Behind the Camera Lens

The film crew arrived on the inaugural day of shooting at my parents' home in Long Beach, California. We were embarking on a journey to document their narratives as Vietnam War refugees who had once been background figures in 'Apocalypse Now' nearly half a century ago. Despite donning roles like interpreters, Viet Cong, drivers, and prisoners of war, they were never the focus and remained voiceless. Director Francis Ford Coppola's ambition to lend authenticity to his film involved casting Vietnamese extras. As living embodiments of history, my parents became silent shadows in the epic tale. Through this documentary, we intended to spotlight their stories.

In the kitchen, I sat down with my mother for an interview. Our relationship had always been relaxed, akin to an effortless dialogue alongside her usual routine. This particular segment felt no different from our typical mother-daughter talks.

Conversely, my father's involvement worried me. Although transparent about his history, our bond was uneasy. A U.S.-born writer, I spoke freely; he, a traditional patriarch, found contrasting views challenging. Having been declared disowned by him three times, our interactions were now minimal. Out of politeness, he agreed to the interview, though unpredictability loomed over the encounter.

I prepared him beforehand, yet upon witnessing the elaborate filming setup, he protested in Vietnamese, "What is the need for all this? My story isn't significant."

Historically lacking first-person chronicles of extras in 'Apocalypse Now,' included accounts were scarce, especially stories of Vietnamese individuals whose voices were marginalized. My father's narrative was vital, but how could I convey this urgency to him?

Unease stirred as I glanced at the team. A week had been organized for filming—grants received, director and cinematographer flown from New York, food and accommodation sorted. Prior shoots had been completed in Vietnam and the Philippines months prior. Without my father's participation, completing the film seemed daunting.

Stepping in, my mother offered a creative explanation: "Think of it as a school project," she suggested. In reality, I hadn't been in school for ages. This was her strategy to rationalize the situation to him.

He agreed, albeit reluctantly, changing from his work attire. Emerging to meet the crew transformed him; no longer the stern patriarch, he adopted a hospitable demeanor, shaking hands and smiling.

Microphones were placed, and they settled onto the couch. We played a scene from the film, prompting emotions from sorrow to joy as they reminisced about almost fifty years past. Their interaction, completing each other's thoughts, was reminiscent of our dinner conversations.

Watching the screen images of Vietnamese women with machine guns provoked memories. "Back then, your mother wore…" began my father.

"…Viet Cong attire," my mother finished with a laugh.

My father continued, "She wielded an AK-47, firing at U.S helicopters!"

My mother nodded, "I was terrified. I plugged my ears with cotton."

I fervently wrote about my family, yearning to see their stories in spaces that were devoid of their voices—places like schools, libraries, and media. This become central to my creative expression. However, my work was predominantly in English, while they conversed in Vietnamese, creating a disconnect in sharing my endeavors as a poet and author.

They understood I was a writer, albeit vaguely. Pursuing an MFA in poetry confused my mother until I explained it enabled university-level teaching. My father's reaction to my publication was amusingly misplaced when shown a magazine featuring Joan Didion, "Is that woman really that old?" For my translated poems published in Vietnam, my father remarked, "In Vietnam, poems rhyme."

As my writings and artworks transitioned to public spheres, I grappled with integrating my aspirations into family life. The act of defining my identity outside familial shadows was intertwined with dilemmas around respect and obligations. Was documenting my parents’ stories an act of adoration or exploitation for artistic gain?

In lighter moments, my father critiqued, declaring I poetically overstated reality. "Do you truly know a bomb's impact?" he queried, drawing from his wartime experience. Although I lacked firsthand exposure, being his daughter immersed me in his wartime memories, instilling a silence I refused to embrace.

"Your role is to comply," he once stated. Defying that notion led him to disown me yet again, missing holidays.

Being cast off was painful, leaving a void and questions about crafting stories for a person who no longer acknowledged me.

I explored speculative poetry, pondering our relational dynamics estranged from reality. Attempting to voice him fully shaped my collection 'Becoming Ghost.' Expressions about our turbulent history filled the pages.

Eventually, my mother orchestrated a fragile truce between my father and me. Though reunities lacked warmth, we consciously evaded confrontations.

Collaboration with filmmaker Chris Radcliff to create a documentary on my parents' behind-the-scenes experiences ignited both excitement and apprehension. While certain my mother would consent, I feared my father's response.

During dinner, I inquired tentatively, "May I film your story about you both on 'Apocalypse Now'?" Indifferent, he simply agreed.

With postproduction completed, friends often questioned my parents' views, assuming they'd be proud. Yet, sharing the film with them hadn't crossed my mind.

Prompted by a publication opportunity, I consented to document our shared experience of watching the project.

Christmas Day, we gathered to share gifts and enjoy dinner. Suggesting a viewing, we watched together. My brothers and nephew showed curiosity, while my parents maintained quiet. I recorded their responses eagerly, hoping for approval.

At the credits' end, my mother's cheerful clap declared, "Time for dinner!" Their lack of feedback on the film led to celebrations over my mother's culinary mastery and family togetherness.

Festival screens of 'We Were the Scenery' invited audiences to share our living room tales. My brothers, present at Sundance, saw us win the short film award.

Though my parents' reserved reaction stung, I realized the film, intended to preserve their legacy, didn't resonate with them. They were the architects of their own narratives, and my artistic interpretation served a different need — speaking to a silenced audience.

As we dined that night, it was evident that my parents didn't perceive the same sense of displacement. They starred in the storied tapestry of their lives.