February 3, 2007

• As far as I could remember, there has always been "the store".  

  I remember second grade, walking home after school with my friends in the wake of nor'easter.  Laughing and running in the streets, we breathlessly climbed the steep snowbanks and covered our faces from the sharp blast of wind-carried snow as we breached the peak.  The harshness of winter could hardly dampen the enthusiasm of little kids.   In the distance, I could see the store disappearing and reappearing from view, approaching ever closer, as we conquered each snowbank.  I could almost make out a face, standing at the doorway, arms clasped around her chest, waiting patiently.

  The store sits neatly at the corner of the street on the first floor of a larger apartment complex. It was a small structure with large windows to offer a view inside. Through the windows I can make out the Asian groceries, cans of Hoisin sauce, jars of hot chili peppers, and bottles of soy sauce neatly arranged and stacked on the shelves.  The vegetables and fruits, lay on the table beneath the window offering a glimpse of their glorious ripeness and fresh greenery to passerbys, a sharp contrast to the sterile whiteness of the snow outside.

  As I arrived at the doorway, my mother, who had been overseeing my progress through the snow, returned to her work, picking through the withered green mints and sweet basils, which were not sold last week.  The dry cracked skin on her calloused hands reflected the harshness of this work.  Without pausing from her work, she pointed me to the hot cup of cocoa she had prepared to defrost my cold cheeks and red nose.  Even before I had finished the cocoa, she had already reminded me to change out of the coat and to begin my schoolwork promptly.

  The store was the dream into which my parents poured all their hopes and energy.  After arriving in America with nothing but bare hands and a dream, they worked nights and weekends to save money.  With a small bank loan, an opportunity offered by the capitalism of the United States that had not existed in Vietnam, they built the store.  Of course, such opportunities did not come without sacrifice.  My mother left her job as a tutor teaching English to Vietnamese immigrants at the local schools to manage the store every day from morning till night.  My father, a test engineer at a computer manufacturer, woke up at before the break of dawn several times a week to drive to Boston and pick up produce for the store.  It was a labor of love that consumed all their energy and passion.

  As we grew older, my brother and I became the de facto employees at the store.  Restocking the shelves, mopping the floor, and stacking boxes of inventories, we contributed what we could.  On certain weekends my brother came home from college to help out at the store.  After a few hours of hard labor, lugging sacks of jasmine rice about the store, we sat and sipped glasses of sugarcane juice.  My brother would inquisitively ask my mother, who sat there poring over books of receipts and bills, “Why do you work so hard?”  She would reply simply with a smile, “This is how we pay your college tuition.”

  There is a certain truth and poignancy to her answer that means so much to me.  In many ways, the store is a manifestation of her dreams for my brother and me, a hope that hard work, dedication, and perseverance will yield success, not for her but for us.  The store has taught me of the courage and determination that is required to succeed in life.

  • 7:41 am
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