Prose by Chelsey Trần Dinh

Edited by Mia Brixey

The 72nd “I will never lie again.”

Aged twelve or thirteen at that point in time, I remember having this overwhelming feeling take over me when I messily wrote the same sentence over and over again on a piece of paper I ripped out of my school notebook. The page was sprinkled with a few of my tears, which dampened and blurred the words I had only just inscribed. I tried to limit my crying because my dad always got mad when I cried. His constant reminder was that “the only time you should be crying in front of me is when I die.”

The 83rd “I will never lie again.”

Although receiving a scolding was not a daily occurrence, the stoicism and silence from my mom were typical of her at dinnertime. Even in my disheveled state, her mere concentration on her meal and her lack of intervention almost felt comforting. Deep down, however, I so badly wished she could have stood up for me or at the bare minimum told my dad to calm down during the night’s climax. But knowing that this was my mom’s default state of mind around my dad during his heated episodes, I was at least slightly comforted with her unchanging nature. It felt like the calm before the storm, but what is the point in feeling brief tranquility when you drown in the end? I would have much rather wanted my mom to take on the role of King Triton against the sea storm that was my dad. 

The 87th “I will never lie again.”

Now that I am an adult, at least legally, I recognize my feelings at the time as the beginning of the growing resentment I started carrying toward my parents. 

The 90th “I will never lie again.”

My hand eventually got tired, but at least my eyes dried up and I didn’t have any tears left to cry. I was at the kitchen counter and despite my dad obliterating my ears just moments before, he was fairly calm at this point. It felt like a typical weekday night; my dad was eating his second bowl of rice with mismatched chopsticks, several Vietnamese side dishes that don’t normally go together were dysfunctionally placed on the kitchen counter, and Fox News was murmuring in the background.

The 94th “I will never lie again.”

This is the thing about my dad. His mood can change in a matter of seconds, which will leave you keeping your guard up all the time around him. All of my cousins tell me they are afraid of my dad, and I don’t blame them. Sometimes I used this fact to subtly boast that someone as intimidating as him does not faze me in the slightest. Someone who scares the littlest of kids to the oldest of adults is someone I am able to live with and see every day. Someone I saw yell at any person who agitated him in the slightest was someone who raised me. I used my dad’s strong and cold front to put on my own. But only God and I know that my dad was and will always be the person I fear most. 

The 97th “I will never lie again.”

My family has prided itself on following the trope of rags to riches. Both my parents are Vietnamese immigrants who came to the United States in order to pursue better futures for their children because they did not have privileged childhoods themselves. My mom is the third oldest child in her family and the second oldest daughter. She had a knack for numbers and loved solving math problems. She was passionate about the subject, which fueled her dream of becoming a math teacher. However, in most Vietnamese families in the 80s, poverty was the norm and only the wealthy could afford an education for their children. My grandmother had seven children in total, and with my mom being one of the oldest, she was capable of helping my grandmother out at the convenience store they owned. So, at the young age of 14, she dropped out of school to help my grandmother maintain a living. 

Because my mom never received a proper education past the seventh grade, she heavily emphasized that my main priority in life was to excel in my studies and never take education for granted. I always strived for straight A’s, but no one is easily that perfect. There were several times when I slipped up and got B’s on my report cards, and although my mom was harsh with her words, she never made my “low” grades an excuse to tear down my self-esteem. 

My dad’s upbringing was slightly different. Although they were both children of fathers who fought and were imprisoned during the Vietnam War, my dad had the luxury of being the youngest of eight children in his family. My closest aunt would always jokingly complain about how she and the other siblings had to take care of my dad, and how my grandfather spoiled him. Unlike my mom, once my dad immigrated to America, he pursued and graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Business Administration from the California State University of Fullerton. My dad is now making six figures as a biomedical engineer.

Different upbringings aside, my dad also heavily cares about my education and wants me to exceed his own successes in life. My dad is the true embodiment of a tiger parent–one “wrong” move and I lose some sense of his pride in me. I was always scared to express any emotion or struggle I was going through. He always made it apparent that he lived a harder life than me, so I had no excuse to complain. 

“You’re extremely lucky to be born in America. Look at the school you go to. Look at the nice car you drive. Look at the nice house you get to live in because of me.”

The 100th “I will never lie again.”

That night my dad made me write that sentence 100 times. This was not the first time I made my dad extremely angry, but this was the first time he ever caught me in a lie. It was a seemingly minor lie about me practicing piano that day, yet he treated this lie as if I committed tax fraud or sold drugs. I didn’t think that lying about 30 minutes of piano practice would’ve gotten me into a dilemma where I had to waste my night repetitively writing a promise I knew I wouldn’t keep. 

An outsider looking in might think that 12-year-old me was in the wrong, that there was no need to lie to my parents about daily piano practice. But what that person might not understand is that underneath my unwillingness to practice piano, was my unwillingness to keep accepting the harsh expectations that my parents constantly had. I was a sixth grader and was never allowed to go to any sleepovers, birthday parties, or even the mall with my friends. I was a sixth grader who had no sense of what “fun” was. My childhood consisted of music lessons, art classes, Bible study, and Vietnamese language classes every weekend. Through their controlling nature, I knew from a young age that it was my parents’ fault that I lacked any ounce of enjoyment in life, which began my developing resentment towards them.

Even so, I cried myself to sleep that night, feeling as if I lost my dad’s complete trust in me. The odd thing was, I wasn’t necessarily guilty that I disrespected my parents by lying straight to their faces. I was more upset at myself that I got caught. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve put more effort into hiding things from them.

It was a strange thought for a 12-year-old to be thinking.