The Footprints Of Her Soul

By Vivi Tran

The Footprints of Her Soul is a story of a little girl who was lost among the people she loves most, her beloved family. She experienced extreme distress and sorrow through the long road of childhood poverty, war, and into adulthood. She had made hard decisions throughout her life journey, causing heartaches and pain. But she survived it all with conviction. They made her the person she is today, and the path she crossed became the footprints of her soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781684988563

Book preview

Foreword

To the reader of this work:

As I am sitting down to write this, I feel that I should share a few words in relation to The Footprints of Her Soul.

I was driving to work one day, and my phone rang. After the hello, all I could remember was the excitement in my sister’s voice.

I completed my book!

Wow! What an accomplishment, my goose bumps rose from head to toes.

My first recollection of this work came while I was spending time with my sister in her beautiful garden reminiscing when we were young, ngay xua con be. I couldn’t help but feel sad and happy at the same time. I think the sad part was that those old days could never return, but happy that it left an impression in our minds that is still such a part of the fabric of our lives.

It started out as just writing down all the events that happened throughout the years, but the idea of polishing it into an eloquent sequence began to sprout.

My sister has so many interests, but writing was a skill she developed at a very young age. As she journeyed through her life, writing took a back seat to more immediate everyday matters. But penning this piece of work always resurfaced, and so I proudly introduce to you to enjoy The Footprints of Her Soul.

Ti Talleri, the little sister

Preface

I started writing this book after my second grandson was born. I was watching my first grandson, Liam, for my daughter, who was in the hospital. I am now a grandma for the second time. I am filled with deep emotion and gratitude. Liam, who wanted to know about my life in Vietnam, is an inspiration to me. I asked him what he would like to know. His answer was simple: Anything you remember, Grandma. I want to know everything.

After telling him about my childhood, he was interested in learning more about my parents and family. He fell asleep on my lap. He was such a curious boy and with an extensive vocabulary for his age at five. He was such a joy to be with.

Because of his interests and curiosity, I wrote my memoir using my iPad. During my free time, especially at night, the flow of thoughts filled my head, which is how it all began. After a few nights, when the house was quiet, I wrote a rough draft of my memoir. I jotted down the stories that was told by my father and my oldest sister. Over the next few years, I gathered information about my parents and their family, which was very extensive. They came from large families with different backgrounds.

After I visited with my daughter Melinda and my three grandchildren (Liam is now ten, Henry is five, and my precious Nora had just turned two), it was now Nora who inspired me to finish the memoir.

The memoir I am writing is not a typical one. They hold more than just my memories. They will include some of our family histories, for I believe we would lose my memories over time without that.

I hope you will enjoy reading it. It is the memoir of a little girl lost among the people she loves deeply with all her heart, her beloved family. But loyalty for her is most important, loyalty to her family and her friends.

The second part of this memoir is from my diary. I found it earlier this year, 2022. I had lost it for so long, and now here it is. It brought back many memories of my youth. I could not hold back my tears while reading and writing it. It took time to transcribe my notes into a story in Vietnamese and then translate it into English, which was the most challenging task to complete. Writing my memoir in English was more straightforward than translating from my language, Vietnamese, as I found in my experience.

My diary was my life story, so it is a part of my memoir, and the stories in my diary were also the footprints of my soul.

Part 1

1

I was the sixth girl born to my parent. My mother was expected by now to produce a boy to carry the family’s name, a typical tradition in our Asian culture. With her sixth pregnancy, she hoped to have a boy. But to no fault of her own, my birth has brought her sadness and disappointment.

My parents were restlessly longing for a son. In our culture, it’s essential to have a son, as he is the one who carries the family’s name and family tradition. She later produced three boys, and I was so glad that she had fulfilled her duty as a wife to my father and his family, as my father was the only son. My little brother, Lực, was born. It thrilled my parents to celebrate this special occasion. They were proud of their first son. After Lực, there were two more boys, Thành and then Chí. Because of that, from that time on, I was the forgotten child. I was nonexistent to the adults in my family.

Twelve children were born to my parents. Three of my older sisters died of childhood during their infant years, and one miscarriage before Kim. One of my younger brothers, Lực, died during a battle in the Vietnam War in 1972.

