An actual post detailing my opinion of the show "K-Town" may be in the works, but for now here's a reflection on being Asian from one of the producers. It's a little long, but well worth it:
The turning point came about six years ago, when I was driving home from a night club. It was just past 2 AM. I was in the car by myself, a little buzzed, contemplating life over Radiohead. For no discernible reason, I was ruminating about a particular moment from my college days. My recollections took me back to a math class and the woman who sat next to me. I don’t remember her name but she was older and we never spoke a word to each other all semester. But on the last day of class, she turned to me and said hello. This sparked a conversation that eventually led her to ask me about my ethnicity. I explained to her I am Vietnamese. She nodded and flatly stated, “Oh, I see. My husband fought in Vietnam. He’s in a wheelchair now.” I flinched at first, then stared at her blankly while I searched for the proper response. She realized from the look on my face I was a bit lost, so she quickly chimed in with, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I don’t know why I said that, I just wanted to share.”
I asked her what happened to her husband in the war? The woman went on to explain, “My husband was in a platoon, and they were making their way through the jungle. They were ambushed by a group of Viet-Congs. Every soldier in the platoon was killed but my husband, so the VC’s decided to torture him. They cut off his hands and his feet. They tied his hands to his legs, and his feet to his arms and left him there to die. He was eventually found and they miraculously saved his hands. But not his feet.” Her tone dropped a bit and so did her face as she finished recanting the story. I was sat stunned, sharing the heavy silence with her. Once I found my bearings, I told her that I had never gotten a chance to say thank you to a Vietnam veteran for his service. The woman smiled and said, “If you ever want to speak to my husband, I can make that happen.” Sadly, I never did speak to her husband. The semester ended, and I never saw the woman again, and for some reason it was haunting me that night as I drove home from the club.
Weighed down by the burden of my own thoughts, I was stopped at a red light at the corner of Franklin and Highland. Approaching my car through the darkness of the night was a hunched homeless man carrying a cardboard sign that read: “Homeless veteran. Please help.” I rolled down the passenger window and called him over with, “Hey, were you in Nam?” He nodded, and through glazed eyes and a dirty beard he muttered, “Radar operator of the 26th Artillery, V Corps.” I reached out my hand and said to him, “I was born in Vietnam and escaped the war in 75’. On behalf of my family, I want to say thank you for your sacrifice.”
I will never know what gave him more shell-shock, the impact of a nearby bomb or the words I just spoke to him because he stood there in silent paralysis. Then his eyes welled up with tears as he reached through my window with both hands. He gripped my hand and pressed it to his forehead where I could feel the trembles of his body as he wept, and choked the words, “No one’s ever thanked me.” I was busy wiping my own tears to notice the light was green and cars behind me were honking. I didn’t care. I took out all of the cash in my wallet I had, close to $100. I gave it to the man and said, “Take care of yourself.” I finally drove off, and saw in the rear view mirror the eternally-lasting image of him standing straight and proudly saluting me.
Read the rest at GeekWeek.
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