Carrie, the Vietnamese Girl

The moment I sat down with my latte and backpack, the young girl was instantly fascinated by me. I'll call her Carrie. Not a common name for Vietnamese child, but who cares? She was probably around 8 or 9 years old, very thin, maybe even a bit gangly. She wore shorts and t-shirt, both blue. Her hair was done in two pig-tails.

I was at a coffee shop in the Little Tokyo district of downtown LA. In the plaza by the coffee shop tables are a series of trees. On these trees, people have tied strips of paper with wishes written on them. They are mostly in Japanese or English, but a variety of other languages can be seen as well. Wishes range from general hopes for humanity and the world to the desire to not have to share a bedroom with a brother anymore.

Carrie's mother sat two tables down from me, enjoying some kind of coffee. The young girl wandered back and forth, spending a lot of time looking at me and talking to her mother. When they spoke, they alternated between Vietnamese and English. The mother's English was heavily accented, the girl's only slightly. I suspect they had not been in the U.S. long, but were probably living here, because the girl's English was too good for a vacationer.

I pulled out a pen and notebook to sketch out some ideas I was working on. The mother started urging her daughter to come talk to me; some gestures are pretty universal. I had no idea why. What made me interesting, out of everybody around? The girl approached me, reached half way, retreated. The mother encouraged her try again. I don't really know that, but it was the tone of voice. She approached again, reaching the corner of my table. The moment I looked up, she ran away.

A man came up to the table. He turned out to be the father, and he too spoke in both English and Vietnamese. His English was also heavily accented, though not as much as the mother's. They talked for a brief while, then he wandered off, and the mother started in on her daughter again.

Carrie approached the table for a third time. This time when I looked up, she said, "Excuse me. Could I borrow that pen for a minute?"

How could I refuse? "Sure."

She was very polite, but very excited when I handed her the pen, and she ran back to her mother's table. She took one of the spare napkins, and began writing on it, with a little bit of help from her mother. It was indeed just a minute... maybe two. She came back over, clutching the napkin in one hand, my pen in the other.

"Thank you very much."

"You are very welcome."

I couldn't read what was on the napkin, but she ran straight to one of the "wish trees" and tried to find a place to hang it up.