I was not meant to come to America; at least, not as I did. It was accidental.

We lived in a small town in Vietnam. My mother had twenty children. But a bunch of us died. Growing up, there were twelve of us…then eleven of us. Living in Vietnam was like living in Kabul. There was nothing for us there.

Usually people sent the oldest son to America first, and he made money and sent it back and gradually people sent relative after relative over. But my mother knew if my father saw her sending my oldest brother to America, he’d know what was up and not let us go. So she…