From Vietnam 2 Brocton with Love

When you're from continental Asia and you move to the United States of America, something magical happens. You're automatically granted Chinese citizenship by everyone you meet, without the need for paper work or verification of any kind. Trust me, I would I know. I've been mistaken for Chinese on a daily basis ever since my family and I moved from our hometown of Móng Cái, north Vietnam, to Brockton, Massachusetts.

My name is Cecilia Nguyen and I'm a first-generation Vietnamese-American woman living in New England. This is the story of how I found love, questioned my culture, and along the way, found out exactly who and what I am. Growing up, I've often been told that I am kind of loud for such a wee gal. I'm five-foot-four and weigh one hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. Dark-haired, sharp-featured, bronze-skinned and brown-eyed, that's me. The short, totally tomboyish ( and straight ) Asian chick with the Red Sox cap on backwards and the FUBU gear. Representing the 508, as we say in my city.

Brockton is a complex town, man. It's racially diverse, with lots of African-Americans, Haitians, Cape Verdeans, Chinese, Hispanics and the traditional Irish and Italians that make up the bulk of Massachusetts population. For the most part, different groups get along. Our issues are mainly economic, not racial. The town feels overcrowded, more than a bit overbuilt, and at times, downright congested. And yet we're still under one hundred thousand, if you can believe that. The population is booming, and with more people, there's bound to be more problems.

Consider Brockton High School for example. With over four thousand students, it's the largest public high school in the State of Massachusetts. Deval Patrick, the first black man elected Governor of Massachusetts has praised it as a model school. That's funny, considering most New Englanders think of Brockton as a crime-laden, drug-infested urban nightmare. The City of Champions has a bad reputation. Well, I love my ( adopted ) hometown and I can't stand when people talk trash about it.

After graduating from Brockton High School in June 2010, I opted for Massasoit Community College even though I'd gotten accepted at Northeastern University, UMass-Boston and Boston College. I had the grades to get into all those fancy schools but opted for my hometown's community college because it's affordable. Hell, they only charge three hundred and forty dollars per class. While my peers from B.H.S. are getting themselves deep into debt at their fancy schools, I quietly got my Criminal Justice degree at Massasoit. And I used my own money to pay for it.

Never depend on anyone for anything, that's a lesson I learned early on in this life. You see, like a lot of immigrant couples, my parents had a tough time adjusting to America due to cultural and linguistic issues. Me? I picked up the English language in a couple of years and lost all traces of my north Vietnamese accent. I did not forget where I came from, however. I still speak Vietnamese fluently. There's a sizeable Asian community in New England. Lots of people from China, Vietnam, Korea and even Japan. You'll find us walking the streets of Brockton, Milton, Randolph and Boston, the four cities where we're present in large numbers.

Anyhow, my parents got divorced as I entered the ninth grade and my dad, Joe Nguyen moved to Plymouth. What's a middle-aged Asian man with a thick Vietnamese accent doing in one of the oldest and whitest towns in all of New England? Well, dad's mistress, a white chick named Lauren Bridgeport, happens to live there. He moved there to be with her, I guess. As for my mom, Anne Nguyen, she dealt with the divorce in her own way, which unfortunately meant drinking, partying a lot, and of course, neglecting me.

With basically no real parental influence at home, I could have turned out bad. I see a lot of girls from minority backgrounds, especially Cape Verdeans, who become mothers way too early, or fall to drugs and prostitution. Not I. I'm stronger than that. Even though my parents stopped caring about me, I cared about myself. I knew I had great potential. I always made high honor roll throughout my high school days. No, I wasn't your stereotypical Asian nerd. I was cooler than that.

Next door to us right here on Ash Street live the DesMarais family. They're a Haitian immigrant family, and they're the friendliest and kindest neighbors anyone could ever want. My parents were initially reluctant to go over and meet them but once we started interacting, our two families realized how much we have in common. America is a nation of immigrants, always has been. The sooner people realize that and get over it, the better off we'll all be.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah, I was telling you about the DesMarais clan. Jean-Pierre DesMarais, the patriarch of the DesMarais family, is a six-foot-tall, burly, middle-aged black man who speaks with a slight French accent, even after more than twenty years in America. He's a corrections officer with the county. His wife Geraldine Tremblay-DesMarais is a nurse at Caritas Good Samaritan Hospital, on the other side of Brockton. She's a tall and regal woman of mixed descent. Indeed, she was born in Montreal, Quebec, to a Haitian immigrant mother and French Canadian father.

