I want to share a story about a remarkable woman—my mother. Chinese version

She was born in Vietnam, though we are ethnically Chinese.

Before she married my father, she lived with her brother, as both of her parents had passed away—her father when she was five and her mother when she was sixteen. She worked at a cookie factory and would often skip dinner to attend night classes in hopes of furthering her education. She met my father in her early twenties.

She was in love. He was handsome—just like her four sons. Then again—perhaps the good looks skipped a generation; just look at her three grandsons.

Her married life was not easy. Like many women of her generation, she lived with in-laws and worked tirelessly in the family business. When my father was conscripted into the army, she had to work even harder—even while pregnant.

In 1978, following a plan orchestrated by our father and her brother-in-law, we fled Vietnam. I still remember the sight of my mother’s back as she sat by the window, quietly watching the street, carefully timing the guards’ patrols. When the moment came, we rushed out in silence and boarded a small fishing boat under the cover of night. My father stayed behind in case we were caught.

Bound with hope but gripped with fear, we set sail. On the first night, Vietnamese coast guards inspected our boat. We hid beneath fishing nets, terrified. My mother embraced us, urging us to stay quiet; if caught, we would be imprisoned. Later, we ran out of gas and out of water but were saved by a Thai fishing boat. The next day, pirates boarded us. They searched everything but found nothing. Miraculously, they left us unharmed.

After seven days, we finally saw land and excitedly approached the coast of Malaysia. However, a patrol boat blocked us and fired a warning shot into the air. My mother urged us to move forward anyway—she said it was better to be shot at than to return to the sea, awaiting death. After a long standoff, we rammed our boat ashore, breaking the propeller so they couldn’t force us to leave.

We were taken to a refugee camp. All 27 of us made it. Some of our relatives who braved that journey with us are here today.

The camp was crowded and harsh. My mother sold the little gold she had to supplement the meager food that was provided to us and our relatives. Eventually, a church sponsored us, and my Fifth Aunt brought us to Southern California.

Six of us lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment. Thus began our lives in the U.S. My mother now faced the daunting reality of being a single parent, not speaking the language, living in a new land, and raising five children - ages four to fourteen.

Her first job was at Cheng’s Kitchen, where she walked to work and put in 11-hour days. She later worked in various restaurants and eventually partnered with our cousin to open a small Chinese restaurant. This was made possible by a generous loan—given on faith—by her childhood friend in Las Vegas. Customers loved her cooking, and she was proud never to use MSG.

When I visited or started my weekend shift, she’d always offer, “Do you want some Yang Chow fried rice?” Looking back, it was her Chinese mother’s way of saying, “I love you.” At one point, due to the long hours and stress, she was hospitalized—but returned to work quickly because the restaurant needed her.

 

After the restaurant was sold, she slowed down. She made more friends and worked part-time packaging CDs. She then had time to travel with friends and family. She enjoyed delicious Chinese and Vietnamese food. My mom loved the blackjack table and played like a seasoned professional. She sang often—at the adult daycare, she would sing old Chinese songs.

She helped raise her grandchildren, especially Daniel’s children, with whom she lived. She was proud of them all. One time, while getting her hair cut, the stylist pointed to a local newspaper and said, “A Chinese student was valedictorian!” My mom beamed: “That’s my grandson.” She believed in education. In Cantonese, she would say, “Your education belongs to you—no one can take it away.”

Who would have thought? Five immigrant children—all with college degrees, two with master’s degrees.

If you had told my mom - walking to night classes in Vietnam after long days at the cookie factory - that her efforts would one day lead to her grandchildren graduating from Brown, Rice, Northwestern, Brandeis, and UCLA—some of the most prestigious universities in America… she wouldn’t have just skipped dinner. She would have gladly given up lunch too."

In her sunsetting years, her health declined. Illness kept her from traveling or attending her weekend Tai Chi gatherings. My sister became her full-time caregiver—with patience and love. We owe my sister so much.

When our mom was hospitalized, we took turns to ensure that at least one of us was always by her side. On the night of Sunday, April 6, at 11:25 PM, my brother—who was staying overnight—called to say she had taken her final breath. The rest of us rushed to the hospital. The same five children she once carried across the sea were now by her side. Our mother, who had given us everything she had, had quietly passed.

I hope she rests in peace—knowing she is deeply loved that her grandchildren are kind, good, and bright, and that she created a legacy—from a small boat on the ocean to the growing Ngo family in a new land.

When she meets my father again, I imagine her asking, “Are you happy with what I’ve done?” And he’ll smile and say, “你做得好” — “You have done well.”

Mom, 
We miss you. 
We will continue to make you proud—this generation and the next. 
We will always remember that we are your descendants. 
We are the descendants of the boat people. 
We are the descendants of Nu Tran.

Today, while we can no longer take her on vacation or to her favorite restaurants, to all of you who brought her joy—thank you. We are immensely grateful. Please accept a final bow from her children.