Few experiences capture the essence of summer like a road trip, whether it’s a long journey across states or a short drive across town. The open road offers a promise of adventure, though the trip can turn into either a cherished memory or a travel nightmare.
For writer Nina Newell from Phoenix, a road trip from her childhood stands out as a defining moment, teaching her that some aspects of home never truly leave you behind.
On KJZZ’s SOAPBOX, The Show turns over the mic to listeners. Check out each season, with unique voices sharing about a single theme.
Nina Newell’s 1979 Journey
NINA NEWELL: June 1979.
“Kid in my class, Trevor, said our family’s never going to be real Americans.”
My 12-year-old brother spoke for the first time since we’d left Portland hours ago.
“What? Where are we?”
I moved my sleeping, 5-year-old sister off my lap and looked out the car window. Not a glimmer of blue in the sky. We’re still stuck in Oregon then, not yet in sunny California. A glance at the speedometer told me we’re only doing 15 over the speed limit. A former taxi driver in Saigon, my father always drove as if he were an epileptic rabbit with a lead foot. Next to him, hugging a ginormous plaid blanket, my mother was snoring, loud enough that I knew my dad couldn’t hear us kids in the backseat.
“F-ck Trevor.”
At 15, I’d recently discovered the delicious thrill of cursing in English. I faced my brother.
“‘Cause we’re Asians?”
“No. ‘Cause we don’t eat like them,” he said.
I shrugged.
“We chew. They chew. We swallow. They swallow. We crap. They —”
“I meant,” he interrupted, “we don’t eat hot dogs and hamburgers and French fries.”
“Trevor’s an idiot. Can’t use chopsticks with those.”
I joked and reminded myself to forge my mother’s signature on the lunch form at his new school in California. Poor kid will be beaten up the rest of his life if he brings sticky rice and stinky stew to the first day of middle school.
His voice turned anxious.
“You think they’re after us?”
I peered at the back window. No flashing lights and sirens.
“Relax, kid. No cops.”
“Not the cops,” he whispered, “The Vietcong!”
I stared at him with a little pity and a lot of exasperation. He was 8 when we escaped Vietnam on a fishing boat. You’d think by now he’d have gotten over the childish fear of the-bogeyman-Vietcong-is-coming-to-get-you. I was tempted to reassure him with our family’s usual ‘Yay-su Christ will always protect us’ mantra, but my atheist’s throat couldn’t get the words out.
Instead, I said, “Don’t worry. Vietnam can’t claim us no more. We have our green cards. We’re almost full Americans.”
He didn’t seem reassured, but my father was pulling into a parking lot. A McDonald’s parking lot!
Mouths opened, my brother and I looked at each other. We had never, ever set foot in the Temple of the Golden Arches.
“I need coffee,” my father said and nudged my mother awake. “Lunch break.”
“Can I have French fries?” My sister suddenly woke up.
My mother nodded. “Wash your hands.”
Long minutes later, hands scrubbed clean, my sister and I left the restroom and eagerly approached the table where our family sat. A glimpse of my brother’s tight, red face and my feet slowed. My gaze lowered to the table.
Two cups of coffee. One small bag of fries. And one ginormous plaid blanket, nestling a pot of sticky rice and stewed boiled eggs, next to a bundle of chopsticks.
My heart dropped. “F-ck Trevor. We’re never going to be real Americans.”
