When we moved to the US in 1997, my Dad had to start over a second time, after he had rebuilt his life from the ashes of a 1975 post-war Vietnam under Communist oppression.

This time, he restarted his life in the US as a minimum-wage toilet cleaner at LaQuinta Inn, a far cry from the prestigious position he previously held in Vietnam as an English translator to the country’s richest business professionals.

But that was no deterrent for Dad, whose name literally translates to “Independence” in Vietnamese, and his character lives up to his name. He had endured far worse. 

At least, here, no one was threatening to send him to labor camp, simply for being on the defeated side of the war. At least, here, no one was withholding life-saving medicine from his children, simply because their grandfather was an officer for the opposition regime. At least, here, the imminent threat of exploding grenades were not constantly looming with every single step. At least, at least, at least…

Dad’s first vehicle in the US was this rickety $50 flea market bicycle. Because even though it can take new immigrants several months to years to assimilate to a new country, obtain driver licenses, and save enough money for a used car - Dad simply did not have that kind of time. He had a family of 5 to feed. “If my children cannot have better than me, then they cannot have worse,” he always clearly declared his WHY.

One snowy December night, after Dad had been over 1 hour late coming home from work, my Mom frantically called my aunt for help. My aunt and I drove all over the dark, stormy city searching for Dad in his usual path. 30 minutes later, we finally found him. 

Even through the blurry curtain of white snow, I could recognize Dad’s weathered shoulders and hunched back anywhere. A combination of blinding darkness, vision obstructing snow and wind, and unfamiliarity with the city roads had inadvertently lead Dad on the highway ramp, and he had been trying to navigate his way home on this rusty flea market bicycle in the blistering cold and precarious highway traffic for over 1 hour.

But of course, because his name is “Independence,” and he had been through far worse, and he always knew his WHY, the next morning, he got up at 5:00 am like nothing ever happened, and continued his work as usual.

And so throughout the winter of 1997-98, motorists in Tulsa, Oklahoma would regularly be perplexed  by a frail man riding his old bicycle in the snow storms, back from his third shift in the night, his tired eyes unyieldingly focused ahead on his WHY.