Over the years, I got to know the DesMarais clan really well. You see, I was best friends with their daughter Marguerite and their son Sylvain. We grew up together. Our houses are located in the west side of Brockton, often referred to as the 'good part' of town. We were the only two non-white families on the block, I think. Everybody else was either Irish, Dutch or Italian. Us minorities learned to stick together out west.

I smoked my first joint with Marguerite in her family's basement back in 2008. It's a good memory. Now, I'm not a pothead. I just like to relax and enjoy myself sometimes, you know? Since I was close friends with quite a few black youths at school, my parents thought I was associating with the wrong element. A lot of Asians put whiteness on a pedestal and look down on blacks, and my parents were no exception. They were surprised to see the DesMarais family, a middle-class family where both parents are college-educated and hard-working home owners. Shows you stereotypes don't mean shit, pardon my Brocktonian.

I graduated high school the same year as their daughter Geraldine. I went to Massasoit and she went to Boston University. Talk about different paths, eh? We kept in touch or tried to, but eventually, we grew up apart. Now, we're still on each other's Facebook friends list but her time at Boston University drastically changed Geraldine. The gal I considered my best friend went from a cool and edgy, adventurous gal into a snot-nosed, arrogant and self-assured bitch. Yikes!

After graduating from Massasoit Community College in the summer of 2012, I didn't know what to do. Obviously I wanted to continue with my education but school prices took a major hike that year. And I'm not exactly a rich woman. I work as a security guard for Securitas, and I make twelve bucks an hour. It's not much but it's enough for me to live on a young single woman with no dependents. I still live in Brockton, though. I have my own place on Green Street. It's one of the edgier parts of town because of the crack heads and dope fiends. Rent's cheap, only four hundred a month and I have a two-bedroom apartment all to myself. All included. Can't beat that. Only reason why I took it.

I moved out of my mom's house last year, partly because her boyfriend Bob Kensington moved in. Have you ever met one of those creepy white guys who has a fetish for Asian chicks and utterly objectifies us? That's Bob. My mom mistook his creepy attention for true love. I tried to warn her but she refused to listen. I moved out after I came home and walked in on them having sex. He was calling her ethnic slurs while doing her and she seemed to get off on that. I don't even want to think about that shit. That's why I stay the hell away from mom. As long as she's with that racist creep, she's dead to me.

Anyhow, guess who I ran into a little while back? I was walking around Westgate Mall and walked into Best Buy, to check out some DVDs. As a security guard I mostly work nights, and usually in empty office buildings in downtown Boston. I watch movies on my laptop...a lot. I was admiring the cover of the movie Hancock when suddenly I sensed someone standing behind me. You don't live long in Brockton without developing an instinct for danger. I turned around and...froze. A tall, broad-shouldered and well-built young black man in a red silk shirt, black silk pants and dark gray tie stood in front of me. Dude was...beautiful. Hi, I said.

The fine-looking brother looked me up and down and smiled. Hello Cilia, he said, laughing. My eyes widened in surprise when those words left his lips. Only one person had ever called me that. Sylvain, I said breathlessly. I went to my lifelong friend and neighbor, and hugged him fiercely. Where the fuck you been? I said, elbowing him. Sylvain laughed, and put his arm around my shoulder. I got so much to tell you, he said.

We went to Sarku Japan, a neat little restaurant located inside Westgate Mall, and caught up while eating some rice with orange chicken and teriyakis. You're all grown up, I said, looking at Sylvain, mesmerized. Sylvain is only two years younger than me, and I've known him forever but I hadn't seen him in a long time. Two years, in fact. I remember Marguerite mentioning an incident involving youth gangs in the area, which prompted the DesMarais clan to pull Sylvain out of Brockton High School and they shipped him somewhere else.

I got sent to the Blue Ridge School in Virginia, Sylvain said wistfully. I looked at him, smiled, and pressed him for more details. Sylvain told me about his trying times at the all-male and mostly white private school in Saint George, Virginia, which he attended while staying with his aunt Gertrude Joseph and her husband Jean-Paul Casimir. They were strict as hell at that place, Sylvain said, a haunted look on his handsome face.

