This is an AM/AF story. It takes place in Japan. This is my own creation, both the characters and situations. Enjoy it.

Lost Memories

February 16th, 1985

What is this house I live in? It is not a house. First time I saw it, I was eighteen, an immigrant to Japan. South Vietnamese army murdered my whole family. I had no choice but to escape poverty. My life will be better in Japan, or so I thought. Yet I am still suffering.

Dark nights become my refuge and light became evil. Bad people do not come out in the light. They are found within a night. Many are rich, CEOs, actors, etc. none use their real names, except one:

Okita Koji.

He’s married, and already has a family of his own; two daughters and a son. The children are very young, less than ten years. He’s a few years younger than I. He loves me though.

Dim lights glow as fading stars; everything is closed but the nightclubs where prostitutes and Geishas entertain. Cigarette lies in my fingers, his hand closes around mine. American music, disco, encourages dances. “I am afraid I am not making you happy.” He begins. He is dressed in gray, a tie is loose. “What can I do to give you happiness?”

“Marry me, please.”

I see sharp needle pain on his face. “You know I cannot do that, my love. My family will be ashamed should I marry someone who is not virtuous.”

“And Vietnamese.” I add, acid forming in my tongue.

“Yes.” He removes his hand from mine. “I will not be rich anymore.”

“What else can you do for me?” I ask idly.

“I could give you a child.”

“A child?”

“Yes. Many times you have expressed your desire to have a child, someone to love.”

“That is true,” I admit. “I am scared though. Every year, as you know, I have a miscarriage. What would happen if I miscarry your child as well?”

“We’ll keep trying.”

“What of your wife?”

“I cannot divorce her, as you know. I am sure that sooner or later, you will find happiness, Thu.”

“I cannot, my love. I cannot return back to Vietnam, nor can I find any here, for I am Vietnamese, not Japanese. I am nothing here.”

“You will always be something to me,”

“Really?”

“Yes. You will be the woman that I really have fallen in love with. I am sorry I cannot help you much. I will give you a child, but you do understand why I cannot help you raise the child, right?”

I nod my head. His wife will find out about his cheating ways. “Will it pain you though?”

“Yes, it will. The child will be a part of me as well, Thu. I will not see him or hold him or know about him.”
No more words are spoken.

For the next two years, until 1984, we begin to try. Every year though, a miscarriage occurs. I am always in tears, watching the birth of death come out from between my legs.

I am on the verge of giving up when finally a miracle occurs; I carry the baby for the first five months. I become ecstatic, along with Koji.

He visited me often, radiance on his face. He never brought me gifts or money. Part of me does understand why though. His visits throughout the nine months are enough. He was even there when I gave birth to our son. “He looks a lot like you,” he told me.

I saw our son, lying in my lover’s arms. To me, he looks more Japanese than Vietnamese. “I think he looks more like you than I.”

He walks over to me and gives me our son. “You do understand why I cannot be here for him, or look after him, right Thu?”

“I do.”

“This is my last visit to you, and our son.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. My eyes are closing, a push to the eyelids.

“What will you name him?”

“I don’t know, I never thought about a name before…”

“Give him a Vietnamese name. Oh,”

“Hmm?”

“You never told me what your name meant.” I laugh, almost bitterly.

“It means ‘autumn,’” I whisper, sound of the wind.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he tries to reassure me.

I shrug. My name means little to me. Ever since I was a teen, I began to understand that autumn meant slow death of the way of life, of me, of my world and culture. My son though, I didn’t want him to have such a bad luck name. I thought hard, and finally came up with an acceptable name. “I know what to name him,” I said, passing into darkness each minute.

“What?” He asked.

“Thanh.” Silence.

“Why Thanh?”

“His name means, ‘bright, clear blue, elegant.’”

“Ah.”

“I want him to have a bright future, not live in darkness as I do.”

“I see.” He stayed with me for a day, then left.

I never saw him since.

I watch my son from afar, a smile on his thin face. He grows fast, already walking. Yet, we’re still poor. No matter how much money I earn, we’ll always live here, I realize. My son will always know poverty.

I often think of giving him a brother, or a sister, but the situation itself is hopeless. I cannot carry any more children. Thanh will always the only one who survived. My Thanh, my precious son, I hope you know how much I love you, how I wish you wouldn’t suffer. Maybe in time, this prayer will be granted, that you would know life I will never know.

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Once you go Asian, you'll never go caucasian