were treated well. Originally labeled the Vietnamese Refugee Camp, Philippine First Refugee Camp (PFAC) would go onto housing and processing 50,000 Vietnamese boat refugees in its time from 1979-1995. By the end, the camp had become a mini-city complete with its own facilities, a bakery, vocation and training programs, and a guitar manufacturing shop.

Normalcy is hard to find in this type of situation, but for a young child new to experiences, there was no such thing as normal. The camp was bustling with restless activity. There was much to be explored, and even a routine class at the makeshift school with Miss Lily, with whom I was a bit enamored, but I think I enjoyed the after class cookies even more. The school was located next to a Buddhist temple, which had its own magical vibe. I would spend much time watching the monks performing their rituals. Of all my activities, the store would become one of my favorite spots to people watch. That jukebox drew me in like a moth to the light.

The year was 1981 and the disco fever around the world was reaching its crescendo and eventual death by the invasion of a new synth pop music that would dominate the rest of the decade. I did not know English at the time so the meanings of what they sang about escaped me, but the music that resonated out of that jukebox spoke to me. The beat was addictive and the energy of the performers was entrancing.

One song stood out from the rest to me, and is the only one I can distinctly remember. It had a great beat, high energy singer, and a great simple guitar riff, complete with robot synthesized voices in the hook -everything that spoke directly to a young and curious music lover. They were playing Lipps Inc’s Funkytown in heavy rotation from the jukebox. The song had become a worldwide hit, reaching the number 1 slot in 28 countries, a record for the time. I discovered later on that the song was about moving on to a better place, which was the perfect soundtrack for this part of my life. My family and I had received the news that we were going to America.

At this time in 1980, just 5 years after the end of the Vietnam war, my family and I were living in a refugee camp on the island of Palawan in the Phillipines. I was very young at the time, but I still carry with me vivid memories of this place. Even then, I was aware of some of the tremendous circumstances that had brought us here; far from home. We had left with almost nothing, but the clothes on our backs. Food was rationed in the camp, and luxuries were nearly non-existent. I cannot imagine the fear and uncertainty of this experience for my mother and father; a young couple in their 20's with two children. My respect for their courage and love is magnified each time I revisit this memory.

Although much of the situation was desperate, there were many happy times on Palawan for me, as a child oblivious to world politics and the reality of our circumstances. This one always puts things into perspective for me:

My father, always being a resourceful man, had found some work within the camp and was able to earn a little bit of money. With that, he was able to bring home a bag of sandwich bread, a small container of sweet butter, and a bottle of Pepsi. I remember the excitement and joy, as my family sat together and enjoyed the sweet treats, as if we were equal to the richest people on Earth. There are not enough words to describe how incredibly delicious these simple items were. That, my friends, is the best meal I've ever had, because it's the only one I can still recall with such happiness and clear detail so many years later.

I am grateful for the all the good fortune that we have been blessed with since that time, but this memory serves as a reminder to me how incredibly lucky I have been in this life.

We, as a family, faced our deepest fears and confronted the merciless hand of fate on this memorable trip. My gratitude to my young parents will remain forever intact for their unwavering courage and sense of righteousness in that time of such uncertainty.

Though we had the bare minimums of human survival and no longer a country to call home, we held onto our dignity and were thankful for each other and the fortunes large and small bestowed upon us with along the way, hopeful that fate would deliver us one great day from our desperate situation.

I am thankful to the Filipino people for the generosity and graciousness they showed to me.

Life was not all bad in the camp for a young child. There were many moments of happiness, friendship, love, and discovery. Pleasant memories still exist from this time; The Filipino couple that took me in and fed me lunch, Ms Nellie, a volunteer teacher at the school, the snacks during break, the Buddhist monks next to the school, my first taste of Pepsi, time spent with mom and dad, "Funky Town" blaring from the disco right outside the camp. A friend and I would sit perched and attentive listening to the music coming from there.

I am thankful for being given such a deep experience early on in my life. The perspective it allows me has enhanced my worldview and love for humanity in the most profound ways. My gratitude for the capacity of human kindness and love remains untarnished, even when it feels like the world is has lost touch with these ideals at times.

Lastly, on behalf of my parents and the many other families that have been welcomed here, I would like to thank members of this community for their kindness and grace in accepting us into your homes and hearts. It remains an act of the highest honor that will never be forgotten. Have a great evening and holiday. Enjoy.