One night, children kept knocking on our door. Superheroes, monsters, a witch, a ghost and Satan—each no taller than four feet—stared back at us. The scary-looking kids held out plastic bags with pleading eyes. They screamed, in unison, a phrase we didn’t understand: “Trick or treat!”
Our family crowded around and listened to an African-American girl wearing a witch’s hat. She used lots of hand gestures to explain the meaning behind this. I didn’t understand English, but I understood candy. Instead of giving her some, I cried and wanted hers.
My parents laughed in delight when they finally understood this unusual ritual of begging for candy. The nice witch figured out we had nothing to offer. Our family was living off Top Ramen instant noodles. We learned how to use the gas stove, the shower and the toilet. But Halloween was something different.
This was our first year in America.
Denver’s Sun Valley housing project had only five Vietnamese families back in 1976. We lived in a duplex big enough to fit my three siblings and me. It even had a master bedroom for Mom and Dad. The stairs were made of polished concrete, with railings fashioned from unfinished pipes. Despite hundreds of roaches infesting the kitchen and bedrooms, we were grateful to have shelter.
My parents asked the Housing Authority to let us move down the hill to be with our fellow immigrants. Only one Laotian family had arrived in the neighbourhood. No one spoke their language except us. I was born in Laos, where my parents and relatives had lived in Diaspora.
The Laotian family had trouble adapting. A fat, elderly Grandma often sat outside topless, to cool off during the blazing summer months. Her boobs sagged over her belly, and we would giggle. Eventually, we got used to it and let her feel at home, although public nudity is not an Asian custom.
Our housing project was predominantly Mexican-American. The Chicanos hated us and fought to drive us out. My parents’ foresight to move downhill was wise, because I was able to bond with Vietnamese children who naturally accepted me.
I had no toys that I can remember. My big sister was blind as a bat. Wearing her black-rimmed eyeglasses, she would re-enact Wonder Woman—which was hysterical. I played many games with my new Vietnamese friends.
I lived in my imagination. When we played house, I imagined mansions. When we roamed the Platt River at the slum’s edge, I imagined jungles. We got dizzy from illusions of self-motion, as we wobbled knee-deep in rushing water. None of us could swim. We climbed a lot of rooftops and trees. And we dreamed. A lot.
I watched Looney Tunes and adored the little yellow bird named Tweety. He always outsmarted Sylvester, a big black cat with a shyster lisp. Sylvester devised creative ways to catch the bird, but Tweety always bested him with miraculous escapes from certain death.
Then I got hooked on a cartoon called The Puppy’s Further Adventures. It was about a puppy named Petey and his bond with an orphan whose adoptive parents disliked dogs.
I came from a poor country where animals weren’t treated as family members, let alone as pets. Dogs were considered dirty and not something you brought inside the house or even fed. But my heart broke for Petey. He was separated from his human family. In every episode, his canine friends would help him find his way home.
All he wanted was love
When I was seven years old, I trick-or-treated for the first time. My costume was Tweety Bird. I stood with my friends, crowding around our neighbour’s doorstep, when a stray dog came strolling toward us. I was afraid of him. He was big and looked like a wolf and panther combined. His shiny fur was midnight black, and he stood almost as tall as I was.
The dog sat down and watched us. He, too, waited for a treat. I risked my little life and timidly patted his head. The dog returned the favour. He pawed at my shoulder and lapped my plastic Tweety Bird mask off. I fell on the lawn and he kept licking my face.
A few days later, the black dog showed up at my doorstep.
I came out to pet him on the head as before. He knocked me down with slurps, sat down and stayed. Our family didn’t offer him food or water, but he continued to guard our house and wait for me.
My parents didn’t know what to do with the dog. We felt bad for him and started giving him leftovers. Since he didn’t have a home, just like the cartoon dog, I named him Petey.
Petey followed me to school. When I arrived, all the children backed away. They were afraid, because in our neighbourhood, people with big dogs would sometimes sic them on other people. So they thought I would, too. They had no clue Petey was a nurturing, gentle being.
At the schoolyard fence, I would say goodbye to Petey. He understood and walked home. Every day after school, I found him waiting for me at the doorstep. He’d jump on me and lick all over my face. This was our routine.
Colorado blizzards are brutal. Petey sat outside like a frozen snowman clothed in white. For the longest time, my parents forbade us to let him in the house, even during the worst storms. But they eventually took pity and we tried to bring him inside. He was an outdoor dog and refused.
That winter I gave Petey a hot dog. He grabbed it, dug a hole in the ground and buried it. So I gave him another one, hoping he would eat it. He buried that, too. Maybe he was refrigerating them for the long winter.
Our neighbourhood had a swampy field near the railroad tracks. When it froze over, the kids skated across with shoes on. I was there with Petey and heard a Mexican teenage girl accusing me of stealing Princess. I didn’t know what she was talking about. Then she loudly told her friends our people were dog-eaters and I stole her dog.
I felt bad because I would never do that. My heart broke when I realized Petey had an owner. Although he ran away, he still belonged to her. She called out “Princess,” and he trotted toward her with his head hung low, but he didn’t stay. He came back to me.
That was the day I found out Petey was a girl.
America is made for dreamers. But I learned that dreams manifest from love. I loved the puppy cartoon so much that Petey appeared in my life. The original cartoon was adapted from a book called The Puppy Who Wanted a Boy. The twist makes this a tale of salvation.
Like Petey, my family fled from harsh places where love was impossible. We came to the States seeking solace, only to discover nobody wanted us here. But Petey did.
All he wanted was love, and so did we.
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