I gently stroked Sylvain's goatee. Looks like it did you some good, I said, marveling at how different he looked. Sylvain is definitely a man. I study criminology at the University of Virginia in Albemarle County, Sylvain said proudly, as he took his student identification card from his wallet and showed it to me. Damn you look so serious, I said, ( and handsome, I thought ) before handing the card back to Sylvain. He nodded and shrugged. Virginia is one of those places that can change a man, he said. I considered that. Obviously, I conceded. Sylvain and I finished our meal, then went for a walk around Westgate. He hadn't seen the place in forever. We went to PCX, the hip hop outfitter, and I bought him a New England Patriots hat. Welcome home Sylvain DesMarais, I said, and gave him a peck on the cheek after putting the hat on his head.

Sylvain looked at me, shock on that handsome mug of his. Um thanks, he said hesitantly. I smiled and playfully rapped my knuckle against his chin. Gotcha, I said, laughing. We walked out of the store, and walked to the bus stop. Nope, I still don't have a car. I can't afford one yet but I'm saving for it. So far I've got eleven hundred dollars saved in my Bank of America savings account and another four hundred in my Crescent Credit Union account. I'm getting there...slowly. I could buy a car for low price but I don't want a piece of crap that I'm going to end up dragging to the mechanic's every other day. You feel me?

The Bat bus came, and Sylvain and I sat together in the middle. We definitely made for one odd pair. A well-dressed young black man and a tomboyish Asian chick who looked like she'd stepped off a 1990s rap video. That's us. A lot of people have commented negatively on my style of dress, which tends to be somewhat mannish, and heavily influenced by hip hop culture. I love rap and hip hop. And most of my friends are black. I swear, black people are the most loyal of friends. When I was going through all kinds of emotional turmoil during my parents divorce, Sylvain and Marguerite's mom, Miss Geraldine, provided me with a shoulder to cry on. As a mother with a daughter my age, she understood what I was going through.

As the bus left Westgate Mall and took the scenic route around Brockton before making its way to the Bat Center sandwiched between Commercial, Montello and Court streets, Sylvain and I talked. I hadn't seen the lad in ages and he seemed tongue-tied around me. Cat got your tongue? I chided Sylvain, poking him in the ribs. It's weird to be back home that's all, he said, flashing a smile that I could see right through.

Alright Sly, I said, and we waited for the bus heading to the west side. It would only drop us off in front of the Dairy Queen, and we'd have to walk all the way down Ash Street. The DesMarais house is located only a few blocks from Brockton High School, so it's deep into Ash Street. Since the bus didn't come ( big surprise, the Brockton Area Transit system sucks ) Sly and I decided to walk home. We left the Bat Center, walked by the police station and the Dunkin Donuts, and up toward Main Street. We walked in front of the old courthouse, and stepped to Montello Street. Soon we were near the Dairy Queen, and cut into Ash Street.

The whole time we walked, Sly looked everywhere, like this shit was new to him or something. Welcome home buddy, I said, chiding him a bit. Sly looked at me and shrugged. It's good to be home shorty, he laughed, and squeezed my shoulder. I smiled and tried hard not to wince. Dude doesn't know his own strength. People often overestimate my resilience. I'm a short chick with a loud voice and while I'm sarcastic and pushy, I'm not that tough. You alright? Sly asked. I flashed him a phony smile. It's all good, I said, as we headed toward his folks house.

The DesMarais family lives near the end of Ash Street in Brockton's west side, right where Ash Street intersects with Forest Avenue. If you go right, you'll end up at Brockton High School, and a bit further there's a McDonalds, and the Brockton West Branch Library. If you go left on Forest, you'll walk down a few blocks and end up on Warren Avenue. Also known as Little Cape Verde. Everybody on that street is from Cape Verde, I swear. Lovely people, fun and totally cool to chill with, until they have beef with you, then you're dead. In Brockton, nobody messes with the Cape Verdeans. I don't care if you're African-American, Asian, Haitian, Irish, Italian or whatever. They've got the fearlessness that comes with being our fastest-growing demographic, and they stick together.

As we neared Sylvain's house, we came near my own. The two-story, green-and-white house with the small lawn where I grew up. I bristled when I saw a lawn jockey around the corner. What the fuck? I exclaimed, glaring at the little black ceramic statue. Sylvain looked at it, then shot me a look. Since when is your mother a redneck? he asked, somewhat indignantly. I saw anger and sadness in his eyes.

