My mother was a refugee from South Vietnam and she came to the United States in the first wave of boat people in 1975. Bill and Miste were her sponsors when she arrived in America. They opened their home to her, helped her find her first job, and taught her about the ways of the American people, including eating bologna and hot dogs. I never remembered meeting Bill and Miste. They were always such an intrinsic part of my life, closer than family. Their son, Nick, is my oldest friend. He was a year younger than me, and I never let him forget it.
Life was busy, and we were in and out of touch. They moved from New Jersey to Seattle to Virginia and back to Seattle, while we moved from NYC to Chicago to New Jersey. My brothers were born, and I bossed them around just like I bossed Nick around. His parents thought he was a stubborn kid, but Nick always let me have my way. At nine years old, I attended my first wedding when Nick's sister Kathie married someone in the army. Nick was my first ever partner on the dance floor.
Fast forward forty years, after more weddings, kids, divorces, and retirements, I went to visit Bill and Miste in Tacoma, Washington. Miste had had brain surgery, and her recovery was taking longer than anticipated. She had always been fiercely independent, and I knew it must have been difficult for her to accept help. Yet, she was so gracious in coping with her new state of being that it made me ashamed every time I complained about having a bad day. When she kissed me in greeting, she said, "You look just like your mother."
Now, I resemble my mother quite a bit, the same wide eyes with sparse eyelashes so uncommon in Vietnamese women, the same long black hair so typical of Vietnamese women, and we had very similar gestures, so I thought nothing of it. Before dinner, Miste called me aside and pulled out a small, delicate red pouch. As she opened it, I saw it was lined with satin and I knew there was something very familiar about it, but I could not place exactly where I had seen it before.
A beautiful amulet of red jade fell into her outstretched palm. "Your mother gave this to me before she left my house. I have kept it for over forty years. It's time it was returned to the family. You should have it."
I had never seen this piece, but I had no doubt it was my mother's jewelry. I had seen accompanying bracelets and now I recognized the pouch, a very distinctive set of pouches hand-sewn from Taiwan. Only my mother and grandmother had those pouches.
A tear slid down my cheek as my fingers reached out to touch the amulet. Despite all the times she moved and downsized in forty years, Miste had kept this keepsake of friendship from my mother. The jade grew warm in my hand, as if it became alive. It was a vivid blood red shade, the color of marrow, deeper than even bone. I thought about family as I looked at the intricately carved amulet, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows and shining upon the jade amulet so that it seemed to glow, an exquisite spark lit from within. Family was blood, and that was undeniable. Miste and Bill, they were more than that. They were beyond blood and beyond bone, the most profound marrow of connection between one human being to another, one family to another.
They are our sponsors. The word "sponsor" originated in Latin, meaning a pledge, a guarantee, a solemn promise. That is what they are to us and we are to them. A living promise.
