Phuc Tran Quotes

Could you love reading and still love punk? I had assumed that you couldn't be a skate punk and geek out on books, but Philip had changed that perspective. I had wanted to ensure that I would fit in, and suppressed my nerdiness as anathema to punk rock. But Philip had obliterated that premise in an instant with a copy of The Stranger. Maybe this was my opportunity to be regarded as someone different, more interesting and complicated than the Vietnamese kid or a skate punk.

What's worse than turning into a giant bug? Turning into a giant bug and having your family act like a bunch of assholes.

With my mother, I lacked the words to tell her what I needed. With my father, I lacked the trust to tell him, the trust that he wouldn't respond with violence or disappointment, the trust that he could give me heartfelt advice, that he could see the olive branch I was extending to him if I shared an intimate and personal experience with him. I didn't believe that he would be anyone different from who he had been (no matter how much I wanted or needed him to be different.

A lumpy mass of American stereotypes was metastasizing inside me. It made me cringe when I heard Mr. Miyagi say "Wax on, wax off, Daniel San." It made me pretend to laugh when I saw Long Duk Dong in Sixteen Candles. It made me sign up for tae kwon do that year because that was what Asians did. It would be decades before I diagnosed the lump of alienation, dual consciousness, and self-hatred, but it was already growing quickly, bilious and caustic. I only saw myself as the piece that did not fit in the puzzle.

It felt like the opening line to life's little joke: an immigrant with a law degree walks into a tire factory to work a blue-collar job in a small town.

When we got home to Carlisle, I put my Mets hat in my closet, ignoring Lou's endearing request that we wear the hats to match. I didn't want to look exactly like Lou. Two more Asian kids in New York baseball caps. It's how they already saw us- we just had to look at the movies.

I began to wonder why I felt like I had to choose one thing over another. I was all of these things. I was a plurality. And I was one thing, one word. I was who I said I was. I had said to Professor Slotten: I'm Phuc. I circled back to my name, the only Phuc I had ever met and the only noun I had for who I was.

I cried hard for everything. For nothing. For myself. For my parents. For the lives that we were supposed to have. For the stupid life that we did have. For the circumstances that made my father and mother who they were. I wanted to believe that they were better people. I cried for who they were and who they wanted to be. I cried for everything being so fucked up. I cried because I didn't see any future in front of me except for the bottom of Liam's closet. Whatever life I had hoped to have was gone and irreversibly changed. I felt sure of that.

A teenage boy who liked existentialism? She might as well have said that chocolate was delicious or Freddie Mercury had a nice falsetto or Dickens was wordy.

To me, it was the most obvious thing that I could have been thankful for. My grandparents- who spoke no English, who had fled Vietnam on a stolen boat- had bested my classmates' new puppies and Disney World vacations and ski weekends.

I didn't need to linger on the rednecks- they harassed us regularly- and I was thankful that I had my friends to back me up, not that I would tell them that. We misfit boys had only two settings: cool or angry. We were trapped by our own scripts, unable to publicly show excitement or fear or sadness.

It's true, you were born here, but it won't make sense to people. They'll still ask you where you're from. They mean Mom and Dad. And me. Your family- where we're from."
"How did that man know that we weren't from here?"
"It's complicated..." I chose not to explain bigotry to Lou, though he probably already knew it.

They dubbed cassettes were the links of our friendship, and we forged them, one clacky plastic square at a time. One of us would buy a cassette or LP and dub it for someone else, and on we would pass the album, pooling our resources- our own teenage Marxist collective.

My father loved the library because it was a safe haven for him- no missed cultural cues, no bigoted insults from his coworkers, no glaring reminders of what was lost. All patrons of the library were pilgrims to the oracle all seeking the sake thing: knowledge. And in their pursuits of the same thing, they were all equals.

Was this the real me? Stripped of the ability to look like a punk- what defined me as one? Not my jacket. Not my clothes. My friends? My enemies? No. What I did determined who I was, not what I looked like or what I liked. My actions and reactions. Did I emerge from the shell? I felt naked and free. Was I now pupa or chrysalis? I felt like myself- and that was what punk was. The freedom to be who I was unapologetically, even if I hadn't chosen it.

The logic, though simple, was airtight. Ask a Nazi, punch a Nazi. Whack-A-Mole fascism.

Symbolism in our waking Jungian dream was a two-way mirror. We were symbols for our American neighbors, but out neighbors- with their polished cars, grand homes, backyard swing sets- they symbolized something for us, too. They glittered as goals, mirages toward which we endlessly stumbled.

In Vietnamese, the word for country and the word for water are the same: Nước. Context obviously makes it clear if you're talking about the former or the latter, but in Vietnamese, your country is not the terra firma or the nationality; it's the water. The waters that feed the soil. The waters that lap your shores. If you ask someone where they're from, you're asking them literally from what waters do they come. The county of America is called, in Vietnamese, nước mỹ: the waters of America.