And then God sent this delightful little Vietnamese-American ragamuffin, Lesle Nhu Kieu, to the house next door, in December, 2003.
I will explain elsewhere how I made the acquaintance with this wonderful little punk. At this point I want to get into another chapter of my experience with little Nhu [pronounced "kneeYOU" as one syllable].
Within a year after I commenced my relationship with her family and their immigrant Asian relatives and friends, I came to clearly understand that cultural illiteracy is as big a barrier to normal social functioning as illiteracy in the language department, and drastically affects comprehension of language, itself.
When we non-immigrant Americans hear a word in American English, we are ongoingly aware of all of the overt and subtle direct and indirect implications of the American English word, and of things and concepts associated with it.
When an Asian-American immigrant who is only somewhat fluent in English words hears an American English word, he or she forms a picture in his or her head of the thing most basically referred to by the American English word, but the picture has no "details" at the "edges" -- no overt and subtle direct and indirect implications of the American English word, and of things and concepts associated with it.
Instead, the "edges" of the word are surrounded by a kind of philosophical darkness, which in and of itself is somewhat intimidating, because immigrants don't know what they don't know.
And so, if you meet an immigrant who is fluent in American English, bow to him or her. They have achieved something very, very difficult and special.
In any event, because of the immense caution which cultural illiteracy forces only-partially-fluent Asian-Americans to exercise in their understanding of and use of American English, our delightful neighbors would send little Nhu over to our house when it came to helping her to prepare for special projects for school.
Because her parents had begun sending little Nhu to St. Luke's grade school on Warwick Road in Stratford, Nhu, though overtly Buddhist, would frequently come over to our house asking me to help her with a project connected with the Catholic faith.
One Saturday in December, I think in December of 2005, little Nhu came over to our house for Saturday babysitting by us with her school bag.
"Mr. Peter," she enthusiastically explained, using the form of address commonly employed by Asians combining the person's first, or given, name, with a formal "Mr." or "Mrs." title, "My Mom wants to know if you can help me write a paragraph on St. Nicholas, and then get me ready to read it to the class."
I was immediately aware of the difficulties which this would entail. The teacher had inadvertently generated a crisis. "Is your Mom still home?," I asked Nhu.
"She's about to leave for work right now," Nhu answered.
"Good," I said. "You stay here with Rise`, while I ask your Mom some questions about your project."
I ran over to the house next door, and caught her mother coming out the door. "Trang," I said, "Inside, so that Nhu can't possibly hear us across the driveway."
Inside I asked, "I've heard Nhu refer to 'Santa Claus' in the past, but I don't know if she believes that there really is a Santa Claus, or if she means that you and Thanh are really 'Santa.' How are you raising her?"
"Peter," Trang responded, "We are letting Nhu believe in Santa Claus, like the other kids her age. Why do you ask?"
"Did you know," I responded, "That St. Nicholas, who is dead, is Santa Claus?"
"Wha-a-a-at???!!!" she exclaimed, greatly surprised.
"Yup!," I shot back. " 'SAINT Nick-CLASS' ... 'SANTA CLAUS.' 'SANTA'/'SAINT' and 'CLAUS'/'Nick-CLASS' -- Get it?"
Trang understood. "Oh my!" she responded. "I understand." She thought for a moment.
"And not only that," I further explained, "Nhu is going to be reading her paper to a classroom full of second grade kids, all of whom deeply believe in Santa Claus. They are going to be very carefully listening to every word that comes out of Nhu's mouth, like that of no other child in class. What do you want me to do?"
Trang concluded, "I'll leave that up to you, Peter, except that no matter what I want Nhu to come out of this believing in Santa Claus. I'll see you later."
The main problem was Nhu, herself. Nhu was a deeply intelligent lefty. Her brain was made of sponge. It sucked-up everything in its path. And if she heard something, her brain immediately went to work picking apart the thing heard, looking at the parts from a hundred different angles, and putting them back together.
