Sometimes during my sleep, flashed images from my childhood crawls into my dreams and it would be so vivid it makes me feel as if I'm reliving it. It's always hard to tell whether it is a dream or that it actually happened. And these images are random and in no particular time frame. Sometimes it all gets meshed together and becomes one incident, not able to tell where one ends and the other starts.
One night, after I went to sleep, I remembered when I was eight years old, tall and slender, dressed in a matching outfit that my mother sewed with her own hands and with skin so dark it looked as if I was from a different race, I was a tomboy. I played with only boys. I had one girl friend, but Since I hardly knew English it impeded the growth of our friendship. That feeling still resonates inside of me from time to time.
My mother always sent us (my two brothers and me) to school on a full stomach and with fresh clean clothes to wear. She went out of her way to wake up early, fix us something to eat because she knew even then the importance of breakfast. It was usually left over Vietnamese food she made the night before. Her and my dad would drive thirty miles to Fresno once every couple of weeks to pick up some Asian herbs and spices to make meals that resembled Vietnamese food. It was good. It was good because she made it. After breakfast, she would tie my hair into a tight pony tail. It was so tight it looked like I had a facelift at the age of eight, but it had to last the whole eight hours at school because I was more rough than most girls my age.
One morning, after my brothers had left the house and headed out for school on their bikes and my mother had finished my hair, there were a few minutes to spare until I had to head out myself. I heard my dad spoke loudly to her. I could tell it wasn't his normal voice and I could tell everything wasn't ok. I was eight. I wasn't smart enough to know what was happening. But the tone of their voices told me everything.
I remembered back at the refugee camp in the Philippines where we shared a 15 by 15 feet of living space in a huge warehouse that appeared to be the remains of what was once a building and the walls and roof top above us were made of tin. The ground was made of dirt and we were separated by neighboring families with only a sheet of fabric hung on a liner. One day, after the sun had gone down and I was coming home from a long day playing with the kids, knowing I was late for dinner, I ran as fast as I could. I collided into an older lady who had in her hands a pot of hot water. It poured all over my tiny body and hours later, my parents found me laying up against the tin wall in fetal position, holding myself tight. Even then, they told me everything will be alright, and took me to the hospital. Their kind voices were comforting and I felt safe. That night, I skipped dinner.
Their loud voices explained our weekly visits to multiple garage sales and the flea market that was located 10 minutes from where we lived. My overly worn second-hand Nike shoes with velcro bought from the flea market for a quarter was worn to school every day, and when I came home each day, my feet stunk so bad even I couldn't bare the smell. It was like something died in it. And when we bought expired food at the grocery outlet and grew our own herb garden so we could have fresh produce, were the reasons for their loud voices. Still they told us we were ok. My mother made the best dinners, filled the table with delicious meals every night at 7. We all knew to be at the dinner table at the same time each night. No excuses. This was where we exchanged stories from our day and laughed. It was one thing we proudly shared and looked forward to. When dinner was over, we were all stuffed and went to bed content and happy. My parents are not artists, but their paintings made us feel protected.
As I wake up from my sleep, I look around my room and noticed it is bigger than the space we all shared in the Philipines, on the shelf were 30 pairs of shoes I now own, all bought brand-new some even unworn, pressed dresses all lined up neatly with velvet hangers, and blouses organized by the style. My parents have their own closets and clothes hung according to the seasons, and while I'm just one city away, I no longer have them to paint me another picture.
My parents' paintings have laid a foundation for me to live a life filled with abundance. I've held these silent lessons tight and when I dream of them, I wake up being reminded that everything is going to ok.
Today, I met with Joaquin Regalado.
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