Vietnamese Woman’s Epiphany With the Pope in Denver

Until last week, my childhood memories of Vietnam were hazy.

I vaguely recalled days with friends in school, and of always hearing--without understanding--the echoes of cannon fire somewhere off in the darkness. I remembered that seemingly unending day, April 25, 1975, at the Tan Son Nhut airport in Saigon, as an 8-year-old girl waiting with thousands of others under the glowering sun to embark on a journey my mother said would take us far away.

And there was the murky, surreal scene--viewed through the crack of a closed door--of a uniformed messenger informing my mother that my father, a captain in the Republican Army of South Vietnam, had been shot to death by Communist soldiers. I recalled turning away from the muffled sounds of her scream.

Other than those distant shapes and sounds, I remembered little else, and was never bothered by my lack of memories about growing up in Vietnam. I was too busy enjoying my new, exciting life in America.

Then, suddenly, long-forgotten images enveloped me last Sunday as I watched the sea of yellow-and-red paper flags being waved, saw traditional rites being performed and heard the folk songs of my childhood being sung as thousands of Vietnamese from around the world waited for Pope John Paul II to arrive at a Denver arena during World Youth Day.

If I hadn’t been there as a reporter, I would have given in completely to the surge of emotion and cried. Instead, I leaned forward on the edge of my seat, mentally took notes of my heritage unfolding, and held back tears.

The young girls and boys dancing in their black cotton pants and white ao ba ba , or peasant shirts, were me, my two brothers and sister running around the street market, playing in the rain. The women singing in their bright ao dai were the beautiful, sophisticated women I wanted to be when I grew up. The men wearing colorful silk robes were the emperors and dynasty rulers I learned about in Vietnamese grade school.

As I panned across the arena taking in the expressive faces of the thousands of Vietnamese unabashedly singing, it was the music that ushered in the most overwhelming sentiment.

I recalled the melody of the centuries-old wedding hymn that depicts the courtship between bride and groom. The ditty about climbing the hill that we all somehow learned as children. And “Vietnam, Vietnam,” the anthem that soldiers, peasants and urbanites alike sang for their country in the midst of war.

The songs made me happy because they unsealed the past, and I found myself humming along. They also pierced my heart for, try as I might, I couldn’t remember the words.

It was then I realized the memories of my homeland were forgotten not because I had been young and grew up in a new land, but because I never recognized their value. I never made an effort to nurture them. I wanted to be an American; I wanted to belong.

My parents--my mom eventually remarried--wanted to help make our adaptation to our new country easier so they officially changed my name, and those of my brothers and sister, when we became U.S. citizens. Nguyen Tan Bang Phuong became Lily Dizon. Simple, conforming, belonging.

Without the funny-sounding, hard-to-pronounce name, I didn’t have to explain my heritage very often. I forgot most of those precious few years of my life in my birthplace.

On Sunday, I methodically scribbled notes as the Pope applauded the Vietnamese people’s efforts to preserve their culture and heritage in their adoptive home. I soaked in his words and carefully noted everyone’s reaction.

It was only after I wrote and filed my story that a thought occurred to me: I had changed on this day.

Sadly, I will never be able to recapture most of the memories I had allowed to fade. But because of that one unforgettable moment in Denver when I suddenly remembered the songs and history instilled in me a long time ago, impressions came rushing back and the cloudy images of my young life became, for the first time, crystal clear.

Somehow, I was able to find my personal history, something I thought I had lost forever. I’ll never lose it again.