I went back home, and after Nhu had her Saturday morning breakfast -- when Nhu came over to be babysat, she and I used to have sardines wrapped in Swiss cheese for breakfast, which she would gobble-up like an alligator eating bunny rabbits
-- we got to work on the problem of preparing this paper for presentation to her second grade classmates on Monday.
To "preserve her faith in Santa Claus," I began by telling Nhu the following ...
"Okay, kiddo, first here's the basic story of Saint Nicolas. Nicholas was born in what is now the country of Turkey. He was a very good man who was raised Catholic and he decided to become a Catholic priest. He was so well-liked, and so good in his work as a priest, that the Church made him the Bishop of what is now called Demre, and what was then called Myra, in southern Turkey.
"Saint Nicholas became famous for his personal giving. One story is about a man in Demre with three daughters. Back in those days, dowry, or money from the bride's parents brought to the marriage by the bride, was a very big thing -- so much so that having too many daughters could be a financial disaster. So, the three girls' father worried very, very much about money when each of his daughters said that they were going to get married.
"The night before the first girl married, Bishop Nicholas left a bag of money at the girl's father's front door.
Shocked when he found it in the morning, he used the money as the dowry for the daughter. The same thing happened when the second daughter got married.
"When the third daughter was about to marry, the father hid outside of his house in some bushes to find out who was leaving the money -- and, finally, he caught Bishop Nicholas leaving the money at his door.
"Stories like this about Bishop Nicholas spread far-and-wide after his death."
"Whose death?," little Nhu demanded.
"Bishop Nicholas' death [cough, cough]!" I responded.
"SANTA CLAUS IS DEAD!!!???" Nhu asked with alarm.
"Shut up and listen!," I ordered.
"But you said ... !!!" she fired back.
"Shut ..." I responded.
"But ... !!!" she tried to interrupt.
" ...up !!!," I ordered.
Nhu growled, but obeyed.
"Listen carefully," I ordered, with an attitude. "After Saint Nicholas died, I think around 16 to 17 centuries ago, and everybody heard the stories about his wonderful giving, the Church made him a saint of the Catholic Church.
"God was so pleased with St. Nicholas that God started letting him come back to Earth every Christmas, dressed in his bishop's clothes, in a sled pulled by reindeer, to give presents to kids all around the world. That's why no one seems to be able to find St. Nicolas between Christmases. And that's why he can give presents to billions of kids around the world, despite the fact that he has only one sleigh. It's a magical, God-assisted process!
"And that's where this whole business of Santa Claus dressed in red came from -- that's actually a Turkish Catholic bishop's outfit he is wearing."
"Oh," little Nhu responded, "That makes good sense! That's why he never dies! I was going to ask you about flying and carrying so much stuff in one sled, too, but that answers the questions!"
We recovered careful print-outs of "sources" from the web for her paragraph -- I made sure that they were appropriately "sanitized" before Nhu got them.
She wrote the story in her own words, and I had her practice it out loud, till I thought she was ready.
Then I probably took her on some adventure or I just let her play outside with her friends for the balance of the day.
On Sunday evening, I told Nhu to say a little prayer to God for the strength and intelligence she needed to do a good job.
That Monday evening, after I returned home from court in Camden, Nhu was waiting for me, blasting angry.
"Mr. Peter !!!" she scolded, "I got into a lot of trouble in school with the class when I read my paper about Saint Nicholas !!!"
"Well," I asked, surprised, "Did you teacher like it ?"
"I got an 'A' for it," Nhu answered, "But when I got up to read it, and I said that Santa Claus is dead, but God lets him come back to visit us every year, all of the other kids started yelling at me and telling me that I am a liar and throwing papers at me !"
"But how did your teacher react at that time, Nhu?" I asked.
"She sat down in her chair and laughed and laughed and laughed, and finally she told the kids that I was right, but they didn't believe her, either!" Nhu recounted.
"Well," I responded, not sure that I was repairing much damage, "At least you know the truth!"
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