I don't live there no more and I don't know shit about that racist piece of lawn furniture, I said defensively. It's that racist mofo Bob Kensington, had to be. Sylvain shook his head, and we went to his house. Ma I'm home, Sylvain hollered. Since there were no cars in the driveway, I figured they weren't home but you never know. We went inside, and the house was exactly as I remembered it, though I hadn't been there in a while. Pictures of the DesMarais family on the walls, along with Haitian paintings reflecting the War of Independence. I know a lot of black history that they don't teach in schools thanks to my friendship with the DesMarais.

Indeed, I could tell you about Jean Jacques Dessalines, the black man who led the African-descended slaves in a successful, all-out uprising against the French colonial forces in what was once called the island of Saint Domingue. The blacks took over, renamed it the Republic of Haiti, and thus founded the first independent black nation in the New World. Proof that white supremacy isn't invincible. Every year, on May 18, Haitians worldwide celebrate their flag by wearing red and blue and having kick-ass parties. I've been to quite a few and they're awesome.

Pa gen moun lakay, I said to Sylvain, who cocked an eyebrow. That means nobody's home, for those of you who don't speak Haitian Creole. I do enjoy surprising Haitian-Americans by speaking to them in their native tongue. I learned from Marguerite and Sylvain, and the throngs of Haitian students at Brockton High School and Massasoit Community College. You still remember, Sylvain said, smiling. I nodded, and smiled. Yup, I speak Creole fluently. I'm probably one of a few non-Haitians who speak it in the continental U.S.

Let's order some grub, I proposed, and Sylvain nodded. I took out my old Blackberry and dialed up Highland Creole Cuisine, one of the top Haitian restaurants in Brockton. Hi this is Cecilia, I said, and the voice on the other end laughed. It was Ernest, one of the restaurant's long-time delivery guys. Sakapfet zanmi mwen ( what's up my friend ), he said cheerfully. You've got to make friends with the delivery people when you're dealing with Haitian restaurants. Otherwise you won't get your stuff on time. They do it on purpose, I swear.

We exchanged pleasantries for a moment, then I told Ernest the address. I ordered two plates of white rice with legumes, dark bean sauce and goat meat, with lots and lots of pikiz ( spice ) and of course, two Pepsis. Total is twenty two dollars plus tax and I'll be there in twenty minutes, Ernest said. Na we pita ( see you later ) I said, then hung up. Sylvain stood there, his arms folded, shaking his head and smiling. Damn you're so Haitian, he said, laughing. I shrugged and smiled. I learned from the best, I said.

Sylvain looked at me and I looked at him, and, um, something passed between us. He took a step toward me, and I smiled nervously. Dude, I said, stammering. You look lovely, Sylvain said, gently touching my face. Next thing I knew, he pulled me into his strong arms, and kissed me. I kissed him back with a passion that surprised me. His hands roamed all over me, caressing my hair, my back, my butt...setting me on fire everywhere he touched me. He grabbed me and put me on the kitchen counter and we started undressing each other, all in the same breath.

I wonder what would have happened if the doorbell hadn't rung. Shit it's the delivery dude, I said, breaking the kiss. Sylvain looked at me and shrugged. So what? he said, with a dazed look that let me know he was still in the moment. I pulled away from him, and dashed to the front door. Hello mon amie, Ernest said, and grinned slyly. I followed his gaze, and noticed that my flannel shirt was unbuttoned, and my sports bra was showing. Oh snap, I said, and hastily readjusted myself.

Sylvain suddenly materialized next to me. What's up neg pam ( my friend )? he said, and exchanged dap with Ernest. I got it, I said nervously, not looking at Sylvain. Laughing, Sylvain took two crisp twenties and a wrinkly five out of his wallet. Here you go my man, he said, and took the paper bags from Ernest, who thanked him and walked away. That was awkward, I said, looking at Sylvain, who shrugged. I got your back, he said, and laid his big hand on my derriere. Now where we were? he laughed, and licked my ear.

I looked at Sylvain DesMarais, the proverbial guy next door, the one whose older sister was my best friend for years, and I didn't see any trace of the nerdy, awkward lad I once looked after. Instead, before me stood a strong, virile young black man. I shouldn't be doing this. We're friends, and friends shouldn't cross certain lines. But I hadn't had sex in almost a year, and I desperately needed the D, as they say in the hood. Shut up and kiss me, I said, and threw myself into his arms. Sylvain embraced me and once inside, he took care of me better than I expected.