3. How I met your father

This is the fourth installment of Misfortune Cookie

She would have been sitting on the carpet, reading her Thai newspapers or magazines with one leg extended and the other tucked in. Later, she’d be using reading glasses. I’d join her since sitting on the floor was as natural as taking our shoes off before entering the house.

“How did you and Dad meet?”

When she told me that she worked in a restaurant, and Dad came in, I pictured it like a 1950’s American diner. She’d be wearing a cute waitress outfit like those women did in the TV show Alice.

[Although, it should be noted that by this point, as an American, my father changed both his first and last names. He went from Chu to Cox, taking on his adopted father’s surname, but he also took on his adopted uncle’s name, John, so Hwa Lin became his middle name.]

Anyway, he asked about her, as the original story went, and she refused to have anything to do with him, thinking he was Thai. She was finished with Thai men and their heartbreaking cheating ways. I thought it was romantic that Dad persisted and eventually won her trust.

But little by little, through the years of retelling, the story—changed. I questioned her, of course, but I figured she was just remembering more. Eventually, I learned the truth.

I think.

When she finally told me this version, I was an adult, and it rang-doorbell-true because it sounded like something she’d be ashamed of.

I grew up telling my friends and strangers how my parents met during the Vietnam War. I couldn’t believe something so dear to me was a lie, so I yelled back, “Wait a minute. I thought you two met in a restaurant!” She gave me a withering look, the look of someone who thinks you’re terribly stupid and naive. Then she followed it up with an unhelpful, “Lani….”

Since my mother was not forthcoming, elaborate, or helpful in the details of their meeting, I'm left with my imagination and “sources”. And by imagination, I mean drawing upon a childhood surrounded by Thai women, their white military husbands, and Latino-looking kids. Mom was the only one who married a Chinese-American serviceman among our group. So, in my mind’s eye, this was how the conversation convincing my mom to put herself “out there” went...

“You can make sawng, sahm, see,” Dee held up two, three, then four fingers, “month’s pay in one evening.”

“Easy money,” she added before fishing out a cigarette from the pack with her long nails.

“What’s so easy about talking to an American soldier?” Aut fired back.

Dee lit her cigarette and blew smoke around her friend’s face, “Who said anything about talking?”

The women sitting in a circle erupted into laughter.

“I thought you said they just wanted to talk.”

“Yeah, yeah. Talk. Dancing.” Dee wiggled a bit.

Aut looked at my mom, “What do you think? Should we do it?”

“Oh, no. I’ve had it with men. Forget it.”

Thoy* threw her head back. “So your husband cheated on you. So what. You going to sit around sad all the time? C’mon, go out dancing. Meet an American man. They spend their money like. . .” she looked around, “like Dee smokes and drinks. Never stops.”

Dee pushed her, “Big mouth.”

“Easy money. Just dancing. You don’t have to go anywhere with them. Just stay in the club. I promise.” Thoy winked.

“You like money, don’t you?” Dee leaned forward.

“Yes. Who doesn’t?” For a brief instance Mom wondered if she’d always be poor.

“Then come out with us. Dress up. Make yourself pretty, and wait for an American to pick you.” Dee smiled, “Because, when they see you, they will.”

Upon learning how my parents really met, I decided to call one of my uncles (in Thai culture, we refer to Mom’s friends as either uncles or aunts), and ask what it was like to go into one of “those bars” during the war.

“I know this is weird to talk about with me, but you did go in one, right?”

“Of course. We all did. You have to understand that most of us were very young, halfway around the world, fighting this crazy war in a completely different country.”

“What were they like?”

Uncle Ron chuckled a little. “They usually had live music. Good music, too.”

“Thai music?”

“Oh, no! They were playing ‘60s and ‘70s American rock! They knew all the popular songs and they sang them in English.”

“Really?”

“Although, they had no idea what they were singing. I know this because I asked. I remember one band covered California Dreamin’. It was amazing.”

“Wow, that’s so cool. And the girls? What was that like? I mean, how did...”

“Oh, they had numbers on them.”

Armed with this information, I asked Mom, “What was your number?”

After receiving a light lecture on being poor, and newly separated, she told me. I belly-laughed over my triumph, her admission, and that I finally learned the truth – maybe – and then her laughter joined mine. It’s one of the gifts she has given me, to laugh off almost anything, including one’s self, to let a punch slide off instead of letting it land in your stomach.

Other times looking through old photographs helped me to add to the unfinished puzzle of who Dad was and how my parents met. There was one in particular that opened up a window and created a cross breeze. The date on the back of this photo put my parents in Thailand, and between them was a white woman with a blond beehive hairdo and black-rimmed cat-eye glasses.

“Who’s she?”

“Our interpreter.”

I once asked my college boyfriend, who was majoring in art, “What if when we first met, I didn’t speak English? How would you have let me know that you liked me?”

“I would have drawn pictures.”