My childhood was a very lonely one. Most of the time I was sick. I had asthma, which was very severe. My mother would have my sister pick some leaves up in the mountain, and I had to drink a horrible liquid after the leaves are boiled and reduced into a yellow concoction. I remember it was so smelly and bitter, and I refused to drink it. One adult would hold me down and squeeze my nose shut. I had to breathe through my mouth, and when they poured it in, I had to swallow. I was too tired to cry nor did I have the energy to throw a tantrum. However, I felt better afterward. I could now breathe through my nose. The asthma would be subdued and under control until the next attack.

I also had other illnesses: smallpox, measles, and other typical childhood diseases. My mother had always had this Chinese medicine ready. It was a gross-tasting ball made up of black stuff secured inside a wax ball. She would take a little piece, roll it in the thin cigarette rolling paper, and then make me swallow it with bubble water. She said that would help reduce my fever and my colds.

Recently, I saw this medicine in a Chinese medicine store in California when I last visited my sister. It made me think of my parents, and I started missing them.

As I was walking around the store, I saw the many different medications my mother used on us. They must be effective as they are still being sold after all these years. I chuckled and thought of her. How I wish she were still here, to see her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I told myself that I had to leave this place fast before my tears start rolling down.

When I was three or four, I contracted smallpox. My upper body was full of poxes. My mother had a yellow silk top, and a Buddhist temple monk blessed it with Chinese verses. She brushed it with peanut oil mixed with smashed turmeric and had me wear it so the poxes didn’t stick to the shirt when they changed me and the turmeric would heal the scars. I think that was the time I died and came back to life. My father said the doctor told them that my poxes had gone to my lung and that I wouldn’t wake up. He could do anything for me. He told my father to plan the funeral arrangements. My father ordered a coffin for me. After a brief coma, I opened my eyes, returned to life, and asked for water. He ran as fast as possible to the funeral home to cancel the arrangements. When I listened to that story, I felt so bad for my parents, for what I had put them through.

I learned to play with my pretend friends and the paper dolls, which I cut out from paper, to stay out of trouble. I chose not to seek friendship with other little girls in the neighborhood because some of them were mean. They fight physically and would swear using words I had never heard of. I sometimes watched them from my window, amazed at some of the words they use. They frightened me. I enjoyed being by myself. I enjoyed looking at the blue sky with the white clouds and would wonder. I wanted to watch and listen to the birds singing, wishing I was one and fly to see places.

One of my limited childhood memories was a trip to my mother’s workplace one cool fall morning. Somehow, it remained so vivid with me throughout my life. We were living at Seventeenth Cemetery St., Da Nang.

The sky was full of stars, as I remember it, on that early fall morning. My mother woke me up to take me to her work because I had been sick and wasn’t getting better and she did not want to leave me home to the care of my sisters. I was about six years old. We both rode in the cyclo that was paddled by a young man. The cyclo was a kind of transportation that my mother used daily to and from her job. My mother was the chef at the officers’ club in Da Nang.

It was early in the morning, early enough that the stars were still shining in the clear sky. I stared at the gorgeous sky full of shining, twinkling stars with amazement. I sat on my mother’s lap to make room for her food supply for the restaurant. She held me close to her to keep me warm as it was a cool morning. It was 4:00 a.m. Surprised as I was to accompany my mother to her job, my eyes were full of wonder as I examined the surroundings during that one-hour-long journey. I looked at both sides of the street. There was not much but a few trees. There were just old houses and some buildings. However, they were new and exciting to me.

Once we arrived at the officers’ club, my mother told me I needed to stay out of everyone’s way. They had to work to prepare the food for the day. I found the bed that my mother used when she needed a rest. It was raised a couple of feet from the floor to store supplies for the restaurant are stored underneath it. I hung a sheet up like a curtain and pretended that the bed was my stage. Then I began singing all the songs I had learned and memorized. I remember there were some soldiers that had just returned from fighting somewhere. They were full of dust. They sat crossed-legged on the floor, listening to my singing. They whistled and clapped their hands as I bowed to them. I felt so tired afterward that I fell asleep until my mother woke me up for lunch. My mother let me come back a few more times, but this was the only time that was so special to me, and it stayed with me to this day.

