For as long as I can remember, my parents’ only names were “Thầy” and “Cô,” Vietnamese pronouns for “teachers.” My Dad was “Thầy Lập”. My Mom was “Cô Hương.” Not only did the students greet my parents with those names, but so did the students’ parents, the neighbors, the butcher, the tailor….everyone addressed my parents as “Thầy” and “Cô”…so much so that for the first 5 years of my life, I thought “Thầy” and “Cô” were my parents’ first names.

During the late 1980s to mid 1990s, Vietnam’s torched economy had just started emerging from almost two decades of post-war ashes, fueled by improving US-Vietnam trade relations. 

Almost overnight, the Vietnamese Communist party developed amnesia about the last decade of persecution and torture they had put my parents through - a price my dad paid for being the son of a defeated regime’s officer, and for being a member of the “intellectual class.”  The Communists government decided they needed my parents’ English skills and intellectual knowledge in the new open economy.  

But my parents would rather walk on a bed of scorching hot coals than to teach in a public school system that was managed by the same people who, just yesterday, wanted to imprison and censor them. And so with defiant integrity, my parents opened a private business educating students out of our own 360-square-foot home, nestled in a  narrow sliver of a street that formed our working-class neighborhood in the heart of Biên Hoà, Vietnam.

For the next 10 years, with only a dark green chalkboard that daddy hand-painted himself, under a single strip of dim flickering florescent light, 3 tables, 9 chairs, and about 100-square-foot space out of our tiny home, my parents educated countless students - from elementary school children who were learning their first ABC to middle-aged businessmen who were trying to keep up with Vietnam’s economic demand for English speakers.  

Suddenly, the very same Communist officers who wanted to send my dad to labor camp now were calling him “Thầy” as they bowed to him and sat as students in his classroom.

Mom taught elementary school to high school, and dad taught everyone else older.  Dad’s clienteles were usually more well-to-do and could afford to pay him for private lessons in their own venues, but for some who could not afford more, my mother was the only thing standing between their children and illiteracy. 

My eyes opened at 6:00 am to the sound of mom’s first lesson, and my nights ended at 9:00pm watching dad clean the green board after his last class, the halo of white chalk dust angelically embracing his frail, overworked body.  

I remember every year, he would give that faded chalkboard a new coat of paint. “We may not be rich, but we have to be clean and presentable,” he said. Often in between classes, he would come to lay down on the cold kitchen floor, his head pillowed on the wall or a stack of books as he whispered “I just need to close my eyes for a few minutes. My eyes are so tired!” 

Classes were rarely cancelled for any reason, to my dismay as I had to attend many of them.  Power outages were frequent, but oil lamps kept our classroom lit. Rainy days were no deterrent for eager students who waded their flimsy scooters through flooded streets to attend our classes in their soaked raincoats and muddy, worn flip flops. 

The lessons continued as dimly lit lamps’ shadows on the white walls danced to the pitter patter rhythm of raindrops falling on the rusty tin roof, before they roll off the balcony rails and on to the narrow concave street that served as a makeshift canal for the neighborhood children’s paper origami boats. 

Sometimes, we didn’t have enough space to sit, so some people attended the class while standing up. Nobody seemed to mind.  They knew the values of their education. 

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard voices respectfully greeted “Hello teacher” as they sat down their dusty book bags. I can’t tell you how many lectures I’ve subconsciously absorbed while just playing with my dolls. “Nouns, verbs, object of prepositions…dot dot dot.” 

I always knew Dad was trying to emphasize a piece of information by the “dot dot dot”. It meant he was underlining the words, and so the chalk struck the board with precision. My little ears would perk up and pay little bit more attention.

“Add the 5, carry the 1, divide by 10…” - mom’s math classes always carried a slower pace. Her style was more gentle, not as intense.

“Bonjour. Comment t’appelle tu?” - yes, my dad also taught French. What can’t he do?

Once in a while, I could hear the sound of their coughing when they accidentally inhaled too much chalk dust. Out of the thousands of lectures I’ve absorbed, the clearest imprint in my memory is the blurred line where the chalk dust ended and my parents’ white hair began.

In a country where education has always been and still is a privilege, I fully recognize how blessed I was for basically receiving nonstop education since I was born. While the Communists were torturing and persecuting my parents, the one thing they could not take away from them…was their knowledge. And with our knowledge, we shall rise.