Monday, January 16, 2012
A story I was told
I once had a supervisor for a short while at this job I worked at in America. He was Asian, originally from Cambodia, and extremely handsome, classy, polite, and humble. Everybody thought he was so charming, like a movie actor or a model. He was soft-spoken yet articulate. He dressed well too. He was young, probably in his 30s, and married with children. College-educated with a well-paying job, he had done everything right. He always had a very soothing sort of quiet energy to him, he never talked more than necessary. Turns out though that he had come over to the United States as a refugee when he was very young. His father had been killed by the Khmer Rouge, and his mother had migrated to the US with all her children. They all used to live in a small house in shady North Tulsa, and they kept getting evicted because there were too many of them living in it. They didn't have a lot of money and the mother couldn't speak English; all the children grew up working jobs to keep the family going. So many years later, my supervisor and his family had moved out of that small home he grew up in and was now living the American Dream, but he occassionally went back to that broken-down house in that bad part of town to quietly look upon it from the outside. He didn't remember his father at all, he had been too young.