They say there are five love languages, different ways to express your love, through gifts, non-verbal touch, but someone forgot the obvious sixth–speak the same language. Now, of course, many couples who have different native tongues communicate through a common language like English, or one of them learns the other’s, but what if you don’t have that yet, or circumstances require you to get to a complicated level fast?

You know, like, you get pregnant. Draw a picture, right?

By the time Mom realized she was knocked up, Dad was long gone. He was back on Ubon Royal Thai Air Force Base, one of eight that the USAF used during the Vietnam War. Rather remarkably, he left her his address so she knew how to get in contact with him. Although, let’s face it, he probably scribbled it like we give our phone numbers after a one night stand, so, hey, if you’re ever in the neighborhood…

Mom was absolutely ecstatic when she discovered she was pregnant. Not because she was in love, or had any hopes of anything more happening between her and Dad, but because at 23 years old she didn’t think she was capable. She had been married to the policeman for two years and never conceived.

So, she wrote a letter and waited. But the longer she waited, the more agitated and angry she became with Dad. She didn’t expect a wedding ring, but she expected a response. But unbeknownst to her, he was an aircraft mechanic who worked the night shift and had no idea that the letter arrived. And when he opened it, he had to get it translated since he couldn’t read Thai.

Getting a woman pregnant while he was overseas was not something he expected, nor was it something he wanted. But he did the right thing, he sent for her, they saw a doctor, they talked about it, and in the end, he married her. Although, his mother was not happy about it. She had bigger dreams for her baby boy.

So yeah, they needed an interpreter. Talk about a third wheel! Mom was used to chaperons, but I can’t say that Dad was. Naturally, he learned some Thai, and I know Mom learned some Chinese and English. But she didn’t learn to read and write English until she was in the US going to school for her citizenship. I remember looking through one of her English workbooks. I used to watch her refer to the calendar page in her checkbook where she had spelled out numbers, so she could write a check for groceries. She used to write checks for ten dollars because it was the easiest number for her to recall that still allowed her to have some cash.

After all, how seductive would it have been for Dad to promise to give Mom money, or not claim the child as his own? Mom was a consenting, but unfortunate victim of circumstances. There were a myriad of choices before him, thousands of servicemen during wartime have gotten local women pregnant, his situation wasn’t unique, a different man would have chosen a less ethical or righteous route, but not my father, not my hero.

Mom had been on a plane only once prior to her big trip overseas, and that was when Dad had first sent for her. And she spent that short trip in a state of complete terror, probably clutching a hidden knife (when she traveled alone she liked to bring protection). But through some kind of shamanistic sorcery and stroke of good luck (bribes), my parents were able to produce the medical records that allowed Mom to travel to America. Normally, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but by the time they could leave, she was nine months pregnant.

It would have been a harrowing journey for her even without the pregnancy. She didn’t like flying. She tried it once and hated it, and she didn’t want to leave her home country, so she hid in the airport’s ladies’ restroom and continued to hide even after she heard the airline intercom call her name. But then the fear that her husband might leave without her became an even greater concern, so she went to join him at the gate.

“Where have you been?” he asked. “Didn’t you hear them call your name? Are you trying to give me a heart attack? They’re holding the plane for you.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His anger left when he saw his new wife shaking like a wet cat. “You’re going to be just fine,” he assured her. “Just fine. People fly every day.”

The airline staff smiled and waved them in. She wore a loose fitting dress, but he prayed they would not look down at her swollen feet, which appeared uncomfortably snug in her sandals.

Once on the plane, he breathed easier. Then while he helped Mom settle into her seat he noticed something underneath the neckline of her dress.

“What’s that?” He pointed to her chest.

Mom was clutching the armrests and sweating through her dress. She would arrive in Honolulu smelling like she swam there. “What’s what?”

He reached out and lifted her collar slightly. When he opened it further, his mouth went slack. “What’s that!?”

She placed her hand over the dress collar and closed it.

“What do you have in there?” he insisted.

Husband and wife stared at one another.

“Money? Is that money? Where did you get all that money?”

The plane was taxiing down the runway. Mom tried to control her breathing. The baby will be born right here. Would they stop the plane?

Now that Dad realized his wife had money taped to her chest, he gently asked, “Where did you get all that money?”

Squeezing her eyes shut as she felt the plane lift off the ground, Mom thought she was going to pass out. Here it comes. The baby. Right here between the seats. She wanted to laugh, but instead she focused on him.

“You,” she said. “I got it from you.”

“Me?”

He stopped staring at his wife and finally leaned back in his seat. He thought about the times he had given her money. Sometimes before or after a date he would hand her some Thai baht. She would protest, but he insisted that she go buy something nice for herself. But judging from the size of her chest, he could tell she had saved most, if not all of the money he had given her. He shook his head then started to laugh, and she joined in.

My favorite photos of Mom and Dad, most likely in Thailand circa 1972

Ten days after landing in Hawaii, my parents had a baby girl. I was born in a pink military hospital. My grandma named me “Lani,” which means “heaven” or “sky” in Hawaiian. And three and a half years later, Larry was born in Wichita, Kansas.