Log0016

To Druid

Standing out on the porch in Dallas’s evening humidity I watched as my Lyft driver sailed past the gate. I decided to step out into the sun and make myself more visible, as I saw her realize the mistake and swing around into a U turn. 

Recently, getting into my rides I have dreaded the chit-chat. Wanting to sit in silence and avoid any conversation. But each time I’ve forced myself to ask about their day. Just check in and be a little curious. It is a wonder why I wanted the silence. Each time I’ve asked how they’re doing I’ve fallen into progressively more interesting conversation. The last guy personally recited to me the best taquerias across all of Tijuana. His sampling had led to a full exploration of the city to the south. 

As interesting as he was, my driver that day in Dallas had been on an even more intriguing journey. Thi Thu Huong had emigrated with her two kids from North Vietnam. Her reasoning was all so common; she wanted a better life for her children and that started here, with an education. 

At first she was a little reserved when I asked where she was from. But the follow up, of why she came, got her talking and then she was happily sharing random details of her last few years. 

Even now, she expressed how she didn’t like to tell people she was from North Vietnam. “Everyone thinks we’re communists, but we’re not. Things have changed. That was a long time ago.” I wasn’t really sure ‘who’ was questioning her political swaying but I imagined it was more of a fear she told herself. 

It turned out, she had become a citizen only yesterday. I congratulated her. There was a kind of satisfaction and relief in her voice as she talked about it. Much like others, the process had been longer than she thought. Her final interview, the test, had gone poorly. And much like others, her application had been rejected base on the grounds that she didn’t know English. As I spoke with her quite easily, I wondered how much these conversation in the car had helped her fluency. As a Vietnamese woman she blamed the Chinese American who was interviewing her. He had it out for her from the beginning, as soon as he saw her origin. I really can’t vouch for the motive, but he’d rejected the change of status and she had to wait before returning to prove her literacy. Going through her timeline she was generous with advice on navigating this bureaucratic system. 

Her next appointment had been a smooth one though. The interviewer didn’t understand why she’d been rejected on the grounds of language she said quite defiantly. “You speak English she said”, she said. 

I wondered how different her immigrate story was from the thousands of other new citizens in this city. Ones who traveled far shorter distances but had far longer processes. I thought about how differently it was for people going the other direction. Or stories like my own. How did these arbitrary borders work, the fences and walls with their gates and holes. Perhaps the only thing I feel certain about is my own ignorance. 

As we rounded onto the final street I wanted to keep hearing about her tale. I wanted to know what this meant for the future, her family, her kids. But sometimes the beauty in these conversations is their gaps. The parts left out – that make you sit and wonder. 

Stepping out of the Toyota I made sure to congratulate her again. And thanked her for the ride. Maybe I hadn’t got my 17 minutes of silence this time, but the trade for her story seemed like a fair price.