The few memories that I have had with my mother were significant to me as they made me the person I am today. I missed my mother so much after her passing. I wrote a short essay about her, and it was published in one of the local newspapers. Through all the hardships of my parents’ life journey together, I knew she was a loving mom, a loyal wife, and a successful silent partner. She worked days and nights without complaints to provide for her children.

I know that no matter how hard I worked, how successful I became, and the many miles I had to travel to get there, I could never fill an inch in her shoes. Although she died when I was sixteen, the image of her face has always been with me. All that I had to do was close my eyes and think of her. She is there in my heart and mind. My only regret in my relationship with her was that I could not learn, cook, sew, and hand embroider, unlike all my older sisters. Knowing that I would feel pretty left out among my sisters, my mother gave me a solemn promise that my turn would come when I was a few years older, but she passed away before I had that chance.

When I think of my childhood, the following stories stand up in my memory. And I laugh—it would be hard not to remember them.

When I was about three years old, my mother asked Mrs. Lài, a friend of hers, a first-grade teacher at an all-girls public school in Da Nang, to allow me in her classroom. She was the same teacher who taught all my older sisters and cousins during their primary years. Since the adults in our family were busy with their daily routines, they left me alone most of the time. So this was free babysitting for my mother, which gave her peace of mind. The teacher knew my family very well. The Vietnam school system was from the first- to sixth-grade public school. After that, one must pass an exam to further their education for free. If not, they must go to private school if they can afford it.

Since all my older sisters were in the same school, Mrs. Lài agreed. On my first day of school, while waiting for my class, I could not hold my bowel movement. I went to Lý’s classroom to let her know and for her to take me to the bathroom. She was in the middle of an entry test. I remember her teacher placing her ear on my tummy. She said, No, you are not ready yet. Then she told me to wait. She did not believe me when I told her I could not. I did my thing at the door of her classroom. It smelled so bad, her teacher had to stop the test so that Lý could take care of me. I remember the water well in the schoolyard that she took me to so I could wash up.

Afterward, she went to the school keeper to borrow clothes while waiting for my pant to dry. The school keeper and his wife had no children, so she loaned my sister a pair of underwear to wrap up my bottom. I remembered it was black and big and very rough. It was so big that Lý had to use the clothespins to pin it tight on me. I was too little to feel embarrassed. I marched proudly to my classroom with my head held high in my big black pair of underwear. The kids were pointing and laughing at me. I am sure that my sister had informed the teacher of the incident, and Mrs. Lài must have given strict orders to my classmates to stop the teasing. The teasing stopped immediately. She seated me at the back of the classroom. I napped most of the time I was there.

Later, the school came up with a program that made use of me. The teacher told me I had a new role in helping the older students learn biology. I was lent out to all classrooms for them to study the different body parts. I would come to each assigned classroom, and the teacher would undress me entirely but my underwear. She would pick me up and place me at her desk in front of the students. I would stand firmly on her desk. I held my arms horizontally as she instructed the student to study the body parts. The lesson was, There are three parts of our body: our head, body, four arms, legs, etc. The students used the long stick to point at my body as they recited their lessons. It’s a good thing that it was an all-girls school. When my parents found out about it, they told me they were proud of me. Besides that, I fell asleep most of the time during class. Mrs. Lài had to sit me in the last row by myself so as not to disrupt her class. I remained in Mrs. Lài’s class for several years until I was old enough to enroll as her actual student.

And then there’s this story that my father told me that pertains to the serious illness I had when I was about three years old. I contracted an infectious disease called smallpox. I became deathly ill from it. The doctor had told him to make the funeral arrangement as the pox had already infected my lungs and that there was nothing else he could do for me. My father told me later that it was a miracle that I came back to life after a brief coma from a high fever. He ran as fast as he could to cancel the order of my coffin. Later in life, I realized how lucky I was to survive the severe disease at such a young age and to have the ugly scars from smallpox appear only on my back, as there were none on my face. My dad has constantly reminded me that they named me Hong Phuc because it means great blessing.

An incident happened when I was about five years old. It was the morning of the first day of the New Year. My sisters and I went to the Buddhist temple to offer our new year greeting and prayers to Buddha for a better year ahead. I still remember the brand-new white dress that I wore that morning. It was so beautiful. I was so happy, especially when I did not expect it. It was our custom to have a new dress for the New Year. Poor or rich, we all must have one. It stood