A letter to my friend Nguyễn Công Huân

A letter to my friend, as a thank-you.

September 1999 brought the first lessons of the specialized Physics class at Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm High School. The pride of being the only student from Cao Thắng school to test into that class didn't stop me from landing at the bottom of the class roster. Because I was at the bottom, I only knew how to hang out with friends in the same rank, and fighting for the top spot in our own little league was plenty of fun. And so we've become unforgettable to each other for the rest of our lives. You, though — you've always been the first number in the whole string of positive integers. In the past I always competed with that number, but the league no longer belongs to me.

You were also elected by everyone to lead the school's first and only specialized Physics class. The only class that didn't get split: specialized Chemistry was broken into two classes, so was Math, while English and Literature had to share a room (I kept mixing them up and thinking it was the English class). Physics wasn't an easy subject to chew on, so only 26 kids dared enroll — 17 boys and 9 girls. By the end of the first year, one of them gave up Physics entirely. Whatever — a friend for a day is still a friend forever. And then you led the school's most unique class for all three years. The achievements weren't always glorious, but in name and reputation we were always number one.

When you're the one in charge, you can't escape the sideways glances and the gossip of the world. Being the leader of the most unusual class at Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm didn't help with those whispers. And you were a veteran Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm student all the way from sixth grade on top of that. "Son of this principal" or "child of that teacher" — to me, those were just paper robes the world forced you to wear. That kind of pressure, once you get past it, is what gave you your rock-solid confidence. Forget about the Math and Chem classes — they had so many students that just by sheer numbers you'd get a lot of brilliant ones. Knowing how to play it so that you were small but not the smallest — that's not something every leader can pull off.

If I tried to list your merits for those three years day by day, two hundred kitchen gods wouldn't be enough to read them all. Too many to tell, so I'll just tell one.

That one day (hey, if anyone remembers the exact date, let me know so I can write it down) we had PE class, business as usual. I remember the weather was cool and pleasant; our PE classes were on the sports field behind the school, in the shade cast by other classes sitting in their classrooms above us. Our crystal-blue Miền Tây sky was there too; the overgrown canals around the school, every day, begged to come inside and play with us. Because every one of us looked forward to Coach's PE period. We waited for the period; and when it arrived, we hoped Coach would come late — maybe his cup of tea wasn't finished, or he was still chatting with another teacher — so we could play a little longer. Those short little moments we had as kids were full of meaning: they were the connecting points, where the collisions that made us closer happened, where the bonds that we'd never forget were formed. And then that day, a collision happened between you and me that I'll never forget.

Having studied together for a while, you knew that when somebody called out the name of my parents, I turned to stone. Not like the other kids who'd react this way or that way to the sound of their parents' names — the little schoolyard game where kids learn each other's parents' names so they can tease each other with them. Your sharp eye must have also known that inside, this stone was black as coal and red as a volcano. You whispered to some of the other boys in the class: watch, I'll tease this kid and see what he does to me. With your plan all laid out in your head, you walked up while I was happily goofing off with eight of the girls in the class and asked: hey, what ethnicity is your dad from, why is his name pronounced "Phẹc Phọt" or something? (My father's name was Phát.) In an instant I turned one second into a week, slowed everything around me down, grew claws and fangs, and pounced. Like an eighty-kilo lion jumping a hyena in an animal-world documentary. The beast was surging because that year was the eighth year it had hated its parents. Just one of my big, plump hands was enough to hold your neck, while the other one started painting the walls. All the boys and girls of the class grabbed a tuft of lion fur and pulled — I don't know why they were trying to hold back our fun — how many would it take to stop the game between me and you? To this day I still don't understand why they were jealous of two boys having so much fun, one pinned down laughing like he'd never laughed harder in his whole life, the other on top trying to kill him.

Eventually I broke free, sat there panting. Tears poured and poured, teeth grinding without stopping. After the battle, everyone was exhausted. I wasn't crying from anger or from injustice — I was crying because it was the first time I'd come face to face with the wild beast inside me. Crying out of fear — how could that thing look so vicious? Even more frightened when I realized I shared a cage with it.

It's been about twenty-five years since I met that beast — a long enough stretch to tame it. Today I ride it through the world, my friend. In this Year of the Fire Horse, let's call it a wild horse, now broken. But I'll tell you the truth, my friend — this one of mine has two horns, the legs of a goat, and it holds a pitchfork in its hand. If that day hadn't happened, I'm sure it would have quietly gnawed on all the negative in me, and one day without my even noticing it would have been the one riding me. And then how could I be working at a company that saves lives today? Your merit is immeasurable. Thank you, my friend, Nguyễn Công Huân @[100001481302210:2048:Huan Nguyen].

(Side note, though: after the end-of-year class reunion I came home with my head in knots. All I could think of was guns, knives, and hatchets. Who'd have guessed a viral infection would hit me next — probably my body and mind rising in revolt. On the morning of the first of Tết I woke up cured, as if I'd died and come back, and only then did I see the flowers smile and the grass laugh.)