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It was December
of 1982, and we had just come to America for six months. We first
lived in Oregon, and because my mother could not withstand the cold,
we moved to sunny Southern California four months later.
There were ten of
us in the family: eight children all under 18 years of age and two
adults who knew minimal English. “Crowdedness” was not in our
company (this was typical Vietnamese Catholic, I suppose). Instead,
in its place resided “coziness” (typical Vietnamese Catholic, too, I
suppose).
It was two days
before Christmas, and my parents - not part of their plan - decided to
give their eight children Christmas, even if it’ll be a simple one.
All ten of us excitedly sardined ourselves into the Hornet station
wagon (thank goodness the seat belt law was not strongly enforced back
then), and we headed to Newberry Ward, the only store we knew from
Oregon.
There were no
artificial trees left in stock to sell, the salesman said. We could
have tried other stores, but which “other” store? Our hearts
dropped, and it must have been obvious. Momentarily, my father asked
the salesman, “What about that tree?” He was pointing to the only
demo tree left standing in the store. Can we buy that tree? The
surprised look on the salesman’s face suggested that he must not have
been asked this before.
So, again, we
sardined ourselves back into the car - ”piggybacking” the Newberry
Ward’s last demo Christmas tree on top of the station wagon stuffed
with grinning children. I suppose where God is concerned, things
always fall into place�in 1982, just 48 hours before Christ was born,
a couple desired to give their children Christmas, and at Newberry
Ward, one tree needed a home with children to illuminate for.
I was seven years
old, and that Christmas of 1982, I received my first doll. She was
thin, 8” tall, slightly yellow, had brown eyes, and short dark brown
hair unevenly cropped. My sister also received her first doll that
year. Her doll was chubby, 12” tall with curly yellow hair that
framed its rosy cheeks and pink lips. My sister’s doll had round,
blue eyes that closed when lain down. My doll’s eyes were dark brown
and were painted on her small face. My sister’s doll wore a
removable, colorful sweater set with a matching cap. My doll wore a
gray jacket and an equally gray pair of pants that were glued to its
body. And the cap was sewn to its hair.
It was my first
doll, but I did not like it; thus, she remained nameless. I did not
take good care of that first fake human being entrusted in my care. I
couldn’t change her clothes. I couldn’t comb or tie her hair with
elastic. I couldn’t make her sleep. Through the years, I gradually
lost the doll piece by piece. Her cap ripped off. One leg was
dismembered when I attempted to remove the pants. Then an arm when I
tried the jacket.
The thought had
crossed my mind that perhaps many years ago, the doll resembled me:
small, thin, brunette, slightly tanned, and brown-eyed. Hardly what I
deemed “adorable.” I suppose even for a seven-year-old, I thought I
knew what beautiful was: taller, blonde, curly-haired, blue-eyed with
long lashes, and rosy-cheeked.
How could I
besmirched that glorious first Christmas in America with such an
obsessive poor self-image, I often blamed myself.
Fortunately, my
fate was not like my doll’s. I remained intact because God�as was
often the case�had entrusted me to the care of siblings who studied
and worked so I could study longer instead of had to work meanwhile.
Growing up, I watched my brothers and sisters work part-time after
school then “burn the midnight oil,” slumped over books. This was an
early exposure to what was similarly expected of me eventually. When
it was my turn to “burn the midnight oil,” in confusion, my sister was
there to explain how to proof in Algebra.
Most importantly,
God had entrusted me to the care of parents who sacrificed so I didn’t
have to; who said “no” when I wanted to hear a “yes,” so that years
later, I can appreciate the value of everything I have�family,
education, a glimmering faith. I suppose when I focused towards
accomplishing something�anything�instead of focusing on myself, I
eventually found me along the way.
It’s been almost
19 years now, and looking at that picture of Christmas ‘82, though I
still think the doll is not adorable, I think she’s...simple,
atypical. Today, I would have chosen her over a thousand Barbies.
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